The Cracked Throne, page 3
One of the figures—a woman with ash-dark hair and eyes like stormglass—studied her intently.
“So,” the woman said at last. “The bells weren’t lying.”
Her mouth went dry. “About what?”
“That the king’s leash finally slipped.”
A murmur rippled through the group. Unease. Curiosity. Hope, carefully restrained.
“You broke binding magic,” the woman continued. “And you erased hounds.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said again, hating how small it sounded.
The woman smiled faintly. “None of us ever do.”
She gestured to the shattered shrine. “Welcome to what’s left of the Unmoored.”
Caelan exhaled, tension easing from his shoulders. “I told you there were those who remembered.”
“Yes,” the woman said, eyes never leaving her. “And now we remember her.”
The forest seemed to lean closer, listening.
The woman stepped forward. “The king has ruled so long that people forget he was made, not born. Made by fear. By obedience.” Her gaze sharpened. “And by those who believed they were nothing.”
Something in her chest tightened—not painfully, but with a strange clarity.
“What do you want from me?” she asked.
The woman considered her carefully. “Nothing you’re not already becoming.”
Silence stretched, heavy but not hostile.
Finally, the woman inclined her head. “If you stay, you will be hunted. If you leave, you will be hunted faster.”
She swallowed. “Those aren’t good options.”
“No,” the woman agreed. “But they are honest ones.”
She looked at the broken shrine again, at the stone that hummed under her skin, at Caelan standing solidly at her side. Fear still lived in her—sharp, persistent—but it no longer owned her entirely.
She lifted her chin.
“Then teach me,” she said. “Before he finds me.”
The woman’s smile this time was real—and dangerous.
Far away, frost crawled up the walls of the Thorned Throne as King Aerendyl stood before his court, eyes alight with cold delight.
“Let her learn,” he said softly.
Because confidence, once sparked, made the fall so much sweeter.
And he was already planning how to break her.
Chapter Four
They taught her nothing at first.
Not spells. Not weapons. Not the names she was quietly collecting in her head like charms against fear. Instead, they watched.
Days—perhaps—passed. Time behaved strangely in the forgotten forest, stretching and folding in on itself until morning and night felt more like moods than measures. The Unmoored kept to the ruins, moving with practiced caution, warding their fires with sigils older than the king’s reign. No bells rang here. No frost crept uninvited along the stones.
She felt it constantly—the pressure of being seen.
Not judged. Measured.
She learned the shape of the place through work. Hauling water from a spring that ran warm and copper-scented. Grinding bitter roots for salves. Clearing bramble from paths that refused to stay open unless coaxed. The shrine responded to her touch more than once, stone warming, runes flaring faintly as if recognizing an old dialect spoken badly but sincerely.
She tried not to think about what that meant.
Caelan stayed near but never crowded her. He trained with the others at dawn—sparring hard, fast, blades ringing sharp as bells she did not want to hear again. She watched sometimes, noting how he moved: economical, ruthless when needed, restrained when not. He did not fight like someone who enjoyed violence.
He fought like someone who understood cost.
On the fourth—or fifth—day, the woman with stormglass eyes finally spoke to her alone.
“My name is Seris,” she said, handing her a cup of dark tea that steamed faintly with magic. “Drink. It will help you listen.”
“To what?”
Seris’s mouth curved. “Yourself.”
The tea tasted like smoke and pine and something sharp enough to make her eyes water. Warmth spread through her chest, not soothing so much as clarifying. The hum she’d been trying to ignore rose—not louder, but cleaner. Less frantic.
Seris watched closely. “Tell me what you feel.”
She hesitated. Old habits pressed in—don’t say the wrong thing, don’t take up space, don’t be too much.
Then she exhaled.
“It feels like… standing in deep water,” she said slowly. “It’s moving whether I want it to or not. But if I fight it, I sink.”
Seris nodded. “And if you float?”
“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve never trusted the water not to pull me under.”
Something like approval flickered across Seris’s face.
“Good,” she said. “Then we start there.”
That night, Seris took her beyond the ruins, to a hollow where the trees bent low and the ground dipped like a waiting palm. The air thrummed with restrained magic—old, unclaimed, watching.
“No shields,” Seris instructed. “No reaching. Let it come to you.”
Her throat tightened. “That sounds like a mistake.”
“Most necessary things do.”
She closed her eyes.
At first, there was only darkness and the echo of her own breath. Then the hum returned—gentler than before, curious rather than demanding. It brushed against her awareness like fingertips testing a pulse.
She resisted the urge to pull away.
I’m here, she thought, unsure who she was addressing. I’m listening.
The ground answered.
Not with words. With memory. A flash of roots splitting stone. Of water carving valleys through stubborn earth. Of things changing not because they were forced, but because they endured.
Power surged—not violently, not wildly—but with purpose.
Her knees hit the ground.
She gasped, palms pressed to soil that glowed faintly beneath her touch. The magic did not burn this time. It held.
When she opened her eyes, Seris was watching her intently.
“You didn’t command it,” Seris said. “You stood with it.”
Her chest rose and fell, breath shaking. “Is that… right?”
Seris smiled, slow and sharp. “It’s dangerous.”
A laugh bubbled out of her—soft, disbelieving. “You keep saying that.”
“Yes,” Seris replied. “Because the king understands power that bends. He does not understand power that refuses.”
From the edge of the hollow, Caelan watched, unreadable. When her gaze met his, he inclined his head—not in deference, but acknowledgment.
Something settled in her spine then. Not certainty. Not yet.
But the beginning of trust.
Far away, ice cracked in the Thorned Throne as King Aerendyl’s seers recoiled from their mirrors, frost blooming where the glass refused to show what he demanded.
The girl was no longer only reacting.
She was learning to stand.
And that, the king knew, was how rebellions began.
The change did not come all at once.
It crept in sideways, the way dawn did here—slow enough that she only noticed it when she realized she was no longer bracing for the dark.
Her hands stopped shaking when she touched the stone. Not always. But often enough that she noticed the difference. The hum no longer surged at every sharp emotion; it lingered, patient, waiting for her to meet it halfway. Some days it answered easily. Other days it remained stubbornly quiet, as if reminding her that power was not owed—only offered.
Seris said little. Correction came in glances, in the occasional sharp word when she pushed too hard or tried to take instead of stand. The Unmoored watched her with the same wary curiosity they gave storms and knives—tools that could save or destroy depending on who held them.
She learned the cost of missteps quickly.
Once, when frustration flared hot and sudden, the ground split beneath her palm, a jagged line racing outward before she yanked her hand away. The earth sealed itself again just as fast, but the smell of scorched stone lingered.
Seris did not scold her.
She simply said, “Anger is honest. It is not precise.”
That night, sleep came fitfully. Dreams tangled around her—bells ringing underwater, frost creeping across roots, a throne of thorns splitting apart as something green and unyielding pushed through. She woke with her heart racing and the echo of laughter still clinging to her ribs.
In the days that followed, Caelan began to train her—not with magic, but with her body.
“Power won’t save you if you freeze,” he said, tossing her a dull blade that still felt heavy in her grip. “And it won’t always answer when you ask.”
She grimaced, adjusting her stance. “You’re very encouraging.”
“I’m honest,” he replied, circling her. “The king’s soldiers won’t wait for you to feel ready.”
They practiced until her arms burned and her lungs ached. She fell. A lot. Dirt smeared her palms and knees, bruises blooming in shades she stopped cataloging after the first few. Each time, Caelan waited—never pulling her up, never letting her stay down too long.
When she finally landed a clean strike against his guard, the impact rattled her teeth.
She stared at him, startled.
He looked faintly surprised himself.
“Well,” he said after a beat. “That’ll get you killed slower.”
She laughed—breathless, sharp, real.
Later, as dusk bled into the trees, they sat near the old shrine, the air warm with banked embers and quiet conversation she didn’t quite belong to yet. She traced the cracked stone absently, feeling the familiar hum beneath her skin.
“I don’t think I was meant to hide,” she said suddenly.
Caelan glanced at her. “Most people aren’t.”
“I’ve spent my whole life doing it anyway.” The admission tasted strange—bitter, but clean. “Keeping small. Quiet. Hoping that would be enough.”
“And was it?”
She shook her head. “No.”
The word settled between them, heavy and irrevocable.
From deeper in the forest, a horn sounded—low, distant, wrong.
The Unmoored were on their feet instantly. Weapons came out. Wards flared, faint but urgent.
Seris’s eyes found hers across the clearing. “They’re closer than we expected.”
Fear flared—but it didn’t hollow her this time. It sharpened her focus instead, pulling her inward rather than scattering her thoughts.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
Seris’s gaze flicked to the stone beneath her hands, to the way the runes pulsed faintly in response to her presence.
“Stand,” Seris said. “And don’t look away.”
The horn sounded again—nearer now.
She rose, spine straight, hands steady despite the pounding of her heart. Whatever came next would test everything she had learned—and everything she still feared becoming.
Far beyond the forest, frost climbed the steps of the Thorned Throne as King Aerendyl’s smile widened, sharp and anticipatory.
She was no longer hiding.
And the realm was about to notice.
The change did not come all at once.
It crept in sideways, the way dawn did here—slow enough that she only noticed it when she realized she was no longer bracing for the dark.
Her hands stopped shaking when she touched the stone. Not always. But often enough that she noticed the difference. The hum no longer surged at every sharp emotion; it lingered, patient, waiting for her to meet it halfway. Some days it answered easily. Other days it remained stubbornly quiet, as if reminding her that power was not owed—only offered.
Seris said little. Correction came in glances, in the occasional sharp word when she pushed too hard or tried to take instead of stand. The Unmoored watched her with the same wary curiosity they gave storms and knives—tools that could save or destroy depending on who held them.
She learned the cost of missteps quickly.
Once, when frustration flared hot and sudden, the ground split beneath her palm, a jagged line racing outward before she yanked her hand away. The earth sealed itself again just as fast, but the smell of scorched stone lingered.
Seris did not scold her.
She simply said, “Anger is honest. It is not precise.”
That night, sleep came fitfully. Dreams tangled around her—bells ringing underwater, frost creeping across roots, a throne of thorns splitting apart as something green and unyielding pushed through. She woke with her heart racing and the echo of laughter still clinging to her ribs.
In the days that followed, Caelan began to train her—not with magic, but with her body.
“Power won’t save you if you freeze,” he said, tossing her a dull blade that still felt heavy in her grip. “And it won’t always answer when you ask.”
She grimaced, adjusting her stance. “You’re very encouraging.”
“I’m honest,” he replied, circling her. “The king’s soldiers won’t wait for you to feel ready.”
They practiced until her arms burned and her lungs ached. She fell. A lot. Dirt smeared her palms and knees, bruises blooming in shades she stopped cataloging after the first few. Each time, Caelan waited—never pulling her up, never letting her stay down too long.
When she finally landed a clean strike against his guard, the impact rattled her teeth.
She stared at him, startled.
He looked faintly surprised himself.
“Well,” he said after a beat. “That’ll get you killed slower.”
She laughed—breathless, sharp, real.
Later, as dusk bled into the trees, they sat near the old shrine, the air warm with banked embers and quiet conversation she didn’t quite belong to yet. She traced the cracked stone absently, feeling the familiar hum beneath her skin.
“I don’t think I was meant to hide,” she said suddenly.
Caelan glanced at her. “Most people aren’t.”
“I’ve spent my whole life doing it anyway.” The admission tasted strange—bitter, but clean. “Keeping small. Quiet. Hoping that would be enough.”
“And was it?”
She shook her head. “No.”
The word settled between them, heavy and irrevocable.
From deeper in the forest, a horn sounded—low, distant, wrong.
The Unmoored were on their feet instantly. Weapons came out. Wards flared, faint but urgent.
Seris’s eyes found hers across the clearing. “They’re closer than we expected.”
Fear flared—but it didn’t hollow her this time. It sharpened her focus instead, pulling her inward rather than scattering her thoughts.
“What do you need me to do?” she asked.
Seris’s gaze flicked to the stone beneath her hands, to the way the runes pulsed faintly in response to her presence.
“Stand,” Seris said. “And don’t look away.”
The horn sounded again—nearer now.
She rose, spine straight, hands steady despite the pounding of her heart. Whatever came next would test everything she had learned—and everything she still feared becoming.
Far beyond the forest, frost climbed the steps of the Thorned Throne as King Aerendyl’s smile widened, sharp and anticipatory.
She was no longer hiding.
And the realm was about to notice.
Chapter Five
The horn did not sound again.
That was how she knew this time would be worse.
The forest held its breath—not in fear, but in watchfulness. Leaves stilled. The hum beneath her feet tightened, no longer curious, no longer patient. Something was coming that did not announce itself.
The Unmoored felt it too.
Seris lifted her staff, the runes along its length flaring low and steady. No panic. No shouted orders. Just readiness. Caelan moved closer to her without comment, positioning himself half a step to her left—not shielding, not commanding. Anchoring.
“Royal hunters,” he said quietly. “And something bound to them.”
Her stomach clenched. “Another Listener?”
“Not exactly.”
That answer chilled her more than a yes would have.
They emerged without fanfare—five figures slipping between the trees as though the forest reluctantly made room for them. Their armor was darker than before, etched with frost-veins that pulsed faintly, like veins beneath translucent skin. No horns. No spectacle. These were not meant to terrify.
They were meant to end things cleanly.
Behind them walked a figure wrapped in layered cloaks of pale gray, hood drawn low. The air bent subtly around them, sound warping as if reluctant to carry their presence.
Seris’s grip tightened.
“A Crownbound,” she said. “One of his chosen.”
The figure lifted its head.
Not faceless this time. Fae—beautiful in the precise, distant way of marble statues. Eyes like cut ice fixed immediately on her.
Recognition flared there.
Not surprise.
“Found you,” the Crownbound said, voice soft and intimate. “You’ve been… loud.”
Her chest tightened. The hum beneath her feet surged instinctively, answering the threat before she could think better of it.
“No,” Seris snapped. “Not yet.”
She forced herself to breathe.
Stand.
The word steadied her spine. She did not reach. Did not push. She let the power settle, heavy and coiled, waiting for her choice.
The Crownbound smiled faintly. “Ah. There it is. That refusal. His Majesty will be fascinated.”
The hunters moved as one.
Steel flashed. Magic cracked sharp as breaking glass. The Unmoored met them head-on, wards flaring just enough to turn killing blows aside without drawing more attention than necessary. Caelan was a blur of motion beside her—efficient, lethal, real.
She stayed where she was.
Not frozen.
