Chapter 3

Seraphina.

My heart is thumping wildly. The crowd is deafening. Two guards cross the sun-bleached arena towards me, armed with manacles.

I am dizzy from fear and heat but I stand tall. Just moments ago I was being honored, shocked that I had won the medal. Now I am being sent to my death.

The guards approach me and grab my arms. They force my arms behind my back and clasp the manacles around my wrists. They will kill me, just like they killed my mother.

I see Ivy’s terror-stricken face in the crowd. What will happen to her if I’m executed?

But I know, and she knows, that if I had taken off my veil the outcome would be far worse. Even this is better than having that wolfish crowd see my face. They would rip me to shreds.

“Who are you to defy the king, low-born,” spits one of the guards into my face.

“We’ll get a look at you soon enough,” says the other closer to my ear, “a real good look.” The sound of his voice sends a chill down my spine.

Through all this I remember the eyes of Prince Thornheart, light blue and so cold.

All of my twenty-three years — hiding, running from place to place, hearing the rumors spread — all of that just to die here today. Not even the eyes of the Prince could save me.

Jeers and hoots come from the crowd, all salivating at seeing me brought to heel for my defiance of the king.

As the guards begin to pull me away from the royal platform, a voice cuts through the din.

“Your Majesty,” it says, “I speak as your humble servant for the good of your kingdom. I implore you to reconsider.”

I look up to see a tall, broad-shouldered man standing beside the Prince speaking in a steady voice.

“This woman is not from Celestria,” continues the nobleman, “Her customs are different from ours.”

I keep my eyes lowered to avoid appearing more insubordinate than I already have been. The guards on either side of me tighten their grip on my arms. They would like to see me hang, ideally naked.

“Explain your meaning, Sir Elias,” I hear the king roar in reply.

“Perhaps she is an enchantress, your Majesty,” replies the man called Sir Elias. “It is their custom to remain veiled in public. To kill her would be a bad omen.”

The crowd boos.

“Let her hang!” says a hag’s voice loudly above the others. These people don’t care about my customs. They just want to see me killed, and then unveiled. Or unveiled and then killed.

I look up to the royal dais. An elegant woman with auburn hair is bending to whisper in the ear of the king. An advisor, no doubt.

King Dione’s face hardens with annoyance. The Prince’s eyes are distant. My heart is in my throat.

“All right Sir Elias Humpston,” says the king with barely-contained rage. “To maintain peace in the realm we will not execute her. We will leave her be to her customs. This…Seraphina Darkwater.” He nearly spits my name out as he says it.

Another chorus of boos rises up from the crowd. I am nearly shaking with relief, but I do not show it. I won’t give in an inch to these dogs.

“Unshackle her!” orders the king. The guards comply but half-heartedly. They too have been deprived of something, and they know it.

I turn quickly to Ivy, who is now beaming with happiness. The poor girl has been through enough. Perhaps here we are finally safe, under the aegis of a hard-hearted king playing political games.

The king stands once again and declares to the crowd, “Let it be known that I, King Dione Thornheart, am I tolerant King. Let us continue our festival!”

To this, the crowd responds with a roar and a clattering of ale steins. The crowd cares little for tolerance, and much for wonton ale-soaked celebration. A troop of trained bears proceeds into the arena, and court musicians play a demented tune.

I am soaked in sweat from my near-miss. With the crowd’s attention off of me, I walk quickly to the edge of the arena. As I approach the exit I see the tall nobleman who interceded for me.

Up close I can see his sparkling green eyes. The fine sage robes of a courtier hang off of his enormous, burly frame.

“Sir Elias!” I call out. But he is already coming towards me, looking for me before I could disappear into the crowd.

“Miss Darkwater,” says Sir Elias, “congratulations on your medal from the Arts Guild.”

“Sir Elias,” I say breathlessly, “I give you my thanks for intervening on my behalf. You saved my life.” I give a curtsy, as is customary for a low-born woman to give a noble of the court.

“Please, Miss Darkwater. It is not I you should thank, but Prince Thornheart,” replies Elias. His green eyes twinkle and his mouth is turned up slightly at the corners. What does he want to know about me?

“Excuse my staring Miss Darkwater. I only wish to know who it is who has made our prince speak in public for the first time in his twenty-seven years.”

Flustered by this information, I look down at my feet. “Sir Elias,” I reply, “I must insist on thanking you for saving my life. I am but a low-born woman, an artist. My sister and I came to Celestria seeking a better life.”

“Sir Elias,” I continue, “may I make a request?”

“Certainly Miss Darkwater,” comes his reply.

“Would you give my thanks to the prince on my behalf?” I say, trying to disguise the nervousness in my voice. I can picture the eyes of the prince clear as day.

Mischief winks in the eyes of Sir Elias, and the corners of his eyes crinkle with delight.

“You have my word, Miss Darkwater,” he says.

From the corner of my eye, I catch a dark figure moving on the royal platform. As I turn my head I can just see Prince Thornheart stepping down from his post, a subtle look of disgust on his face.

“One more thing, Miss Darkwater.” I turn my head back to face Sir Elias, who has no doubt noticed me looking in the direction of the prince.

“Are you an enchantress?”