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I stand beside the throne, her hand still in mine. She’s holding it with a death grip, and I don’t have it in me to withdraw, even though it looks bad, terrible even. Even though I’ll have to kill for this. If it appears that she needs my support now, then when I’m gone, they will come for her.
She must be feared.
“Sit,” I order, and she obeys, surrendering her magic and herself to me so completely that I can feel her essence in my veins. It begs for the promise of companionship and strength, the promise of more than what I can offer, of more than I’m willing to give. And yet, something about her feels as if it belongs with me. To me. As if she’s mine.
I don’t have time to deconstruct these strange feelings, because the enemy doesn’t stop as I expected them to. The male and his guards keep advancing.
19
D’ARTARON
The king’s brother is a handsome fae male several decades younger than the king, which puts him about my age. Without any combat training and some military experience, not on fae lands, he’s spent most of his life making friends inside the Spring Court. As such, he will have lots of support.
Even though I’m tempted to behead him as he marches toward the throne, I hold back and watch as his magic distorts his physique. He can multiply himself, and not in a way an illusionist can appear as the same person in a different space. This male can clone his flesh and bones. Since he’s a trained soldier, I presume he uses his magic to create his own army.
Naturally, he must control all the clones as they’re his flesh and blood, and, as with most people who wield this type of magic, any wound he takes will hurt all his replicas as well. Those are his limitations.
Curiously, he’s containing his magic and coming at her as a single male.
“You can climb the dais only on your knees,” I warn when he’s almost reached the throne. “Or on your feet without your head. Choose wisely.”
When he doesn’t drop to his knees, I realize I’ll have to kill him.
I lift all the shredded glass at our feet. The purple pieces reflect the light and hover in the air. I point all the sharp edges toward him.
His soldiers halt.
“What is the meaning of this?” He stops just before the steps.
I’m reconstructing the glass, using her light to melt it and my magic to shape it into sharp objects resembling spears. I craft my first one before I collapse the gateway. He turns as the sound of her magic explodes, and I wince, while some cover their ears.
Next time, I will try collapsing the gateway with more finesse.
I step forward and bend slightly toward the sitting royal. She looks up, terror in her gaze. I think she might collapse from fear. Nodding, I try to reassure her.
“The Spring queen wonders the same,” I speak for her.
“I have yet to choose a wife.”
He’s clever. “She hasn’t chosen a husband.”
“I beg to differ.”
“Keep talking, and you’ll end up begging for your life.”
“Careful, D’Artaron. You are threatening a king.”
“The Spring Court has no king,” I say. “Only a queen.”
“After I take a wife.”
“The Summer king sends his regards,” I say.
The male wrinkles his nose. “Is that where you’ve been, Chloe?”
“We are in the throne room,” I snap at his attempt at familiarity. “Address the royal as queen.”
He addresses her again, voice lower and more soothing. “I sent a search party for you as soon as I heard you’d survived the slaughter.”
