Page 117 of Captive of Secrets and Storms

“Trust me, Elara.” Helen sniffs. “The feats you witness at this historical celebration are far from effortless. The contestants are the most accomplished of their elements. Their displays are true testaments to their skill and power.”

“Of course.” I dip my chin, relieved to know not all Virendrellians possess the fighting and magical skills of the contestants.

As it is, the island’s citizens would be a formidable force to face.

Perhaps that’s why King Marek leaves them alone after failing to conquer them the first time.

“Have you chosen which contestant you believe will be champion?” Augustus asks me.

“No, not yet.”

A glint creeps into his eyes. “I heard Leto paid you a visit during the sculpture contest.”

Anders’s gaze snaps to me.

“Did he?” Helen chuckles before I can respond. “Of course he did. That cheeky man. He cannot resist a beauty, especially not an exotic one.”

Her gaze trails over my head and down to my sandaled feet.

I’m hardly exotic. Aside from my hair color, I resemble many of the Fae and humans roaming through the mayor’s home. Though they are far more stunning.

“Well, dear?” Augustus prompts.

“I’m sorry.” My lashes brush my cheeks with my blink. “What?”

He and his wife share an amused glance.

“Leto.” Helen prompts. “Do you find him agreeable?”

There is something unspoken in her questions, but I cannot fathom what.

I opt on the side of caution and choose my words carefully. “Leto seems kind.”

“And handsome?” Helen leans forward.

I look at her husband, waiting for him to object to his wife’s compliment, but he simply watches me.

Myrissie, what is going on here?

The Goddess of Knowledge doesn’t answer.

“Um, yes.” I shift my stance. “Of course. Leto is very handsome.”

Helen beams as if I complimented her own flesh and blood. For all I know of their lineages, perhaps I have.

“Wonderful!” She claps her hands. “Then you will not object to accompanying him to the betrothal ball in two days’ time?”

The what?

Anders clears his throat. “Forgive me, my lady. But perhaps Elara is already attached.”

“Nonsense.” Helen’s smile falls.

Sharp eyes scan my arms, looking at the bracelets adorning each wrist, accessories Thea insists upon every morning.

“I see no betrothal circlet,” she says.

I’m not given time to process the connection between my homeland and this wondrous place before Helen asks, “You are not promised, are you, Elara?”