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From the corner of my eye, a tall girl with honey blonde hair dropped to her knees. Tears streamed down her red, swollen face.
“Please, someone! Have mercy on my soul?—”
Her abrupt silence had my head whipping in her direction. Her mouth was still moving, the veins in her neck straining, but nothing was coming out. It was as if someone had muted her.
“Apparently, she didn’t get the memo,” the faerie guard said, just above an audible whisper. “You’re welcome.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. Less than ten minutes around this prick and I wanted nothing more than to mute him and his condescending comments. I knew his type. The guards in Wendover held the same arrogance—like they were better than everyone because of the title they held. He was nothing but a power tripping, egotistical, arrogant, domineering asshole, who thought he could get away with murder because he had a pretty face. Well, I wouldn’t put up with it.
The candles above dimmed, turning the throne room pitch black before a light shone on a bald courtier at the top of the dais. He gripped his jacket lapels. “Please rise for King Harkin Rathborne and the beloved Prince Bowen.”
The fae court erupted into applause once more.
King Harkin made his entrance and settled into his plush throne. He was a healthy, wide-set man—and his blond hair glistened under the array of candlelight as he stared down his pointed nose with animalistic curiosity.
Prince Bowen followed closely after him, wearing similar royal blue robes and a jeweled crown like the king. Admittedly, he was handsome. A spitting image of his father—if he were thirty years younger and with a slimmer frame. Their beauty shouldn’t have surprised me. They were all stunning.
Both men waved to their adorning court, soaking up every ounce of praise and admiration as if it energized them. It was disturbing. Borderline embarrassing, if I were being honest. King and Queen Wellington would never act like that. They were humble. The people’s leaders. They cared about us and our realm.
This kingdom—whoever this king was—it was clear they held themselves in high regard.
I shuddered—unable to shake the suspicion that something wicked festered beneath the king’s attentive façade.
The crowd went silent with the wave of the king’s hand. “Sprites and pixies, faerie and nymphs, welcome to the tenth annual Seven Deadly Trials.”
Another round of applause erupted before he silenced them once more, stopping and starting like a windblown flame.
My bones shivered. Trials? Pipion mentioned something about that, but what did it mean for us? A lump formed in my throat—that almost seemed worse than death.
A shapeless cloud appeared a few feet above the dais, shifting and expanding, waiting for the king to speak.
“Over five hundred years ago, the great blight almost decimated our world,” he started.
Images formed in the cloud, providing a visual reenactment of events.
“We worked hand in hand with the humans for a hundred years, doing everything in our power to restore balance. Some of us went as far as depleting our own magic for the greater good of civilization.” The cloud darkened and rumbled with thunder. “But none of it mattered. Humans turned on us—blamed us for the blight and labeled us as demons. Monsters to be hunted and slaughtered for false retribution.
“For another fifty years, humans persecuted our people, and we were on the brink of extinction until the establishment of the Iron Accords.”
Images of a desolate Faerway flashed across the cloud’s surface, showing the gradual transformation of their kingdom to the present day.
“They banished us west of the Dolorem River, to the wastelands of the world where they thought we’d fall over and die. But we thrived!”
Excitement and pride permeated the air. The fae chanted in a strange, unrecognizable language, while images on the cloud showcased the growth and fruition of their kingdom. I had to admit it was thriving without human intervention.
The king raised two fingers, and the room went silent again. “That same treaty established stipulations that would allow us to continue to live in peace. It implied each realm could execute any adversary found on their land in whatever manner they saw fit.”
The candles encircling the throne room strobed as the orchestral music played in rapid succession, causing the crowd to go feral. A wicked gleam etched into their cruel faces. I fidgeted with my dress sleeves, ignoring the harsh cackles echoing throughout the room.
“However, because we are a kind, forgiving species,” the king boomed, “we’re gracious enough to give you humans a second chance. Show you the mercy that your kind didn’t show us, give you an opportunity to go home.”
My body went stiff as dread stabbed my gut.
He continued, “These ten individuals before us will go through seven trials, designed to put their virtues to the test and use their human nature against them.” The king paused, flashing his sharp teeth. “The last one living may go home.”
The last one living?
The hair on the back of my neck stood as I peeked at the other nine individuals, who were now my competition, their faces as grave as my own. This sadistic, cruel form of punishment was entertainment for them. I knew the fae were tricksters and loved wordplay, but this was something else. This was evil. Turning us against each other to fight for our freedoms, using our own motivations against us.
