Chapter 57

Chapter 57

T he dress made of moonlight swished around Mariah’s feet, brushing across the glistening marble floors. She toyed with the ends of the sleeves, the lace soft against her wrists.

Warm hands wrapped around her bare shoulders as heat enveloped her back. “Stop fidgeting,” Andrian murmured in her ear. “You look beautiful.”

She leaned into him, almost an instinct. “Oh, I know.” Twisting in his arms, she tipped her head to meet his gaze. “And I’m not fidgeting.”

He smiled, a hint of that smirk peeking through. “Of course you’re not.”

Mariah chuckled and stepped out of his arms, turning to the foyer mirror. She cocked her head at her reflection.

She’d pulled the front pieces of her hair back with two delicate silver clips. Her makeup was simple, only a feathered dusting of shimmer across her eyelids and her cheeks. It brought out the silver glowing behind her eyes, ethereal and vibrant.

But it was the dress that was the true work of art.

Mariah didn’t know where Brie had found it—or made it. But the young seamstress had heard Mariah’s proclamation and, with a quiet smile on her lips, disappeared from Mariah’s suites, entering again nearly thirty minutes later bearing the silver gown in her arms and that same wordless smile.

Mariah knew it was the one the moment she stepped into it.

The sleeves were long, tapered to her wrists, but they were sheer and delicately laced with something that sparkled, covering her body like fallen stars. A fitted bodice, beaded with more bits of starlight and a sweetheart neckline, scooped across her chest and hung off her shoulders. The rest of the dress dripped down her body, flaring slightly around her legs to accommodate a slit to her thigh before it brushed around her feet and pooled behind her in a train of silver moonlight.

It was the dress of her mother’s family. A dress for the last Silver Priestess, the last Ginnelevé daughter. Over the past months, while she’d struggled to hold the shattered pieces of herself together, she’d forgotten those ties. But wearing that dress, clothed in those colors, it all came rushing back.

She was not just Chosen of Qhohena, but a daughter of her mother’s family. Gold and silver, life and death, Qhohena and Zadione.

She swore she could feel the brush of those beings against her mind. Her magic stirred, winding down through her limbs, and in the mirror, her eyes glowed.

Mariah held the gaze in her reflection for two more heartbeats before turning away.

Brie had also somehow found attire suitable for her Armature in less than a day. They all wore a dark, regal gray, delicately embroidered with patterns of silver and the faintest lacings of gold. Their weapons were on full display—short swords crossed across their backs, longswords sheathed at their hips, daggers and knives in baldrics across their chests. The ladies of her court were also there, each wearing a gold dress so pale that it almost looked silver.

And beside her stood Andrian, no weapons in sight except for the faint shadows twining down his arms. Mariah knew his black-bladed dagger was on him somewhere, hidden beneath his jacket.

Hopefully, though, there would be no need for that tonight.

Everyone was gathered and waiting. Her court, her friends, her family. Andrian stepped closer to her side, and she inhaled deeply.

“I don’t have much I need to say that hasn’t already. I wouldn’t be standing here, right now, if it weren’t for every one of you. I’m happy to be home, but I’m ready to fix the things that are broken in this world. And with your help, I know I’ll be able to.” She drew in another breath, expelling it through her nose. “So … let’s go make me a queen, shall we?”

Feral grins and wild smiles answered her. She placed her hand on Andrian’s waiting arm and stepped out of her rooms and toward the next part of her future.

The throne room was quiet and dim, lit only by the lunestair pillars at the front of the room, and the candles scattered in a circle around the throne.

And on that throne sat Ryenne, wearing her usual gown of crushed red velvet, the snowdrop crown of Onita on her brow.

Mariah bit her cheek to hold back her gasp of surprise. She’d known her rise into her power would weaken Ryenne, had remembered how old and frail the queen was when she’d visited Mariah after her return from Khento. But nothing could’ve prepared Mariah for Ryenne’s appearance now, for the way her skin sagged around her face and her body curled in on itself on the throne as if lacking the strength to even remain upright. Beside her sat her own Armature, looking as frail as their queen, and at the foot of the dais steps stood the last ladies of her court, ladies who likely never imagined they would somehow outlive their ageless queen.

Mariah’s gaze swept over Delaynie’s mother. And her father, a member of Ryenne’s Armature. Her heart squeezed in her chest at the realization that no more than twenty years after finding each other, they would be separated by the same gods who’d made their daughter’s life possible.

Swallowing her sadness, Mariah strode down the long throne room, heels clicking against the marble floor. Her court flanked her—Andrian on her right, Sebastian to her left, the rest of her Armature and ladies following behind. Their footfalls rang eerily through the nearly empty cavern, heralding a melody of change.

Kalen, seated beside Ryenne, pushed to his feet as they neared the dais steps. His face pinched with exertion, his once-youthful body now hunched and frail. Mariah halted, the rest of her court fanning out behind her.

With all the strength he had left, Kalen set his shoulders and lifted his chin, representing his queen as her consort, one final time.

“Who approaches the throne of Queen Ryenne of House Shawth, Chosen of Qhohena, Protector of Onita and Lady of Verith?”

Mariah paused before the steps, hands tightening around her skirts as a wave of apprehension and fear and sickening dread washed over her.

She knew she wanted to be queen. Knew in her soul, in the place beside those silver and gold threads that twined and danced together, that this was an inescapable destiny. But her hesitation came from a dark place born in a cold and lonely cell in the bowels of a loathsome northern castle. From a desire to change her kingdom for the better after it was so twisted by foul greed and a wicked sense of possession.

It came from the crack of a whip, the sundering of her skin, the slow drip of blood down her back. From sweaty hands on her skin and in her hair, touches she’d locked away from herself—until now.

She was lost to those memories for too many tense beats of her heart. Lost in herself, at the magnitude of what she’d endured, the realization that despite this being her fate, she would never succeed. Not like this, not as damaged as she was.

Until the faintest of touches across her spine brought her back. A touch from a warm, calloused hand, skin she recognized as well as she did her own. It swept across her scars, revealed by the open back of her gown and the short length of her hair. She twisted her glance over her shoulder to meet a pair of tanzanite eyes with shadows dancing in their depths.

She almost— almost —swore she heard his voice whisper in her head, the stroke of his consciousness down the one bond that she could not close.

“Are you alright, nio ?”

She wasn’t, but with him … maybe she could be.

So, she let her lips turn up into a soft smile and nodded. Something small but enough for him to see.

There were more words there, but she didn’t know if they were from the bond or her memories.

“Show them what moonlight really looks like.”

Still smiling, she returned her attention to the dais, where Kalen stood and Ryenne sat, their expressions regal and expectant.

“I do.” Mariah drew in one more breath, pushing back her shoulders. “I lay claim to the power of Qhohena, the throne of Xara, and the kingdom of Onita.”

Silence answered her. Kalen turned, glancing down at his queen. Offering his arm, Ryenne laid her hand on his, and with shaky legs rose from her great golden chair.

Despite her weak appearance, she was steady once she stood, head held proud and ocean-blue eyes shimmering with centuries of life. She leveled that stare on Mariah, heavy enough to make Mariah’s skin itch and her throat tighten.

“And who are you, daughter of the moon, to claim such things?”

“I am Mariah Salis, born of Wes Salis and Lisabel Ginnelevé. I come from Andburgh. I carry Onita in my blood, and the magic of the goddesses in my soul.”

Goddesses.

Not goddess.

The room stilled at her change to the words. She’d told Ciana and Andrian of her plan, to claim her throne not just under Qhohena, but Zadione as well.

Mariah hadn’t warned Ryenne, though. She’d told the queen about the other magic she bore, but that wasn’t this. And for a moment, she feared what Ryenne might say.

The old queen stepped forward, her hand lifting from Kalen’s arm. She laid that hand across her chest, above her heart. Her fingers clenched into a fist as she uttered words that stopped Mariah’s heart.

“Then by Qhohena and Zadione’s grace, may you claim your throne.”

When Ryenne’s head dipped, gray hair falling around her face, Mariah’s heart beat again.

Those beats turned into a pounding drum as Ryenne’s Armature bowed their heads, mimicking their queen. When her ladies knelt into curtsies.

The young priestess—Liliane—stepped out from between the pillars, a shy smile on her face as she dipped her head, pale gold robes brushing the floor.

Ryenne lifted her head at the priestess’s arrival, meeting Mariah’s stare with warmth in her eyes before turning to Liliane and reseating herself upon the throne. “With the absence of our high priestess, Liliane will assist in your ascension.”

Liliane gave another small nod and smile, standing beside Ryenne as Kalen seated himself on the dais.

With one final, deep inhale, Mariah gathered her skirts and ascended the dais.

Every step felt heavy, weighted with the burdens of her past and future.

Whore.

Sister .

Unworthy.

Daughter .

Murderer.

Queen .

She reached the top of the dais, where Ryenne waited for her.

The old queen smiled. A real, true smile, perhaps the first Mariah had seen on her face in a long, long time.

“I am so proud of you, Mariah. Do not let this kingdom make you into anything other than what you are.”

Mariah swallowed. “If I end up as half the queen you are, Ryenne, then I will be happy enough.”

“No,” Ryenne answered, her smile softening with sadness. “You do not want to be half the queen I was. I was not a good queen. You will be much, much greater.”

Mariah wasn’t sure she could answer without tears, so she only clenched her jaw and nodded once.

Ryenne turned to Liliane. “We await you, priestess.”

Liliane dipped her head, a fresh blush on her face. Mariah remembered how young the priestess was—barely out of girlhood and yet thrust into a ceremony that had only happened ten other times in Onitan history.

It brought Mariah great happiness to know that Ksee would live—and die—without such an honor, but this young woman who had risked everything to stand for what she knew was right had it now.

“Stand beside the throne, Mariah.”

Mariah nodded, obeying Liliane’s direction. Ryenne had mentioned briefly what this ritual might entail, but also informed Mariah that this was something the priestesses guarded close. While a queen and her court knew, no others did.

Hence the small crowd there tonight. There would be a more formal celebration later, when no weaknesses could be exploited.

For that was the secret.

Ryenne still held a piece of Qhohena’s magic—a meager, miniscule drop. Enough to fight off the infirmaries of time but not enough to heal wounds inflicted by more nefarious actors.

And if something were to happen to either queen before this final ritual could occur, the queen’s full power would be lost forever.

Mariah’s magic writhed awake as she met Ryenne’s stare. Liliane stood before them both, and from within her pale gold robes she withdrew a slender, wickedly sharp dagger.

“Your palms, Your Majesties,” Liliane said, voice timid.

Mariah flashed her a reassuring smile as she extended her right hand, just as Ryenne raised her left.

Liliane lowered the dagger to Mariah’s palm. “With these cuts,” she said, slicing the delicate blade across Mariah’s skin, the sting of pain hardly registering even as ruby blood burst free. Some splashed on the armrest of the throne, and Mariah’s eyes widened as it disappeared, seeping into the shimmering gilded stone.

“With these cuts,” Liliane repeated, mimicking the cut on Ryenne’s palm, “we bridge the light between two queens. One whose time is setting, and the other who is rising. Waxing and waning, just as the moons in the sky. May their blood bind them to the realm, and to each other, for eternity.” Liliane bowed her head and stepped back from the throne, bloody dagger still clutched in her hands.

Mariah and Ryenne’s palms were still outstretched, nearly touching as their blood dripped, soaking into the seat that held the power of a kingdom.

Her arm shaking, Ryenne drifted her bleeding hand closer, fingers brushing Mariah’s. A single, delicate drop of gold shimmered in the open skin of the cut.

The final drop of magic.

An eighth and final bond.

Mariah met Ryenne’s gaze. One last time.

“Take it, Mariah,” the queen whispered. “I am ready.”

The world held its breath as Mariah turned over her palm, placing it atop Ryenne’s.

The second their hands clasped, palms meeting, the doors at the end of the throne room burst open.