Wings of Glass 1: Storm
Автор
J. E. Romm
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708K
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Chapter 1
ROSE
It had to be a mistake. Rose was sure her ears deceived her—after all, this was her brother. He would not send her into a lion’s den to be torn apart like some mere chunk of meat.
This was Cetera, the Unseelie court—a whole race of Fae known for their callous and cruel ways. Her loving brother would never send her, his only sister, into the hands of the enemy. Not for any deal, no matter how tempting.
Rose straightened to her full height and gave her answer. “I will not marry him!”
“You have no choice.”
Her glare could have burned a hole through stone as she looked back at him. Those emerald eyes shimmered with an intensity that could make even a seasoned soldier take a step back.
Blood pulsed beneath her pale skin, staining her cheeks with a vivid red. Rose kept her gaze steady, refusing to waver—her jaw clenched tightly as her hands balled into fists, so fierce that her knuckles whitened.
“Why don’t you marry the princess?” Rose didn’t care that her voice grew louder. It didn’t matter if the servants outside heard every word she said. She was furious!
“Let her come marry you, and I’ll stay here where I belong.”
Bran released the sides of his throne and ran a hand through his tousled gold hair. His movements were stiff, as if he were stalling, searching for the right words—but there were none in this situation.
He leaned back and averted his gaze. “She’s already betrothed to someone else. Frankly, I have no desire for a Ceteran Fae to sit on our throne.”
Like a bucket of ice water splashed over her, Rose felt her heart plummet. Her chest rose and fell in rapid, uneven breaths.
“But don’t you think he’d feel the same way?” she asked, her fingers clutching the fabric of her dress. “When he takes the throne, I’d become queen. The Ceterans would surely love that. They will kill me, Bran!”
Bran rubbed at his forehead, the corners of his mouth twisting into a frown. “They can’t kill you. You’re the sister of the king. If you die, it fractures the truce, and we plunge back into war.”
Outside, bright flashes of lightning streaked across the sky, followed by a deafening boom of thunder that rattled the windows and shook the very air around them. The storm was a mirror to the turbulence within her heart.
Each thunderclap resonated with the chaos that brewed inside her. Rose stood motionless as Bran sat silently upon the throne.
The vast room, with its gilded accents and heavy velvet drapes spilling from the high ceiling, pressed down on her like a suffocating weight. Her eyes flicked over the swirling gold leaf on the walls.
Every flourish, every glittering ornament, was a stark reminder of the heavy responsibilities that came with their crowns—an unspoken burden wrapped in splendor.
“There are other ways of dying, you know,” Rose whispered as her gaze came to rest on the marble floor beneath her.
It was so meticulously polished that her reflection stared straight back at her—a vision of beauty that stole hearts and souls. Her hair cascaded down her sides like a waterfall of sunshine.
She shivered as she recalled a rather barbaric tradition of the Ceteran court. No woman wore her hair long in that Moon Palace in the East. She’d likely lose all this beautiful hair if she married those Fae.
“What would you have me do?” Bran’s voice sounded defeated as he stared at her moping before him.
“We’ve been at war for seven years. Father is gone—dead, Rose, killed in battle! People are starving. Our soldiers are drained. We need a truce!”
The weight of his words made her shrink back. She shivered, having done her best to get over the loss of her father in these hard times.
The lump in her throat grew, eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “But why must I be the one to sacrifice everything? Can’t we find another way?”
Bran looked away again as if unable to meet her pleading gaze. “They have the upper hand,” he mumbled and leaned his head on his hand. “Their position is stronger, Rose. They dictate the terms. Anova can’t endure this war. We’re barely holding on as it is. If they push us for another month…we will fall, Rose. We will lose this war.”
Rose pressed her palms harshly against her face, the heat and dampness of tears seeping through her fingertips as her shoulders shook with quiet sobs. Each breath was a ragged, uneven sigh, as if she could expel the fear coiling in her chest.
“So you will send me to my death,” she whispered, her knees growing weak until she felt she might collapse. “I will likely die a prisoner for Cetera. For your stupid war.”
“Our war,” Bran reminded her, though he did not dare look at her. “You are our only hope.”
How could this happen? Were they really at the end of their rope, where her sacrifice was the only thing that stood between them and slaughter?
She didn’t want to leave her world behind. Her family, her friends—only because she was the perfect pawn to use in exchange for peace.
She watched as Bran let his head sink into his palms. Despite her own insides twisting at the thought of her fate, she saw that the burden of ruling weighed heavily on his shoulders.
He sat upon that throne of gold, studded with opals and jade—looking majestic, yet it was a bitter, lonely pedestal. The jewels caught the flickering light in cruel bursts.
Yet the crown weighed heavily on the siblings—more so on Bran, smothering him under its relentless burden. Though tears continued to stream down her face, Rose had seen how responsibility had slowly suffocated her brother these past two weeks.
Each gemstone felt as heavy as a brick on his shoulders, a constant reminder of the overwhelming expectations threatening to drown him. Her thoughts drifted to the aftermath of their beloved father’s sudden demise.
Bran’s ascension to the throne had left all of Anova torn—some blessing the new king, others mourning the loss of the old. When she was eighteen, Rose had already endured the pain of losing both parents.
She was still so young, yet she saw herself as a woman rather than a girl. The thought of leaving the comforts of her castle to marry a Fae prince five years her senior sent a shiver down her spine.
Did the rest of the royal court truly believe this was the only way to save their people? The young king let his arms fall wearily to his sides and sighed.
Rose took a step forward, watching the crown on his head inch over his forehead.
“If you don’t wed him, Anova is doomed,” he said.
The silence that followed was oppressive, pressing down on them until it seemed even their breaths were loud and intrusive against the quiet. Rose could only stare in silence as her world imploded like a flicker of smoke.
“You’re asking me to let thousands suffer, to sacrifice an entire nation for one person,” Bran said, each word hanging heavily in the air. “As a king, I cannot do that.”
She froze. Bran’s words stung with truth, but acknowledgment offered Rose little solace.
Her heart twisted painfully as sobs surged anew. The Ceteran Fae were known for their cruelty, their scheming, and their utter disregard for dignity.
Tales of their brutality haunted her thoughts; stories of their ruthless ways and their indifference to mercy.
Once called the Unseelie court across the land, they now preferred to be known by the land they inhabited—Cetera. A land of dense forests and winding rivers where darkness lurked in many shadows.
Her lip trembled; she didn’t think she could do this. She couldn’t…
“It’s our responsibility,” Bran continued, his voice laced with exhaustion. “As the royal family, we take the brunt of the burden.”
She lifted her head, her red eyes searching her brother’s face, where the shadows of additional responsibilities lingered. Since taking the throne, he had aged before her eyes; worry lines and a furrowed brow etched themselves deep into his skin.
The boyish charm she remembered had dimmed, replaced by a haggard visage that told of weighty decisions and sleepless nights. Yet despite the storm raging around them, he was still here, still home.
But she—she would be cast away, shipped off to an unknown realm.
The journey ahead loomed in her mind. It was a daunting three-day ride through the forbidding Wanola Forest.
She shuddered at the thought of one day seeing the imposing city walls fashioned from stone plucked from the depths of the fabled Obsidian Ocean. It was a sight she had envisioned only in storybooks, vivid illustrations leaping off the pages.
But the realities whispered darkly of the Moon Palace that awaited her beyond those grim walls. From the shadows of her childhood, she recalled fearful tales—each describing the palace as a den of darkness, rife with intrigue and treachery, where backstabbing and death shadowed the corridors like a constant specter.
She had no wish to play a part in such grim narratives.
“Did you at least try to negotiate?” she asked hoarsely as her world continued to shatter into fragments.
Bran let out a heavy breath, his temple pulsing as his brows furrowed. He finally caught her eye.
“No, I just served you up on a silver platter,” he grumbled. “Those were the best terms they offered.”
“What else was on the table?” Rose sniffled, curious.
Bran rubbed the back of his neck, a gesture laden with weariness. “There was the option of handing over half the land of Anova,” he grunted, the look in his eyes almost foreign.
“They’ve already conquered a quarter of our land in the south. The villages at the border were decimated. Our generals are barely maintaining ranks…the soldiers are discouraged. It’s a miracle I could reclaim any of our land at all.”
“Why is marrying me better than losing half of Anova?” Rose asked, at a loss.
Bran winced as he gripped the armrests of his throne tightly. “Maybe it’s not merely about marrying you”—he hesitated—“but about your heirs.”
The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold and hollow.
“Well then.” Rose dabbed under her eyes with her hand. “Why don’t they want our aunt? She’s only thirty-seven…plenty of time to bear an heir.”
Fauna was their father’s sister—a striking Fae woman with hair like freshly fallen snow and eyes as clear as the brightest sky. In her opinion, Fauna would be a far better choice for the Ceteran Fae.
“I don’t know,” Bran admitted, shaking his head. “They named you specifically.”
A sudden thud at the door broke through their shared silence, sending a sharp spark of awareness through them. Both siblings turned to exchange knowing glances.
A silent acknowledgment born of shared memories—of days spent eavesdropping on whispered conversations behind heavy doors, gathering scraps of information like newly recruited spies.
“When will I have to leave?” Rose didn’t care that Bran heard her voice trembling. She was terrified and angry that she was being forced into this situation.
Bran dropped his gaze to the ornate floor, unable to look at her. “Tomorrow morning,” he whispered.
Her eyes widened in alarm. She gasped, her knees nearly buckling beneath her weight as a wave of panic washed over her.
“T-tomorrow? So soon?”
“That’s when the emissary leaves,” Bran replied, the gravity of his tone matching the storm’s roar outside. “I can try pushing it to the afternoon, but I don’t think it wise. Leaving early is safest.”
“I see.” She pressed a hand to her chest as if trying to still the frantic fluttering of her heart.
The sensation quickly morphed into a sharp, stabbing pain—like someone had taken a long needle and thrust it into her ribcage. It pierced her chest repeatedly, making it difficult to catch her breath.
Bran stood and moved toward her. His arms enveloped her in a warm embrace, channeling the strength of a mother’s touch.
“I don’t want you to go…but I can’t afford for you to stay,” he murmured into her hair.
Rose drew in a slow, ragged breath, summoning every ounce of strength to hold herself together. She filled her lungs with the familiar scent of fresh mint and pine that clung to him.
Memories of laughter and lighthearted days in the gardens flickered through her mind, now overshadowed by the weight of imminent separation.
Her arms hung limply at her sides. The very thought of reaching out to return his embrace threatened to shatter her fragile composure entirely.
“I don’t want to marry him,” she whispered and looked up at him. The confession escaped her lips like a fragile wisp of smoke.
Bran closed his eyes, his features contorting into a grimace. Pain flickered across his face, and the muscles in his jaw tensed.
“You have no choice.”
