Loreth desperately wanted to stay in my bed, her affection for me known widely through all of the Unseelie Court, and I thought what I felt for her would be impossible to feel for any other. I ignored grave warnings from Roan and Airlie and their mounting concerns for the complication being with her would bring to my life.
Then I woke to the voice of my mate in my mind.
After just one single, faltering interaction with the shyly joyous female, and I couldn’t bear the touch or sight of another. I craved her like nothing I had felt before, her existence igniting a fire in my blood that fueled an intensive search of the kingdom as I raced against the Fates to find her. I forgot about the throne, my responsibilities, everything. None of it compared to the longing I felt for her.
Now I suspect she used her magic against me, a curse or bewitchment, something that sank her claws into my mind. Every last word I treasured and coveted merely an act in the game of war.
When I realize my thoughts are spiraling once more, I direct my mind away before it sends me running back to the wine.
Down in the kitchens I find the Keeper of Yregar, Firna, standing over a large boiling pot of scrap stew for the soldiers. She was once a nursemaid for my mother, and she continued to watch over me during my formative years. She never overstepped her bounds as keeper, but she’s been a motherly figure in my life ever since I lost my parents.
Unease holds her tongue, but the lines around her mouth say enough. It’s treason to keep a witch alive, and yet we have one in the dungeon below, guarded but walked through the gates in full view of the entire household. It’s only a matter of time until the consequences for this come calling.
When I do nothing more than check in on how the castle is running, she doesn't bring it up.
She waits until I’ve looked through the lists of the food stores myself before she says, “Provisions are low, Your Highness, and it’s only getting worse. The groundskeeper has said that the orchards are almost stripped. We’re not going to make it through winter.”
My mouth tightens, and I give her a curt nod. The kitchen hands and maids all scatter at the thunderous look on my face, leaving me a clear path as I move deeper into the sprawling kitchen toward the storeroom.
It’s a bleak sight, rows and rows of empty stone shelving, cold and desolate everywhere my gaze lands.
We're still in the long days of summer. There should be a bountiful harvest to come, but the devastation of the war continues to whittle away my kingdom.
Firna meets my eyes, frowning as she murmurs to me, “The vintner has begun pressing what grapes he can, but with such a minimal harvest, he isn't sure what he can make of it.”
I nod. “There won’t be any recourse if this year's harvest doesn't yield. I'm already aware the male is trying to get blood out of a stone.”
She nods back, but there’s no sign of relief that the staff aren’t going to be punished, because the reality of the situation isn’t lost on anyone here. I glance around at the quiet kitchen staff, their heads bowed. Anticipation hangs in the air as they all hold their breath, the way they’re looking at anything but me sending a ripple of frustration through my gut.
I snap, harsher than I should, “What else has happened?”
Ignoring my tone, she casts a stern look at the nearby maids until they scatter, and then with a dry drawl she replies, “There’s no point in softening the blow. We’ve been sharing provisions with the village, but we’ll run out before winter sets in if we keep it up. I’ve already had to send the princess to the nobles to stop their complaints about the rationing, and it's clear that we're not going to be able to keep the castle running like this throughout the winter. It might be time to reconsider the catering plans for the upcoming balls or, at the very least, cut down the guest lists.”
I would throw every last simpering, whining member of the Unseelie Court out of Yregar Castle and lock the entire province down if I could, but I’m still answerable to my uncle. There’s nothing the regent loves more than throwing a huge party with overflowing crates of wine and enough food to feed the entire kingdom, much of which goes to waste. I don’t know whether Yris Castle is prospering with their harvest—it’s one of the few fiefdoms in which I don’t have allies, thanks to the regent and his station there. His lack of concern for his lavish lifestyle is yet another indication of his treachery, and the way that Unseelie Court blindly follows him says he’s somehow convinced them of his ability to rule.
None of them care about the rest of the kingdom.
I’ve reached out to neighboring kingdoms about importing food, but I’m not holding out much hope for trade agreements. While the Fates have sat back and taught me their “lesson” in patience, my uncle’s propaganda about my true nature has spread.
I nod curtly and leave before I can hear any more bad news. I don't have the heart to tell any of them that the rest of the territories in the Southern Lands are faring the same, if not worse, than we are.
There is no denying it. The land is dying.
The castle is subdued as I make my way outside to the barracks to check in with the commander. The soldiers all dip their heads in respect as I pass, loyal to the core, every last one of them. The sentries on the inner wall are sharp, a group of soldiers at the gate to scrutinize anyone passing through, and an escort walks with several maids to take food to hand out at the village temple. It won’t be enough for everyone to truly eat their fill, but it’s all we have to offer.
The commander, Corym, is directing the males into the sparring rings for the morning session of training, and when I stop at his side, he bows to me before murmuring, “No changes reported from the walls, Your Highness. The plains have been quiet since you rode out to aid the attack.”
I nod and watch the sparring, Corym’s gaze just as sharp as he calls out to fix footwork and sloppy technique. Overall, the soldiers are looking good. Better than good; under any other high-fae commander, they would be considered exemplary, but at Yregar we demand perfection. It’s the only way we’ll survive.
“Let’s hope it stays that way. I’m expecting a visit from the court—move the soldiers around accordingly.”
Corym nods. It’s an order I’ve given him countless times before, and he pointedly doesn’t ask about the witch. If only I could train all of my household to hold their tongue this way, maybe my headache would ease off. Airlie could never, Tauron wouldn’t even try, and, though they both are far less rash with their opinions, Roan and Tyton will call me out at the slightest provocation if they think it appropriate.
I move on to the stables and take a moment to brush down Nightspark myself, enjoying the routine even as the stable boy fusses at the very idea of me doing the work for him. I flip him a small apple, one of the last meager crop from the failing orchard, and he gapes down at it for a moment before his cheeks redden. He fumbles over his gratitude, bowing deeply, and then bites into it in a rush as though someone might steal it from him.
I wonder how long it’s been since he last ate fresh fruit, even a tiny and slightly sour apple.
He's a small kid from the village, and it still shocks me to think that people have continued to have children but, of course, the curse affects only full-blooded high fae. The village here at Yregar—and all of the other castles and villages in the Southern Lands—are full of part-bloods. There’s never been a stigma within the lower classes for marrying across the lower fae like there is amongst the high-fae Unseelie Court, not until the war began and the entire kingdom became ravaged by the witches.
