Sevensworn

XXIX. Hold Tight, Beloved

It took them four days to travel to the Hall of Kings. They skirted around war camps, some flying the red colors of Rhydel while others flew the ever-elusive blue of Adacia. They stopped for nothing and spoke little. The occasional traveler eyed them from the road but they were recognized only once by a young girl and her brother, from whom Ronan heard an awed cry of, "that's the prince!"

By the time the towering stone citadel was rising over the horizon, they had a single day left. The moon would be full that night, and Ferenheld was only just now becoming visible, leaving them no time to appreciate the beauty of its ivy-covered stone spires. They would not have much time to prepare. When they dismounted and loosed their horses to roam in a nearby fenced pasture, Ronan found himself dwarfed by the sacred hall of coronation. He approached the door at a wary pace, grateful when Zia climbed the steps beside him.

"I heard this place only lets in those that are worthy," she said nervously. "I don't know if I'll⁠—I'm not sure I'll pass its test."

Ronan shook his head. "It judges me on whether or not I'm fit to rule. It judges the rest of you based on what it finds in your heart. You'll get in."

Shivaroth spoke up with an uncharacteristic amount of worry in his voice. "And how does it decide who is unworthy?"

"I'm not sure. My father never told me." He turned and gave the god a slight smile. "It'll be fine, I promise."

Above the door were words carved into the stone in Old Adacian: Na'Teva Esha Valei Sihara. May Your Heart Be True.

The air seemed to thicken as he approached the door. A presence, alien and sharp, edged itself into his mind. By the way everyone stiffened around him, he could tell they had felt it too.

"You seek to enter Ferenheld Seat," it said, and its voice, though he had never heard it before, was familiar. "Step forth, Ronan Aldrea."

Ronan obeyed without question, stepping forward so that there was a short distance between he and his Circle. The voice spoke again.

"Place your hand on the door."

He did, setting his palm flat against the ancient carved wood. The seal of Adacia was worked into the wood at the place his fingers sat.

"You enter this citadel to face your gods of old. You are to be king?"

"I am."

"Be still."

There was a sharp pain in the center of his chest and he doubled over, gasping at the shock of it. Behind him, he heard someone move forward, and then Wynne, speaking sharply: "don't!"

Silence fell. By the time the pain stopped he was gasping for breath, but the presence seemed satisfied.

"Your heart is true," it said. The door swung open beneath his hand, and he stepped through. "You may pass, future king of Adacia."

Ronan walked through the door, marveling at the features of Ferenheld that he could see. The ceiling was high, the floor lit with multicolored light from the glass seal of the Seven that sat high above the door. The walls were hung with portraits of old royals dating back to before his family held the throne. It was massive, and that was only the reception hall. The true main doors sat a good fifteen feet away, waiting to give way before his hand. Before he could firmly grasp his surroundings, the voice continued.

"Step forth, Wynne Elestyn."

The doors remained open before her, and she stepped forward without hesitation.

"Place your hand on the barrier."

Wynne tentatively reached out, a look of surprise passing over her features as her hand connected with the place the door had been and found it solid. The air seemed to ripple around her fingers as she touched it.