Page 29 of Of Iron and Moonlight

A muted hum joined the drumbeat, more suggestion than sound. It threaded through her bones, subtle but insistent, vibrating like a second pulse. Oddly comforting. Familiar.

She startled upright at the knock at her door.

A servant slipped inside, bearing a gown folded neatly across her arms. The silver silk shimmered as though woven from ice, each thread catching the sunlight pouring through the window. “Duchess’s attire for the festival,” the female said softly, inclining her head. Copper strands cut through her silver hair, betraying mingled heritage. “I am here to assist you, Your Grace. The first contests begin within the hour.”

Kora murmured her thanks and rose in haste, mortified she had somehow spent most of the day in bed.

Fingers hovering slightly overhead, the servant lifted sections of Kora’s hair and wove them into a crown of braids. She brushed silver powder across Kora’s eyelids and temples, so subtle the shine might have been imagined, then finished with a touch of pigment at Kora’s lips, the hue of dusk over snow, before helping her into the gown.

The result was not adornment but transformation: fragile mortality shaped into something nearly otherworldly. The high collar lent a restrained formality while the bodice fitted close before falling in long lines. Violet moons and crescents curled along the sparkling hems. It was as though the gown had claimed her, recasting her into one of the fae it had been made for.

What would Elyse say if she could see her now, draped in fae finery? Admiration, envy, or some barb between the two?

Another servant slipped inside—a younger female with too much amber in her violet eyes to be purely Norrelian—and laid out a small breakfast tray on the low table nearby. Kora ate quickly, surprised to find her appetite restored despite the restlessness she could not quite shake.

When she stepped into the parlor, the duke was already dressed and waiting, speaking in low tones with Isander. He wore a pale outer coat layered over a high-collared tunic, unadorned but for a narrow band of silvery alloy at the throat and a trace of violet worked into the seams. He looked every inch the duke now, no trace of the road-worn man she had first met and come to know. Yet the fatigue remained, faint at the crease of his brow.

Isander noticed her first, smiling as he bowed. “Lady Koraleise, you look beautiful.”

Kora blushed, returning the smile. “Thank you, Isander.”

Her husband turned. His grey eyes passed over the gown. Though he did not smile, his expression softened for a moment before the familiar reserve settled back into place. Then he inclined his head in courteous acknowledgement. “Are you ready?”

Kora nodded and slipped her ungloved hand into the crook of his offered arm. The deeper they descended, the louder the drums became, and when they reached the arena, trumpets joined them, nearly lost to the cacophony of the gathered crowd.

Carved into the mountain, the amphitheater formed a perfect bowl of stone beneath the Niverna peaks. Noble and common fae alike filled the seats, eyes glowing like a thousand reflections of Selvarath’s emerging moonlight.

Below, the pit stretched wide, black sand dusted with ice crystals that caught the light like scattered stars, though the air held none of the cold’s bite. Along its edge stood racks of weapons neatly arranged. Even the art of war bowed to order and symmetry here.

The Norrelian King sat at the heart of it all, like a jewel on display. “Our human guests,” Oorlon announced, clapping once as they approached. His short silver hair stirred in the breeze, and Kora thought she glimpsed darker roots beneath the metallic sheen.

He gestured idly to his right. “My Queen, Sifia.”

Sifia was regal in bearing yet fragile in countenance. She wore no heavy crown, only a slender band of silver over hair so metallic it was nearly white. Her hands, folded in her lap, did not tremble, yet there was a quietness to her that spoke of surrender rather than strength. When her eyes lifted to them, they conveyed muted pity before lowering once more.

Oorlon turned briskly to his left, his manner shifting. “And this,” he said brightly, “is our beloved daughter, Princess Drifah—our Lavender Belle.”

“Welcome.” Drifah’s lips curved into a smile that felt more like warning than warmth. Her eyes were ringed with green, like her father’s, and unlike other Norrelian nobles, her hair was streaked with healthy hints of copper. Even the purity of her mother’s blood had not fully tempered Oorlon’s diluted line.

Kora took her seat between the princess and the duke. Isander settled a few paces behind them, hand resting near his hip with deceptive ease. His blade would be of little use here, but his steady presence still brought reassurance.

“You will enjoy the games,” Drifah murmured. “They are… intoxicating.”

“I look forward to witnessing the majesty of Norrelia firsthand,” Kora replied smoothly, ignoring the chill that traced her spine.

Oorlon rose, and the arena fell silent.

He began to speak, resonant like distant thunder. The Norrelian tongue flowed harsh and fluid at once, sharp consonants folding into liquid vowels.

“He says that today we honor the goddess through contests of strength,” Drifah whispered. “Use of magic is not permitted. Those who prevail prove Selvara’s favor through skill and will alone.”

Kora nodded, her pulse uneven.

Oorlon concluded and lifted a hand. Trumpets answered, cleaving the air, and the drums surged again.

Match followed match. This was no pageantry, no staged tourney like those Kora had seen in Ardor, where lances were blunted and outcomes rehearsed. Fae fought faster and harder, without mercy: steel flashing in blurred arcs, frost scattering beneath their feet, wounds opening and sealing almost as quickly. She could hardly look away.

When the sword duels began, the announcer’s voice rang out in a string of words that sent the audience into a frenzy. Drifah leaned in, eyes alight with mischief. “The next one isn’t truly part of the trials,” she said, smile widening. “It’s entertainment. A contest of three against one.”