Chapter 307
The gates of Estellis open not with fanfare—but with finesse.
The guards move in perfect synchrony, gleaming from head to toe in delicate filigree armor. Polished to a fault, every scale on their suits catches the ambient light and casts it like glittering snow across the coral-strewn path beneath them. Their spears are etched with swirling runes, ceremonial rather than functional. Nothing here looks like it’s meant for war. It’s art. Living, breathing performance.
And yet… I feel like I’m walking into a lion’s den.
The street beyond them is lined with polished cobblestones, alternating between a soft, pearlescent blue and milky white. Flowering kelp grows in neatly sculpted rows on either side of the path. Fountains shaped like spiral shells release slow, elegant bubbles that hum as they rise. It’s like someone plucked the concept of refinement from the sea floor and wrapped an entire city around it.
My heartbeat skips when I spot the palace in the distance.
It towers above everything else in Estellis, a spire of pure, untouched Darklite. Unlike the rest of the city—which has clearly moved on to materials like etched glass and polished sandstone—the palace glows. Not brightly, not obviously. But subtly. Power coils in its walls like it’s just waiting. Dormant. Patient. I swallow hard, unable to take my eyes off it.
And then the horns sound.
A team of iridescent seahorses—each one larger than Wake—glide into view pulling an ornate carriage shaped like a giant opal. A page in pearl and gold blows a thin, curling conch trumpet and bellows, “Make way for the royal family of Estellis—blood of Electra—keepers of the Twilight Throne!”
The crowd responds instantly. Guards and civilians alike lift their right hands and press two fingers to their foreheads before bowing low.
I stay upright.
So does Wake.
The carriage door opens.
Out steps a group of Enkians, each dressed in flowing, iridescent robes that shimmer in the water like living silk. Their scales are soft pastels—pinks, blues, lavenders—like they’ve been brushed with morning light. Fins trail like ribbons from their arms and backs. They move like dancers, not rulers. But there’s no mistaking the authority in their presence.
Leading them is a tall man with silver scales and matching silver hair that hangs to his hips in a waterfall of shimmer. His robe is deep purple, lined in indigo and trimmed in glinting shell-thread. His eyes are pale, like starlight under ice. And when he sees me, he stops cold.
For a moment, I think he’s seen a ghost.
Emotion cracks across his face. His lips tremble. His chest rises, then falls, and he clasps a hand over his heart.
The women behind him don’t try to hide it. They’re crying. Openly. Silently.
“When I heard whispers,” the man says, voice rich and quivering, “that my lost daughter’s progeny had been found… that Electra’s spirit had chosen a vessel anew… I dared not hope.” He lifts his hand toward me. “And to see you here, with such a fine male at your side. You do us proud, daughter.”
I blink. “I… um…”
The pressure is suffocating.
Everyone’s watching. Every soldier, every noble, every stranger. The whole city feels like it’s holding its breath for me.
I square my shoulders. “My name is Phoebe, daughter of the Eastern Twilight, and Electra’s Chosen,” I say, loud and clear. “And my companion is Prince Wake of the Abyssinian Deep, Heir to Dagon, and Commander of the Legions of the Trench. And my mate.”
A ripple of reaction moves through the crowd. Some smiles. Some gasps. One of the younger women behind the silver-haired man whispers something and fans her face like she might faint.
One of them glides forward—an older woman who looks so much like Cora it knocks the breath out of me. Her scales are a richer blue, and her eyes are storm-gray, but the resemblance is undeniable. She rushes forward, arms wide.
Wake’s hand goes to his hip instantly—ready.
I stop him with a gentle touch to the chest. “It’s okay.”
The woman wraps her arms around me and clutches me like she might never let go. Her body shakes with quiet sobs.
“Petra,” the man says sharply. “Compose yourself.”
The woman flinches, stepping back and brushing tears from her cheeks. “I apologize,” she says, voice rough with emotion. “You just… you look so much like—”
“That’s enough,” the man says, sliding between us.
Instant shift. Regal, composed. The mask goes back up.
“We’ve been rude,” he says. “Too forward in our own elation.” He inclines his head with precise grace. “I am Lovelace, head of the ruling house of Electra. Your great-grandfather.”
He gestures to the woman now behind him. “This is Petra, your great-grandmother.”
I nod, unsure of how to respond. “It’s… good to meet you.”
He smiles, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Come. There are many more to meet. And if the rumors I’ve heard are true, much to discuss.”
I glance at Wake.
He nods once. Tight. Controlled.
We follow.
As we move through the streets, the people of Estellis emerge from their towers, their shops, their courtyards. They watch us with reverence and curiosity, pressing fingers to foreheads and bowing. Lovelace holds his head high the entire way, greeting nobles by name, nodding to merchants, exchanging brief words with soldiers. He carries the city like a mantle.
But every few minutes, he glances back at me. And there’s something in his eyes.
Something unreadable.
The palace looms ever closer.
And I can’t shake the feeling that it’s not just watching us.
It’s waiting.
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