HER QUEENDOM

Chapter 5: The Forbidden Spark

Alistair’s fever broke on the eighth night, but it left him weaker than ever.

The brief spark of life that had flared within him when Evadne first touched him had settled back into a fragile, flickering ember. He lay in the center of the massive four-poster bed, his breathing shallow, his brow glistening with a cold, sticky sweat. The dark violet veins beneath his skin seemed to have spread, creeping up the column of his throat like frozen briars.

Evadne stood by the high arched window, watching the snow begin to fall over the jagged peaks of Mournvale. The castle below was dead silent, save for the rhythmic, metallic clatter of the night guards changing shifts in the courtyard.

Twice today, the Dowager Duchess’s personal maid had brought the meal tray. Twice today, Evadne had caught the faint, sickly-sweet scent of foxglove coming from the watered-down broth.

They are getting impatient, Evadne thought, her fingers tightening against the cold stone of the windowsill. Julian wants his crown before the first heavy freeze blocks the mountain passes.

She walked back to the bed, her bare feet silent on the stone. She looked down at Alistair. In the dim light of the dying fire, he looked less like a prince and more like a beautifully carved effigy on a tomb. She felt no grand, sweeping affection for him; he was still the cynical, sharp-tongued man who had demanded to know if she was a witch. But he was also the only person in this frozen hellscape who had stood between her and the vipers who wanted her blood.

They were bound together by a rope made of their enemies' hatred. If he fell, she went over the edge with him.

"Alistair," she whispered, sitting on the edge of the mattress.

He didn't move. His breathing was so light she had to lean in close to hear the faint rattle in his chest.

Taking a deep breath, Evadne reached out. She hesitated for a fraction of a second, remembering the violent, terrifying heat of the magic that lay dormant within her. Then, she pressed her palm firmly over his heart.

Instantly, the familiar shock wave rippled up her arm.

It was stronger this time. It felt like a current of liquid fire rushing through her veins, dragging something deep and ancient from the very core of her soul. Behind her closed eyelids, she didn't see the dark room; she saw a vast, swirling sea of violet shadows, humming with a power that felt terrifyingly alive.

In the hearth, the orange embers hissed. A tongue of brilliant, dark violet flame erupted from the ash, stretching toward the ceiling and casting long, dancing shadows across the stone walls.

Alistair gasped. His amber eyes snapped open, his pupils dilating as the raw, dark vitality poured into his chest. His hand flew up, locking around her wrist with surprising, desperate strength.

"Evadne..." he choked out, his voice vibrating with the power flowing between them. "Stop... it’s too much... it’s drawing too much from you."

But she couldn't pull away. The magic had formed a conduit, a hungry, invisible bridge between their souls. She watched in real-time as the deep purple veins on his neck began to recede, his pale skin flushing with warm, healthy color. But as his strength returned, hers began to drain. Her head spun violently, the room tilting as a heavy, suffocating darkness threatened to pull her under.

With a final, desperate cry, Evadne wrenched her hand back, breaking the connection.

The violet fire in the hearth snapped out, plunging the room into near-total darkness. Evadne collapsed sideways onto the bed, her chest heaving as she fought for air. Her limbs felt like lead, and a metallic, iron-like taste coated the back of her throat.

Beside her, Alistair sat up. He wasn't coughing. He didn't look like a ghost anymore. He looked at his hands, flexing his fingers in astonishment, then turned his gaze to her.

"You foolish girl," he whispered, his voice rich and steady for the first time in years. Yet, there was a strange, raw emotion in his amber eyes as he looked at her slumped, exhausted form. He reached out, his touch surprisingly gentle as he brushed a stray lock of dark hair away from her damp forehead. "You almost emptied yourself for me."

"I told you," Evadne managed to rasp, her voice barely a whisper. "I am not... letting them win."

Alistair stared at her in the dark. For the first time, the cold, defensive wall between them seemed to c***k, if only by a fraction. He didn't pull his hand away.

"We cannot keep doing this blindly," Alistair said softly, his fingers lingering near her temple. "This is shadow-magic, Evadne. It is the forbidden art of the ancient necromancers. If the High Lords of the Court or the Grand Inquisitor smell even a trace of this violet flame on me, they will lock us in the deepest dungeon before dawn."

"Let them try," Evadne murmured, her eyes drifting shut as exhaustion finally claimed her.

As she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep, Alistair remained awake, sitting guard over her in the dark. For the first time in three years, the Crown Prince of Mournvale felt the blood flowing hot and strong through his veins.

The vipers of Blackthorn thought they were waiting for a funeral. They had no idea that in the dark, a queen was slowly waking up.