Page 133 of Fallen Nocturne

I rise and look at Darstan. A father fighting for his son’s future is the most dangerous kind of warrior. The only thing that can rival that is perhaps a mother’s resolve. I turn to Siofra and find the same fierce determination burning in her eyes.

They will hold Aelfheim.

I have to trust them.

Chapter 19 Rhianelle

Blaire sits before the mirror while Lady Siofra works on her hair. She carefully applies an alchemical mixture that turns Blaire’s golden-blonde locks silver-white. It catches the light exactly the way my hair does.

I watch as my friend transforms before my eyes. The silver hair cascades down her back in soft waves. We have always looked similar, both pale from centuries spent beneath Astefar’s shadowed canopy, but now the resemblance is unsettling.

Blaire is about to become me. She will wear my face and lead my army.

“The eyes,” Blaire says, studying herself critically. “They’re not right. Mine are blue. Yours are lilac.”

Siofra produces a small vial of shimmering liquid, then signs, “I can fix that. Two drops in each eye. It will burn for a moment, but the effect will last a week.”

Blaire tilts her head back. I see her hands trembling slightly as Siofra administers the drops. She blinks rapidly, tears streaming down her face, and when she opens her eyes again, they’re lilac.

It’s like looking at a ghost of myself.

“The armor,” I say quietly, gesturing to the pieces laid out on my bed. My ceremonial battle armor, etched with ancient elven runes. “Will it fit?”

“We’re nearly the same size,” Blaire says, standing and moving toward it. “I’m taller, but in the chaos of battle, no one will notice.”

She begins putting it on, piece by piece. I help her with the buckles and straps. The breastplate, the pauldrons, the vambraces. Each piece clicks into place, and with every addition, Blaire looks more and more like the Elven Queen of Aelfheim.

“There’s one more thing,” Siofra signs, producing a small wooden box. Inside is a crown, the simple circlet I wear into battle. “This will complete the illusion,” she tells Blaire.

She places it on Blaire’s head, and the transformation is complete. Blaire looks every inch a warrior queen.

I smile at our reflections, but I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong. I go to her and take both her hands in mine. “Blaire, you don’t have to do this. You’ve already given so much.”

She adjusts the crown with her free hand, not meeting my eyes in the mirror.

“You’ve given more,” she says simply. “You’ve given everything, over and over, and never once asked us to carry it with you. Let me carry this.”

“Blaire.” Her name catches in my throat. I search her borrowed lilac eyes for doubt and find none. Yet, I still have to ask. “Are you sure about this?”

“I am sure,” she says, meeting my eyes. “You saved me more times than I can count, Rhianelle. Let me do this one thing for you.”

There are a hundred things I want to say, but none of them will change her mind. My fingers tighten around hers. “You could die.”

“So could you.” Her voice is gentle, but there is no hesitation in it. “At least this way, we have a chance to save the kingdom.”

I see something there I don’t recognize. A strength and certainty that wasn’t there before. Maybe it was always there and I just never noticed. Did something happen during her recent return to Astefar?

Before I can question her, a horn sounds from the courtyard below.

The Noctrals are ready.

Less than half an hour later, we ride through the palace gates toward the Great Plateau.

The roads are crowded with soldiers, healers, mages, and wagons laden with weapons and supplies. Blaire rides ahead with Darstan and Siofra. Her silver hair streams behind her, and my crown gleams upon her head.

From a distance, she already looks like me.

The thought leaves a hollow feeling in my chest.