The murmurs and whispers change. The mercenaries lose their confidence in one fell swoop and come to an abrupt halt, the chains clattering on the ground, and I step in close behind them. The murmurs grow louder and louder, until I hear his name so clearly through the crowd it seems to be whispered directly into my ear. The tugging in my chest almost pulls me off my feet.
He’s here.
The Savage Prince.
A ripple courses through the crowd, and then it parts as the villagers scramble away from four high fae princes, each more beautiful than the last. Two centuries of living amongst the Seelie high fae in the Northern Lands has dulled the impact of high-fae beauty on me, but I hold myself rigid to hide my breathlessness at the sight of them.
Each of them is tall and powerfully built, not the type of high fae to sit around and make decrees rather than join a fight themselves. I’m not surprised; I wasn’t expecting a pampered group. Three are typical of the Unseelie, with pale skin, long blond hair, and icy blue eyes. The fourth has Seelie blood in him, brown skin, dark hair, and golden eyes, with a face as breathtaking as the rest.
There's no doubt which one is the Savage Prince.
If the Fates singing to me the moment my gaze touches him isn’t enough, the scar is a dead giveaway, the angry slash marring an otherwise perfect face. Whispers of his temperament and legacy reached even the Northern Lands, though I did my best to avoid them.
I tried to forget his name.
I spent years shoving it out of my mind and losing myself in a war that was not my own, fighting for good people in a land as far from here as my brother and I could get.
The white slash that cuts through his beauty doesn’t detract from it at all, but only adds to the heartbreaking tension in my chest as my gaze traces over him. I couldn’t look away even if the Fates themselves commanded me to, though admittedly, I don’t try hard.
He’s armed to the teeth and wears well-worn leather boots in the traditional high-fae style I hate and a Celestial-blue cloak lined with fur. His clothing is slate gray and trimmed in Celestial blue, the royal crest standing out proudly on his chest. Every inch of his solid body screams high-fae prince, but the arrogance with which he holds himself is different from that of the guards we passed on our way into the market.
I know a soldier when I see one, and this male stands like he’s prepared to take a blow. Which is good, because he’s clearly just taken the biggest hit of his life.
The look of disgust on all four of their faces has a smirk tugging at my lips, muted some by the gag shoved roughly between my teeth. I suppose the Fates did not warn him that his mate is a witch.
I see rejection in his eyes, and my own frustrations at our cursed fate has me sending him two words through our fate connection, a simple and irrefutable connection between mates that I’d closed down the day I learned his name and ran away from the horrors in store for me.
Hello, Donn.
I close myself off before he has the chance to answer me or find a way into my mind but the tactic is effective all the same. He physically recoils, the hand on his sword tightening as I imagine he fights the urge to kill me and be done with the chaotic mess we’re trapped in together. The action startles the mercenaries out of their silent stupor, and the world sharpens around me once more as I remember that other people exist. The Savage Prince and I are the spectacle of Port Asmyr and its pathetically paltry marketplace.
“Your Highness, we were bringing the witch to the guards here! She’s a prisoner, and we haven’t spoken to her. We meant no act of treason.” The mercenary fumbles over his words, but as he holds up the other end of the chains, I turn to look at him and raise an eyebrow.
I'm well aware that they were not bringing me to the guards.
The Savage Prince continues to stare me down with a look of pure loathing, but with a quick glance in his direction, one of the other Unseelie princes steps forward to speak. I’d guess he’s the Savage Prince’s second-in-command and has realized that his superior has been struck dumb at the sight of me.
“Where did you find her?”
The mercenary holds out the chain again, rattling it in the prince’s direction for him to take as though the iron is a venomous python rearing its head. “Half a day's ride. She was camping by herself. You can tell by the clothes she's wearing that she’s come off the last ship from the Seelie lands. Returned from the war there, I’m sure.”
The prince takes the chains with a gloved hand, crystals around the cuff sparkling in the sunlight, and I make note of them. He doesn't have enough magic within him to protect himself from the iron. I don't smell any magic on him at all, but one amongst their group certainly has it. I can guess which one, but without getting closer to the group I can't be sure.
Magic is a fickle thing, needing a capable and highly trained user to be effective, and gauging high-fae magic is like trying to catch sunlight in a glass—fantastical and impossible.
“What did she have with her?” the prince asks, his voice still icy cold.
The mercenary with a limp grabs my backpack and hands it over to the prince with a small bow of his head.
When the third mercenary does not reach into his pocket, I turn and face him with a look. He sneers back at me, sweat breaking out over his forehead at my silent accusation.
“Get your eyes off me, filthy witch,” he snaps, and then he shoves me.
I have far too much training to be pushed over so easily, my stance widening as I absorb the hit and stare him down.
As he lifts his hand again, the prince grabs his wrist. “What else do you have of hers?”
His lip curls at me and he mutters under his breath, “Nothing. She’s a lying bitch. You can never trust a witch.”
