The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Eleven

Alastair ushered Morana through the palace corridors. They split off from the others, Alastair practically dragging her by the wrist. He kept looking over his shoulder, ensuring the King-Consort of Eifari wasn't pursuing them. She allowed him to yank her along.

Not only had she set foot into enemy territory, but she now fled through their king's home.

Warrick Windsinger.

Every time she blinked, sapphire spheres flashed through her mind. She could still feel the king's sight boring into every piece of her, dissevering her abnormalities. He possessed the power to stop her, to behead her for trespassing on his lands. He could tear off each of her limbs one by one.

Windsinger.

That's why Jovah's name had been so familiar. He was goddamned royalty. Jovah was a prince. She'd beaten a prince. Morana tried to kill a prince. A shiver shot up her spine.

Jovah could lie. He could lie to his father and have her hanged. For touching him, her hands would be severed. For assaulting him—she didn't want to imagine the tortures she would endure at the hands of the king.

They hurried through long passages with columns on either side. She attempted to map the turns and the peculiar and opulent decorations, but the palace was labyrinthian. It would take her weeks to memorize the twisting, nearly identical, corridors—if she lived that long.

Alastair pulled her down another hallway and then paused before an ornate door. He pushed it open and yanked her into the room. He released her only when the door latched behind them.

"No more half-truths or ridiculous fae riddles," Morana spat. "I refuse to accept that you've dragged me into King-Consort Windsinger's home to repay a petty thief debt!"

Alastair threw up his hands, pushing past her. "Just give me a minute!"

Morana ground her teeth as he dropped onto one of the deep green sofas. Golden buttons more for decoration than functionality adorned the suede. She made her way to the other parallel to him, stripping off the sweltering cloak before plopping down. The cushion groaned as if it was the first time anyone had used it.

The sitting room was much smaller than Warrick's, with modest decor. The windows on the wall behind her let as much light into the room as the half-closed, white drapes allowed. She stared at earthy damask wallpaper with golden accents and intricate crown molding. A collection of swords, various shapes and sizes, and colors, decorated the wall around a stone hearth. Alastair gazed at the chandelier above them, taking a deep breath.

Morana bounced her leg. "You've had a minute. Tell me why I'm here."

He took a long, almost painful inhale. "Because our queen, Isleen Dawnshard, is dying."

"How is that my problem?"

He rubbed at his temples. "After the death of her first king, Hollin Brightwaters, and their first-born daughter, Astraea, Her Majesty succumbed to a grief-ridden illness. For the past nine years, she's been slowly deteriorating. These last two years have been the worst. She's now bedridden, plagued with hysterical fits and hallucinations. Warrick has brought in the best healers from all over Ohith, but none have been able to help her." He lifted his eyes to her. "Jovah took matters into his own hands."

Morana balled her hands into fists. "I don't understand."

Alastair leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "His Highness only wanted to help Isleen. In the past few months, she's proclaimed that Astraea is alive, that the princess has come to her in visions. She truly believes her daughter is still out there. She begged Jovah to find her when no one else would listen. So, he did, or did his best to find someone who may resemble her."