Princess Sera parted from Damia and Silvia upon their entrance to the great hall, as she maneuvered to the front of the room presumably to take the throne beside the king, seeing as there was no queen to fill it that Damia had heard of. She couldn’t quite see the dais from their pce in the back corner of the hall, leaving her to peer around and over shoulders with little success. Her breath quickened, and she clutched at her skirts in an attempt to conceal her trembling.Damia had no idea what a presentation to the king actually entailed in this court. Practices varied widely from kingdom to kingdom, from informal tea to lengthy ceremonies and rituals performed before the entire capital city. Sometimes the mage would be required to demonstrate their magical prowess through a series of rather theatrical tasks that, frankly, had little to do with actual mastery of the craft. Damia found these to be demeaning, to be reduced to a spectacle, entertainment for the masses. Often, a presentation like that would set the tone for whatever was to be expected of the mage in her new position. It revealed what her monarch needed, or wanted from her.
Damia couldn’t afford to falter in this moment. This was her chance to make something of her presence in this pace. And she couldn’t do that without the king’s authority. As infuriating as she found that fact to be, her righteous indignation had yet to solve any of her problems on its own before. So here she was, she thought, ready to be scrutinized, tested, whatever it took to earn the king’s favor. To be invited into the room where it happens, to be allowed to use her knowledge, her power for the good of others.
Silvia grabbed Damia’s hand and squeezed. Her hand was uncalloused and a soothing warmth radiated from her skin, like a tiny slip of sunshine glowing through the girl’s palm. It seeped into Damia’s own hand, filling her with warmth like steam in her chest, easing away the apprehension that had swelled there at the prospect of finally meeting the king. Silvia smiled up at her and led her to the center of the room as a hush began to fall over the room.
With her chin set level with the ground, Damia inhaled slowly, holding it for a second. Then she released the air, but also the tight and twisting panic that was fighting for purchase in her chest cavity.
She turned to face the dais at the other end of the room, and all of the air fled her lungs, repced by sheer mortification at who she saw. In the throne beside Princess Sera sat Sam, looking much like he did st night in a bck tunic with silver stitching and with his hair halfway pulled back in a thick braid.
Damia dropped Silvia’s hand and the sudden loss of warmth radiating from her hand to her chest was startling. She swallowed hard, finding her throat to be as dry as the look on Sam’s face. The king’s face.
Her thumbs tapped against her middle fingers, producing silver lightning between them the same way they had on st night’s walk back to her room. His eyes flew to her hands, but he said nothing. All eyes were on Damia now, but no one in the crowd on either side of her dared utter a word to break the oppressive silence hanging over the room. Theonin Garrol cleared his throat at the podium before reciting from the parchment before him, “On this twenty-third day of the Yielding Season of the one thousand four hundred and sixty-fifth year, the members of this court are beheld by his majesty the king, Samwell Valois.”Sam the king. King Valois, also known as Sam. Or Samwell. Damia’s head reeled, unable to reconcile the stately, authoritative man before her with the gruff but quiet and generous man of the previous night. Yet, the steely look in his eyes was the same. And it was fixed on Damia with unrelenting precision.
“Proceed,” Samwell decred, clear and resonant throughout the hall. “Presented to his majesty the king is the appointee to fulfill the role of court mage. Mage Damia of the Prismatic Citadel, come forth,” Theonin commanded, looking over his parchment at Damia with raised brows.
Silvia had already stepped to the side to join the crowd by the time Damia looked beside her. Silvia gave her a a grin, her eyes wide and excited, nodding in encouragement. Damia’s first step forward felt like the first stumbles of a newborn fawn, but her control of gravity magic remained strong, so she managed to stay upright and continue her momentum forward. Her eyes remained on Samwell’s for the entirety of her seemingly endless journey to the front of the room.Stopping a few feet before the dais, Damia descended into a low curtsy, maintaining eye contact for as long as possible before dipping her head and rising. Samwell’s nostrils fred, but she couldn’t begin to guess what that gave away about his impression of her. Her heart pounded faster and harder than it had with Silvia at her side, and though Sera was also right in front of her, Damia’s vision narrowed to nothing more than the king before her. The current of electricity pinged from her fingers up through her shoulders, stopping at the crown of her head. If it went any further, she was sure her hair would have literally stood on end.
Samwell, who had been leaned forward to gaze at her, finally slumped back against the throne, crossing an ankle over his knee.“Do you swear to serve the people of Altriel above all others, neither the crown nor yourself; to wield the weave of magic with discernment; and to employ your wisdom for the security of the crown and kingdom of Altriel?” Samwell boomed, but Damia did not flinch. She did not retreat.
“I do,” she replied resolutely, curling her fists to quench the sparks still flying between her fingers.“Very well,” Samwell sighed. He rose from the throne, stepping down to stand before Damia. It only took him two long strides to reach her. Damia was not a short woman, but Samwell truly towered over her. He reminded her of the mountain range into which this very pace was built. Cold, imposing, but a fixture of the ndscape. He belonged at the head of this room, sitting in that throne, leading these people. Damia couldn’t believe she didn’t see it st night, before she knew his true name. Leadership was written all over him.
His right hand reached out for Damia’s shoulder, csping it firmly but not roughly. She felt a surge of energy in response to his hand on her bare skin, and had to ground herself firmly in order to maintain his icy eye contact.“You will now be known as Damia DeAltriel, mage of the people and the crown. Your loyalty will be to Altriel until the day you die. You are bound to these people and this pce. You are Altriel, Altriel is you,” Samwell procimed. The words were for the room, but their meaning was only for Damia. This was no formality. No spectacle.
Damia was bound.
She had never felt such energy, such power under her flesh as she had under Samwell’s touch and oath. Before his hand withdrew from her shoulder, Damia understood that her power was no longer only her own. She was still its steward, yes, but it now belonged to the people of Altriel. And to Samwell. And Sera, and Silvia, and everyone else in this room.
And for the first time since she had left the Academy tower, Damia was grateful.
