Soren
It takes an entire bottle of fairy wine and then another of fae elixir without pausing for a breath before I manage to get some sleep. Even after such a long trip home with no rest, the silver eyes of my Fates-cursed witch mate haunt my every thought until I have no choice but to find solace in the last of our meager supplies.
Is this my punishment for not submitting fully to the Fates?
Did I bring this upon myself?
Centuries ago, I thought I could outsmart the Fates and find my mate sooner, her sweet voice filling my mind as she teased me and tempted me with nothing more than her presence there. I thought if I could just find her early, bending the fate I was given but not truly breaking it, I could save my people from the horrors of the war around us. I thought I knew better.
Eyes as silver as the threads that hold my cloak together, as silver as the Celestial Family crest on my shield…my stomach clenches every time they pop into my mind until I’m swallowing bile. With hair as dark as the Seelie fae and skin as fair as Airlie’s, she looks nothing like the mindless, raving witches I’ve faced in the war.
The bile threatens to choke me the longer I think about her, sleep eluding me until deep into the night.
Breakfast the next morning with my close-knit circle becomes a form of torture.
I wake before dawn, as I always do, and pull my sorry self into the bathing room to wash away the evidence of my miserable night. If Airlie catches a whiff of the fairy wine, she’ll put me on notice with her husband, and I won't hear the end of it from either of them.
She’s so busy trying not to think about her pregnancy and what will happen at the birth that she’s itching for any excuse to needle someone else. I'm fine with that as long as the person isn't me. I house dozens of high-fae nobles here in the riverside wing of the castle, leaving them to their own devices as the war toils on around us, and my cousin’s irritation would be best directed there. The wing they occupy is spacious and guarded well, although far less luxurious than the accommodations at Yris Castle. They’re safer here though, and that keeps them content. The families most loyal to me won’t find comfort within the walls of my uncle’s residence.
When the only sign of my insomnia-induced binge is the red hue of my eyes, I go into the small dining room, the intimate one where I entertain only my family members. They're already there, whispering and gossiping, though none of the gossip halts when I walk in.
I don't expect it to.
Although each and every one of my cousins is a member of the Unseelie Court, with bloodlines that date back as far as mine, I trust them all implicitly. Tauron and Tyton are brothers, though only their looks show it. They and our cousin Airlie look similar to each other and myself, with our Unseelie heritage of pale skin, white-blond hair, and crystal-blue eyes. We all descend from the Celestial bloodline, one of the four high fae royal bloodlines, and all of us are creatures of winter and sunless months, proof of what happens when an entire people spend all their time in castles tucked up in the snow.
Roan with his Seelie heritage is the only unique member of our group. His father is an Unseelie prince, but his mother was a Seelie princess, the Fates pairing them against the traditions of the Unseelie Courts. Roan is shades of warm summer nights, brown skin, black hair, golden eyes. He and Airlie make a striking pair, especially when you see their devotion for each other in their eyes. The Fates made a wise choice in their union.
Suddenly I want another bottle of fairy wine.
”You look miserable. We need to figure this out,” Airlie says, her tone harsh even as she delicately puts together a hearty plate of meats and cheeses and holds it out to me. “You're hiding your hangover from exactly no one, by the way. If you're worried I'm going to shame you, rest assured I have other business to attend to.”
I raise a brow in her direction and take the plate, then pour myself a glass of fairy wine as she raises her eyebrows back at me.
Tauron leans toward her. “It’s called the hair of the dog, Airlie, and it's the only way to truly ease the headache. You wouldn't know, because you have something called ‘self-restraint’ that the rest of us lack.”
She gives him a sweet smile, but it's laced with barbs and poison. “Restraintisn't a dirty word, cousin. You should learn some! Then maybe your mother would stop harassing us all about your future.”
Their familiar bickering calms me more than anything else could, but I’d never admit it to them.
Roan gives me a knowing look. “Give him a minute to process what’s happened. Once he’s accepted his fate is real and unavoidable, then we can decide what we're going to do about her.”
“Her? I thought we were calling the witch anit,” Tauron mumbles.
Roan shoots him a look, his brows tucked low. “The Fates have decided that she’s to be our future queen, whether you like it or not.”
He says it to Tauron, but there's no doubt his words are directed to me as well. Roan has always been the voice of reason within our group, having been raised in a stable and loving household without the whispers of the Unseelie Court muddying his sense of self, thanks to his Seelie princess mother being shunned. His father refused to entertain the court, effectively closing the Outlands to any high fae who weren’t friendly toward his family. It was a blessing in disguise, and now Roan doesn't have the same warped responses to things as the rest of us, none of the cutting humor and closed-off emotions to protect himself.
He’s never had the need.
Since their marriage, Airlie has protected him with her wit and cunning the same way that he protects her with his sword and hands.
I take another drink. I don't want to think about putting a witch on my mother's throne, seeing my mother’s crown upon that head of dark, matted hair. The situation becomes too much for me once again, and I drain the entire glass of wine in one go.
Roan winces, and Airlie shoots me a look. “Eat your breakfast, Soren. We can't afford for you to slip now, not when there are so many eyes on us.”
So many eyes that we choose our words carefully, even within these walls. My home, the place I should feel most comfortable in the world, has been infiltrated by poison.
It’s only a matter of time before my uncle sends word that he's heard about the witch. Then I’ll have no choice but to make a plan. I don’t have the luxury of sitting around drinking my woes away, no matter how tempting that may be.
