Page 12 of All the Chaos of Constellations
“Once.” And it was enough. Drake Kalstrand was merciless. Calculating and cutthroat. No one ever crossed him and lived to tell the tale. It was a wonder he hadn’t yet murdered his father and taken the crown for himself. The last time Drake was in Aeramere, he’d forged a deal with Asher, and now he would have to uphold his end of the bargain.
Asher scowled at the dais where the inlaid moonstones were beginning to glow and the Starstorm fae were starting to assemble. The thought of Drake coming to Aeramere sent a spear of tension straight through him. He glanced over at Cyra and gripped her hand. “You must promise me something.”
“Of course.” Cyra smiled up at him, the mirror image of their mother. Something sharp and acidic wrenched inside of Asher. “Anything for my darling, older brother.”
“If and when Prince Drake arrives, I want you to stay as far away from him as possible.” He squeezed his sister’s hand in warning. “Do I make myself clear?”
Her eyes widened, curiosity causing the gold of them to ignite. “Why? Is he?—”
“Cyra.” He took her by the shoulders so she faced him, ensuring she understood the gravity of the situation. “This is not a game, it’s not another one of your scandalous amusements. I want you to swear it right now on our mother’s grave.”
Cyra paled. All the vibrancy and color drained from her face at the mere mention of their mother. “Okay. Yes. I’ll swear it.”
Asher didn’t release her. “Say the words.”
She bobbed her head and the beaded earrings she wore swung back and forth. “I swear on our mother’s grave that I will stay far away from Prince Drake Kalstrand of Brackroth.”
It wasn’t much, but at least the vow would keep Cyra safe from the Shadowblade Assassin, whose moral compass had been destroyed long ago, if it ever existed in the first place.
Asher’s gaze was drawn to the dais where the Starstorm family stood in a line from oldest to youngest, or more accurately, from the most pretentious and haughty to the rather pleasant and amiable. Lady Trysta Starstorm, the matriarch of House Celestine, was at the forefront of the dais, the wide sleeves of her dress swallowing the numerous bangles dangling from her wrists. Then there was her eldest son, Ariesian, the current Lord of Celestine and Asher’s peer, followed by Solarius, Novalise, Sarelle, Nyxian, Tovian, and lastly, the twins—Caelian and Creslyn.
He hated that Cyra had dragged him all the way to the front of this spectacle. He would’ve preferred to loiter near the back of the observatory for a quick and easy escape. At least then he wouldn’t be entranced by Novalise and her starstruck eyes. He wouldn’t be forced to wonder if she was wearing lace or silk, or anything at all beneath her encumbering gown. He wouldn’t be curious if her lips still tasted of starberry sparkling wine, just like when they shared that stolen kiss in the alcove of her family’s ballroom.
“Oh! And I have one more bit of information.” Cyra’s voice lured him away from the dangerous thoughts smothering him. “One that even you might find interesting, Asher.”
“Oh, really?” he drawled, entirely uninterested.
“Yes.” Her voice dropped and she leaned in conspiratorially. “Queen Elowyn is looking for a mate…for herson.”
Asher stared at his sister, dumbfounded.
“For Prince Aspen,” she clarified when he didn’t respond.
“And why would I find that interesting?”
“I would think it’s obvious.” Cyra folded her arms across her chest, arching one pointed brow. “You’re the Lord of House Emberspire. You already serve as one of her High Councilors. Much as I’m loath to admit it, you are rather dashing. But most importantly, I’m yoursister. And I can’t live at home forever.”
“It’s out of the question.”
“But why?” Cyra pouted.
“Because the prince is…” Asher hesitated. He couldn’t disgrace the Prince of Aeramere in public. Rumors would circulate and then he’d find himself in a dungeon beneath the palace, on trial for treason. Unless, of course, they killed him outright. Neither outcome sounded like a pleasant experience. So he spun her imagination, twisting it away from thoughts of marrying a prince, and focusing on why the notion of falling in love was dangerous in the first place. “Love is a death trap, Cyra. A manipulation of the heart, and a mockery of the mind.”
Cyra’s eyes flicked to the dais where Queen Elowyn glided forward to address them, regal and aloof, her expression always one of cautious indifference. “But Aeramere needs an heir.”
“Your sister is right.”
Asher turned around and came face to face with Lord Reif Marintide.
The seafaring fae ran a hand through his unkempt hair and flashed Cyra a winning smile. His sister flushed beneath the lord’s attention, and Asher gritted his teeth. “Queen Elowyn needs to marry off Prince Aspen and produce an heir sooner rather than later to quell the potential for any uprisings.”
Cyra gasped. “Uprisings?”
“The likes of which were extinguished years ago,” Asher interrupted smoothly, “and haven’t been heard from since.”
Reif made a dismissive, scoffing sound. “So says the hermit who never leaves the safety of his library.”
“Right.” Cyra drew the word out, either blissfully unaware or pointedly ignoring the strain between them. Just as quickly, her focus was back on Reif and his too-bright smile. “Enough about the queen and the prince. Are you in the market for a bride, my lord?”
