Entry 65: I stand alone

Dear Diary,
 
We wasted no time the next morning. Every step toward Keralon felt heavier than the last, weighed down by a creeping sense of unease. None of us said it aloud, but the question hung unspoken between us: what exactly were we walking into?
 
As the city’s high spires came into view, something immediately struck us as off. Banners snapped in the breeze—more of them than usual—adorning towers, turrets, and gates with bursts of vivid color. But it wasn’t the abundance of flags that made my stomach twist. It was the kind of flags.
 
House sigils of the fey. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.
 
Every noble lineage from the Courts must have sent someone. And they weren’t here for a celebration. Not a real one, anyway.
 
At the city gates, our escort handed us off to another group of guards already waiting for us—too perfectly timed to be coincidence. They were stiff and silent, their armor gleaming, their eyes sharp.
 
Alistan stepped forward, his voice calm but commanding. “Take the cart with Galiene to the cathedral. After that, bring our things to Wolf’s Rest.”
 
The guards didn’t like it—judging by their expressions and the muttering under their breath—but they obeyed.
 
With that handled, we were swept into the city.
 
As we passed through the winding streets, something didn’t match the tension prickling at the back of my neck. The city itself felt… cheerful. Laughing voices echoed from the market stalls, children chased ribbons through flower-draped alleys, and music floated in from somewhere unseen. If you didn't know better, you might think a festival was underway.
 
But we did know better.
 
Our path veered not toward the throne room, as expected, but toward one of the palace’s grand halls—one reserved for royal banquets and elaborate galas. The moment we stepped inside, the mood shifted like the sky before a storm.
Liliana leaned close, her voice barely a breath. “Smiling faces. Tense eyes. This place is ready to explode.”
 
She was right. The air crackled with a kind of charged stillness, as though the room itself was holding its breath. Fey nobles in elaborate silks and enchanted garments stood clustered together like painted statues, murmuring behind jeweled fans or narrowed glances. Ornate masks of civility—barely hiding whatever storm churned beneath.
 
As we moved deeper into the hall, conversation faltered. Heads turned. Eyes locked onto us, tracking every step. And the whispers began.
 
Some were curious. Some… impressed. Others were laced with venom.
 
The royal guards flanking the walls stood like statues, too many for a simple gathering, their presence a silent warning. And there, at the far end of the hall beneath a tapestry of the silver tower, stood the king—waiting.
 
And watching.
 
At the far end of the hall, beneath the cascade of stained-glass light, sat the queen. She was flanked by a towering golem of hammered steel and carved runes, unmoving and utterly still—except for the faint, unnatural shimmer of magic rippling beneath its plating. The king, by contrast, was anything but still. He stood deep in conversation with a tall, silver-robed fey whose expression was carved from smugness. Galaron—emissary of High King Ulther—radiated condescension with every glance.
 
Off to the side stood a trio of familiar faces, and the tightness in my chest loosened just a little. Rachnar, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. Elsa, as composed as ever, though her concern bled through in the tightness of her jaw. And Vivienne—Vivienne!—with her cascade of pale hair and a massive winter wolf at her side, its glowing eyes watchful. None of them looked relieved to see us. If anything, they looked... worried.
 
As we approached, the king finally turned his attention toward us. Galaron followed suit, his smirk sharpening like a blade freshly honed. The king’s expression darkened.
 
“You’re late,” he said curtly. “You were expected a week ago.”
 
I swallowed my frustration, but it burned all the same. A week ago? How were we supposed to know we’d even been summoned? We’d been in the depths of battle, chasing a cursed knight and dragging a dying friend across the land—not sipping tea in the palace garden waiting for a royal pigeon.
 
But before I could speak, Galaron stepped forward, all pomp and polished arrogance.
 
“I am here,” he said, “on behalf of High King Ulther, to address a matter most grave. A claim has been made that your group unlawfully entered fey territory and assaulted one of his loyal servants. Davozan, the giant.”
 
I felt the flush rise to my cheeks as fury surged up from my gut. He dared to stand there and level that accusation? My pulse thundered in my ears.
 
“That ‘servant’ attacked us,” I snapped, stepping forward. “Unprovoked. Just like the rest of Ulther’s agents who’ve been hunting us since the Vale. We never entered his territory. We were in Queen Titania’s domain—completely separate.”
 
Galaron barely blinked. “All that once belonged to Queen Titania now lies under High King Ulther’s reign. The distinction is irrelevant.”
 
Irrelevant?
 
I turned, seeking backup from my companions, needing someone—anyone—to echo the truth I had just spoken.
 
But silence met me like a slap.
 
Liliana stood still, her gaze lowered. Alistan looked as though he wished he could vanish into the floor. Even Luke—hotheaded, proud Luke—stood stiff and silent, eyes locked on the marble tiles beneath his boots. Not a single word. Not a single nod.
My heart clenched. The room suddenly felt too bright, too wide. It was as though the floor had dropped out from beneath me, leaving me suspended in air.
 
We had risked everything. We had done what was right.
 
And now? Now, when truth demanded a voice, mine was the only one that dared speak.
 
I straightened, jaw tight, and glared at the fey noble who had dared come here with false accusations and a king’s arrogance. Let them be silent. Let them cower if they must. But I would not.
 
Not for a fey upstart like Galaron. Not ever.
 
I tried. I really did.
 
I stood my ground and defended our actions as best I could, but it was like throwing stones at a fortress. Galaron had all the advantages—time, preparation, and a politician’s silver tongue. While we’d been risking our lives and dragging a cursed friend across half the continent, he’d been here, spinning his tale, setting the stage, laying the trap.
 
Eventually, I stopped listening. His words became background noise—smooth and oily, like the murmur of poison slipping into a cup. Because I knew, deep down, that our fate had been sealed long before we’d even stepped into that hall. Whatever this was, it was all just theatre now.
 
Then our king stepped forward, hands clasped behind his back, brow furrowed in something that looked like discomfort—or perhaps calculated diplomacy. “What would be required,” he asked, “to ease tensions between Keralon and the Neverhold?”
 
And there it was.
 
Galaron’s lips curled into a smirk so smug it made my fists twitch. “A simple gesture,” he said. “A sign of humility and respect. You need only journey to the Neverhold and present your apologies to Lord Davozan in person. Do that, and all will be forgiven. We will even host festivities in your honor.”
 
Festivities.
 
I wanted to laugh. Or scream.
 
It sounded like such a small thing—an apology. But it wasn’t the words that mattered. It was the power play behind them. We were being sent away, removed from the board. And whatever lay waiting in the Neverhold, it wasn’t a celebration. It was a distraction. Or a trap.
 
So I kept my voice even and asked the one question that mattered: “How long will these festivities last? And when are they to take place?”
 
Galaron’s eyes gleamed like moonlight on a blade. “Two weeks from now. Four days of celebration. You’ll be our guests of honor.”
 
He motioned to Vivienne, who stepped forward quietly, her winter wolf padding at her side. “She will guide you.”
 
And just like that, it was over. Galaron turned back to the king, the discussion drifting into politics again—meaningless words to fill the silence left by decisions already made.
 
I didn’t look at my companions. I couldn’t. Not yet. My hands were clenched into fists at my sides, nails biting into skin. I wanted to yell, to demand answers, to shake them out of their silence. But what good would it do? They had abandoned me when it counted. Now, I couldn’t even bear to meet their eyes.
 
It was only when Liliana nudged me gently that I noticed the atmosphere in the room had shifted. The tension had drained from the air like mist under the morning sun. The party was relaxing again, smiling, drinking, laughing—because the problem had been “solved.”
 
I moved quickly, slipping through the crowd to Rachnar’s side and pulling him aside. His brows raised at my expression, and I wasted no time.
 
I told him everything—about Talebra Velora, the Black Knight, the curse consuming Galiene. About Lady Morenthene and the dragon magic that had failed to save her. I laid it all out in a hushed voice, like secrets wrapped in urgency.
 
“I need you to look into this curse,” I finished. “And into something else. The Challenge of the Final Tournament. It’s connected—I know it is.”
 
Rachnar nodded, eyes dark and focused. “I’ll find what I can. And... thank you. For everything you’ve done for my people. Know that I’ll do the same for yours.”
 
Finally—finally—I felt like I had an ally again.
 
While I spoke with Rachnar, Vivienne had taken the others aside to relay her orders. She was to lead us only as far as the border of the Neverhold. From there, we’d be on our own. No guide, no protection. Just us, and whatever the fey wilds decided to throw our way.
 
“He wants you to fail,” she said, her voice low, but steady. “Ulther hopes you’ll die out there—or at the very least arrive late, so he can act all the more insulted.”
 
That tracked.
 
Elsa stepped forward without hesitation. “Then you won’t be alone,” she said. “You’ll have my help. And I’m sure Sir Donovan will feel the same.” There was steel in her voice, and I felt a flicker of gratitude, though it did little to soothe the storm brewing beneath my skin.
 
The courtly festivities were all but smothered now, the laughter thinning, the masks beginning to slip. We didn’t linger. One by one, we slipped away, returning to Wolf’s Rest like ghosts returning to their graves. The ride back passed in silence, save for the creaking of leather and the faint rustle of wind in the leaves.
 
When we arrived, I barely spoke. The weight of the day pressed down hard, and all I wanted was to disappear into the quiet for a while. I suggested that Vivienne take Liliana’s room—it was larger, more comfortable than the guest quarters. Liliana could stay with me.
 
She didn’t argue.
 
That night, the world felt heavier than it ever had before. We lay in bed, the candlelight casting slow shadows across the ceiling. I stared up at them, heart hollowed out, voice barely above a whisper.
 
“I’ve been thinking about giving up my title,” I said.
 
Liliana stirred beside me but said nothing. I could feel her watching me, her silence more comforting than any words.
 
“If this is how we’re treated—if this is how little our king is willing to defend us—then what’s the point? We did what was right, and still they treat us like criminals. Like pawns.”
 
There was a pause. A breath. Then Liliana reached over and took my hand.
 
“You’re not a knight because they say so,” she murmured. “You’re a knight because of what you do. What you choose to be.”
 
The words were simple, but they landed hard.
 
And for the first time in days, I closed my eyes and let myself sleep.