Page 63 of In Violent Waves

“It’s alright. You will be alright,” Wilder repeated over the sound of clopping hooves and wind.

It was the only comfort he could offer.

The only thing he could think of to say, and he would make it so.

Lyra’s head bounced against his chest, and her body went boneless as she passed out. Good, that was probably for the best.

When he passed through the wards of his kingdom, his breath came steadier. The light buzzing across his skin was a relief. He was close—so close.

The wildness of the moors opened up before him as he slipped from the forest edge to the rolling hills outside the palace gates. Mounds of evergreen grasses rippled in the wind between tufts of heather, and a light mist rose from the ground.

It was a mosaic of purple, green, and gray. He followed the well-kept path switchbacking through the high hills to the city gates.

Large hand-cut silver stones sparkled in the early morning light. A horn sounded at his arrival, and even from a distance, he could hear the squeaking of the wheel turning to open the gates. The castle rose beyond the great stone wall.

Long ago, it was only a wall around a colossal hill. But some distant ancestor had carved the stone out of the hill to create the magnificent castle. Peaks, battlements, and towers, all intricately carved from the gleaming stone.

Lyra whimpered, and he prodded the horse faster. He didn’t slow as he passed through the gates or the cobblestone streets of the Lower District.

Thankfully, it was early enough that not too many people were out yet. He launched the horse over crates of food and barrels of ale, much to the chagrin of vendors setting up for the market.

Cries rang out through windows as children woke for the day, their mothers pulling closed the shutters as he passed. He would have felt guilty if not for the fading scent of the woman in his arms. Her pulse was slowing as the venom took root.

The wooden bridge that separated the Lower District from the Upper District came into view, and his grip on the reins tightened. He was almost there. The wood thudded as they passed over the bridge and navigated through the tree-lined streets of the Upper District. There were fewer elves on the streets here.

Flowers lined the windows instead of laundry. Shutters blocked out light and sound, leaving the occupants inside blissfully unaware of the prince streaking through the streets.

As he came upon the small courtyard that separated the castle from the people, he yanked the horse to a halt and slid off, taking Lyra with him. He carried her in both arms, racing up the steps and calling for a healer.

Healers were a rarity only the nobility could afford. The bloodline of the witches with the gift had faded. Fewer and fewer were learning the craft.

Wilder stomped through the towering archway and into the greeting hall. His muddy footprints were left behind on the polished black-and-white marble floor.

A flurry of servants rushed to help him. But no one could help him. He needed a healer. When a spindly elf with long limbs andthe complexion of peat moss reached for Lyra, Wilder growled at him in warning.

“I need a healer—now!”

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Settle yourself,” a voice of many answered.

An elder witch. She was neither young nor old; she simply was. And her voice wasn’t hers alone, but all of her ancestors speaking through her at once.

“She was bitten by a witch’s curse,” Wilder replied, looking down at Lyra.

“Bring her to my workroom. I’ve got some woodlark brewing.”

Wilder had a difficult time looking at the witch. She was the same size as Lyra, but her presence had the hair on the back of his neck rising. She didn’t walk either. No, she hovered over the ground like a specter.

Her eyes were as golden as the sun, and they burned as such. Dressed in the finest lilac gown, she should have blended in with the rest of the nobility, but there was no hiding what she was.

“It’s good to have you back, Prince. Your father was worried.”

The witch attempted casual conversation. It was futile. He couldn’t formulate a coherent thought until Lyra was awake and healed.

Passing statues of distant ancestors and heroic elves, Wilder breathed through clenched teeth. But when he passed a mirror, his reflection almost gave him pause.

He was back to his true self now and not the humanesque facade that slipped on him the moment he stepped outside of the wards. Briars grew from his scalp around the crown of his head, his ears were sharply pointed, and the otherworldliness wrapped around him like a familiar cloak.

The glittering gold wouldn’t come off his skin, no matter how much he had scrubbed at it. His mother had once crooned thathe was made of gold-flecked silver stone. He despised it. It made camouflaging himself at night difficult.