Come to Yregar. We will not turn you away, we’ll find space for you, and food.
No one has arrived at the castle gates yet, but whether that’s a hesitancy to travel this far south with a long winter ahead or simply the fact that there are no survivors, I won't know until more scouts arrive. Each of them has been tasked with the most dangerous work, and many won’t return, more casualties in this fruitless conflict. Despair takes hold in my gut as I fear the worst, the spiral into oblivion for our people only spinning faster as the days drag on.
Aura glances around my sparse reception room, her eyes disapproving, but she chooses her words with far more care now that she’s been forced to face the reality of our situation. “The Unseelie Court demands a traditional high-fae wedding. The Celestial family’s Fates temple here in the castle will have to be prepared, decorated, and cleaned thoroughly. The witch will need a dress for the ceremony, and another for her introduction to the court. Celestial family jewels to adorn her, but only after the cleansing preparations have been done to her body. The feast after the ceremony must be enough to sustain an entire day and night of festivities. Then there's the marriage bed. Someone will have to stand guard and herald the consummation—that will be a verydelicateposition to fill.”
She looks at me again and clears her throat, the prospect of anyone bedding a witch enough to rattle her, but she continues, “I’ll send out the invitations to the Unseelie Court, but is Yregar prepared to host such an event? The kitchens have only sent up bread and a few paltry apples for my meals. Will there be enough food to feed a thousand high fae for the wedding and however long they choose to stay afterwards in celebration of your nuptials?”
I flick a hand in her direction, my eyes again on the correspondence in front of me so she can't see my reaction to the list of rites I'll be forced to undertake.
The noose tightens around my neck with every breath as my fate begins to edge toward me.
“You worry about who’s coming and where you're going to sit them in the Fates temple. Leave the provisions of Yregar to me.”
As she stands and takes the parchment with her, ready to work on it up in the guest chambers, I grimace and drive home the last of the bad news. “Ensure the Goblin King is on the list. He’s already confirmed his attendance.”
CHAPTERTHIRTY-FIVE
Rooke
The ward sits perfectly around the castle walls, undetectable and strong thanks to the moonstones, ready to assist when the witches finally come to call. They’ll come to Yregar, there's no doubt in my mind, and the Fates sing beneath the skin of my scars as they direct the dance we're all forced to endure.
Reed has been assigned to watch over me for now, or maybe he volunteered for the duty, and he shadows me closely as I go about my days in the healer’s quarters once more. As the days turn into one week and then two, it becomes clear his only duty is to watch my every move.
When I'm sure I have as many tinctures and elixirs brewed as I can until the next crop flourishes in my gardens, I stop to take stock of what needs to be saved. Some of these vials hold liquid far too precious to use except in times of dire need, and I push those to the back of the shelves and pull forward those I’ll be able to replace readily. Some plants take an entire year to establish roots and flourish enough to withstand a harvest, while others, such as the milk thistle, spread in a matter of days, making for only a few short weeks until an abundant crop is established.
A vitality elixir is quick and easy to make, vials lined up on the shelves waiting for me to find a use for them. One drop diluted in clean water is enough to fortify a child, but only once they’ve cycled through their first year, and it’s no longer effective once they reach adulthood. I set aside a bottle of it for Airlie and her son, ready for him next summer, and my mind wanders back to the children I saw in the village, their eyes following me in despair each time I rode past.
When I turn to Reed, I find him sitting on the wooden chair, balancing his chin on his fist as he watches me work. There’s a keen sort of interest in his gaze as he soaks in the daily tasks of a healer, as though he’s learning everything there is to know about my life’s work just by sitting here with me in the quiet.
“I know that look,” he says, sighing as he rubs a hand over his face.
This feels like the beginnings of banter between soldiers, entirely too familiar for the stilted interactions we've had until now, but whether I'm softening thanks to Airlie’s quiet friendship or just bored, I fall into it.
“How could you possibly know what this look is? You've only been at Yregar for five and a half minutes, ten at most.”
He lets out a chuckle, the tips of his ears poking through the long blond hair seen everywhere in the castle thanks to the strong Unseelie bloodlines. He wears it down, with braids on either side of his head—uncommon for a high-fae soldier—but he carries himself with the same confidence as the soldiers of Yregar do, sure in his own abilities.
I haven't seen him fight, but if he’s been trained like the rest of them, I'm sure he’s a force to be reckoned with. I've watched the soldiers here spar, the barracks visible from the garden over the low-lying stone fence that runs the perimeter, and, though I loathe admitting any positives about Prince Soren, his men are nothing short of impressive.
With vastly honed skills—both unarmed and with swords—they show sharp reflexes and have been well-trained in all forms of combat. The commander puts them through their paces on a daily schedule to ensure they’re primed and ready to defend this castle to the end.
Watching Prince Soren step into the sparring ring and demolish fifteen of them as though they were nothing but children had been a sight to see. Hearing rumors of the abilities of the mate the Fates have chosen for me and seeing his prowess in the flesh had left me with a new, if uncomfortable, appreciation for the male.
It was a valuable lesson for me. Prince Soren didn’t get the moniker the Savage Prince simply for the scar that runs across his face, despite the snobbery of the Unseelie Court and their unquenchable thirst for perfection. The high-fae male is a beast, and every inch as good with a sword as the rumors declared. A better swordsman than any I’ve seen myself. If he ever learned to harness the magic within him, slumbering but present as it is in every Unseelie high fae I’ve come across so far, he’d be unstoppable even against a powerful witch such as Kharl.
It's exactly what he needs to win the war ahead of us.
Whether the Fates put us together for me to teach him to use his magic is beside the point—any teachings I might give him will fall on deaf ears if the man can't get his hatred of my kind out of his mind.
“That’s the exact look that you gave Prince Soren right before you tore into him about the morals of our race. I'm just trying to figure out what I did to piss you off and start that lecture back up. I’m not one to take such treatment willingly, and certainly not from a witch.”
His tone is lighthearted, but his eyes are serious. It's the first time anyone has acknowledged what I said, but the fact that he's not denying the truth of my words or attempting to minimize them softens his response now. I'm now hoping that Reed will stay at Yregar, for more reasons than just the safety of Airlie and the baby. A voice of reason amongst the high fae is a rare occurrence, one I’m not eager to lose.
I hold up one of the vials. “There's enough elixir in this to improve the health of three hundred children. Do you know how many there are in the village of Yregar?”
His brows pinch together as his eyes stay trained on the ruby-colored liquid within the vial, calculating but not suspicious.
“No, but I can ask. Prince Tyton is sparring in the barracks today to put the soldiers through their paces and ensure no one is slacking off. He should know the answer,” he drawls, as though he finds it hilarious to even suggest that the soldiers might lose their edge.
