Elowen
The day had been long, and the light in the hospital ward waned to a mellow gold as the sun dipped behind Selandra's eastern hills. I had been tending to a young boy's bandaged arm, rewrapping it with careful precision, when the click of hurried footsteps echoed along the tiled floor.
"Ellie!" came the familiar, lilting voice of my younger sister. Cecily swept into the ward in a froth of pale muslin, her hair pinned high in a fashion far too grand for an errand.
I did not look up from my patient. "Whatever brings you here, Cecily? Surely this is no place for lace and ribbons."
She clasped her hands dramatically before her. "Mama is summoning you."
I arched a brow, still fastening the bandage. "And whatever would she be calling me for at this hour?"
Cecily tilted her chin in that way of hers, where every word was meant to sound like an announcement. "There is to be a ball this very evening — in honor of the arrival of the King of Valmora himself. Your presence is requested, nay, required."
I secured the final knot in the bandage and rose, brushing my skirts free of lint. "For what purpose should I be dragged to such a display?"
Her eyes widened in scandalized disbelief. "Elowen, it is the King of Valmora! The entire court shall be in attendance. Mama insists you make ready at once — and you know she will tolerate no delay."
By the time we reached the Ashbourne estate, the sun had set, and the great halls glowed with lamplight. I scarcely had time to remove my gloves before a pair of maids descended upon me, their arms full of silks and corsetry.
In the dressing chamber, I found Mother already presiding over an array of gowns — jewel-toned velvets and shimmering satins — spread across the bed like a merchant's finest wares. She was flanked by two more maids, one arranging an ornate necklace upon a velvet stand, the other sorting through hair combs inlaid with pearls.
"Ah, there you are," she said, without glancing up. "I have selected the sapphire silk for you. It will bring out what little color your complexion allows. The diamond choker will do; it is impossible to embarrass me in diamonds."
I bit back a retort, knowing from long experience that resistance only lengthened the ordeal. Mother had never approved of my hospital work, nor of the practical gowns I favored for it. Tonight, her eyes glittered with the anticipation of spectacle, and I knew she intended nothing less than perfection.
"Come," she said briskly, motioning to the maids. "We have scarcely three hours before the carriages arrive, and much to be done."
The hour passed in a flurry of pins, ribbons, and the faint sting of hair pomade. My hair, so often plaited simply down my back, had been twisted and coiled into an elaborate arrangement that felt altogether too heavy. The sapphire silk gown fit perfectly, though I suspected the maids had drawn the laces far tighter than was entirely humane.
By the time I descended the grand staircase, the rest of the family was assembled in the marble foyer. Father stood near the great oak doors, deep in conversation with one of his clerks, his hands clasped behind his back. Cecily hovered at the bottom step, resplendent in blush silk, grinning as though she had orchestrated the entire affair herself.
"See?" she whispered, taking my arm. "You look far more presentable when you make an effort."
I gave her a sidelong glance. "Effort is precisely what I reserve for the infirm, not for—"
The butler's announcement cut me short: "The Ashbourne carriage awaits."
The ride to the palace was quiet at first, save for the rhythmic clatter of hooves upon cobblestones. Mother sat rigid opposite us, her gloved hands folded neatly in her lap, her gaze fixed on the darkened streets beyond the window. Cecily, unable to bear the silence, leaned forward eagerly.
"Do you think he will be as fearsome as they say?" she asked in a half-whisper. "They call him the Savage King, after all."
I met her gaze steadily. "Rumors have a way of growing teeth they never possessed in truth."
Mother sniffed, as if to remind us both that conversation about kings was hardly our place. "Regardless, you will show proper respect," she said sharply. "King Darien Maevric is a guest of the Eastern Kingdom, and tonight's presentation must reflect Selandra's highest standards."
Cecily leaned close again, undeterred. "Still… if the tales are true, he's taller than any man in the court, with scars across his chest and—"
"Cecily," Father interrupted gently, "the king is also a man, not a carnival attraction."
The rest of the journey passed in a hush, the streets giving way to the palace grounds — vast and manicured, lit by torches that cast the limestone walls in warm gold.
When we alighted from the carriage, the sound of music drifted from within, the deep notes of a string quartet mingling with the low hum of conversation. Inside, the ballroom gleamed with a hundred chandeliers, the air heavy with the mingled scents of polished wood, candlewax, and expensive perfume.
At the far end of the hall, amidst a cluster of dignitaries, stood a tall figure clad in black and silver. Even from a distance, his presence commanded the space — still and watchful, yet somehow apart from the merriment around him.
I felt Cecily nudge my arm. "There," she breathed. "The Savage King."
The music swelled as we entered the ballroom proper, the quartet drawing out a lilting waltz that swirled in the air like the trailing ends of silk ribbons.
I took a measured pace forward, my slippers whispering across the marble floor as I allowed my gaze to sweep the grand space. The vaulted ceiling soared above, adorned with intricate frescos of mythic battles and celestial beings. Columns of veined marble lined the walls, between which hung heavy damask draperies in deep sapphire, their folds shimmering faintly in the light of the chandeliers.
Crystal decanters glinted on the refreshment tables, flanked by platters of sugared fruits and delicate pastries dusted with gold. Everywhere, there was motion — the slow turn of dancers, the shifting clusters of courtiers exchanging murmured confidences, the rustle of silk gowns as ladies dipped into practiced curtsies.
Father was already drawn into the current of diplomacy, his broad shoulders visible amid a gathering of men whose faces were set in that polite stiffness which always accompanied talk of commerce and politics. I caught the glint of his signet ring as he gestured, speaking in low tones to a man whose uniform bore the crest of Valmora — black stag upon a silver field.
Clarice, of course, was absent, her place at Mother's side vacant. She had written only the day before, her hand steady even as she explained she could not leave the house while the babe still woke crying in the night. Her husband, ever devoted, had insisted she remain home to rest.
Cecily, on the other hand, had wasted no time in flinging herself into the revelry. She was already on the dance floor, laughing as a young lieutenant spun her with perhaps more enthusiasm than grace. Her blush silk gown caught the light, every turn making her appear a living rose in bloom.
I moved toward the edge of the room, skirting the busy floor in favor of quiet observation. My eyes returned, almost against my will, to the figure at the far end — the so-called Savage King.
Darien Maevric stood as though the hall itself were his by birthright, his broad frame clad in black velvet trimmed with silver braid. The cut of his coat spoke of a warrior's build; the breadth of his shoulders and the easy strength in his stance were evident even at this distance. His olive-toned skin caught the candlelight warmly, though it did nothing to soften the stark, assessing gaze he turned upon the room.
There was something in his stillness that commanded notice — not the idle indolence of certain nobles, but the quiet alertness of a man accustomed to both command and danger. His hair, dark as onyx, was bound at the nape with a silver clasp, and I noted the faint line of an old scar crossing the strong column of his throat, disappearing beneath his collar.
I could almost hear Cecily's breathless gossip — the tales of scars across his chest, of fierce battles fought in the northern wilds, of a temper that could level entire courts. And yet, as I watched him exchange a few words with an older man at his side, there was no savage heat in his manner — only a measured gravity, as if he weighed the worth of each moment before speaking.
I found my gaze lingering longer than was prudent. It was the curiosity of a healer, I told myself — an instinctive desire to read a person's condition, to divine the truth beneath rumor and appearance. Still, when his eyes swept the room and, for the briefest instant, found mine across the expanse of polished marble, my breath caught before I could school my features.
I turned away under the pretense of admiring a gilded candelabrum, though the memory of that brief, steady look stayed with me, unsettling as it was.
Mother's voice cut across my thoughts. "Elowen," she called, her tone both summons and command. She stood not far from where Father and his companions lingered, a gloved hand resting lightly on his arm.
I crossed to them, smoothing the folds of my gown, the faint ache of the bodice's tight lacing reminding me to keep my steps unhurried.
"Father," I began, inclining my head politely. "You wished to see me?"
He glanced at me briefly before returning to the man at his side — and it was then that I realized the "man" was, in fact, Darien Maevric himself.