I can’t afford to think like that.
Icannotlet my despair at finding that witch at the port win, because as I climb the guard tower at the outer wall and look back over the village, it's clear that we’re in a do-or-die situation. My people are already dying, and I have to do something, even if it fills my body with revulsion.
Her haunting silver eyes flash into my mind once more, and my fists clench against the stone of the guard tower’s hip-high wall.
I must wed her, remove my uncle from power, and change things, or my country will die. No matter how much my mind and my body reject the very idea of speaking with the witch, there’s no other choice.
“No signs of the enemy, Your Highness,” one of the soldiers says to me as he bows, a spear in his hands. The Celestial house colors wave overhead in the form of the Yregar Castle flag.
I’ve known this soldier a very long time and, if I were the type of male to make bets, I would place money that he’s on my side, but still my eyes are narrowed as I take him in, picking over every inch of his uniform and weapons as though I might find some sign of the regent on him.
There’s nothing to be found, as expected.
I stare at the rolling hills of decay before us and say, “It’s been too quiet in the kingdom of late, and that's usually a sign they're about to attack us where we least expect it. Keep your eyes sharp and on the horizon. There are a lot of people here who depend on you for their safety.”
He bows again before turning and staring shrewdly into the distance, his face set like stone as he follows my command. I continue along the top of the wall and take stock of any required changes and repairs. To walk the entire perimeter at a good speed would take most of the sunlight hours, and so it’s not feasible for today. Instead, I go as far as the section over the river, where small grates let the water pass through the bottom of the wall.
I find a group of soldiers huddled up and speaking amongst themselves, hushed and frantic. They stop the moment they see me walking their way, jabbing at each other as they straighten and then bow to me. They glance at each other nervously, tension thick in the air, and my fists curl at my sides.
I speak through my teeth. “What's going on?”
One of them is shoved to the front by the others and, after shooting a filthy look over his shoulder, he faces me, words tumbling out of his mouth in a jumbled mess. “We were trying to decide how to come and tell you, Your Highness. We tried to stop it—we never thought this could happen.”
I scowl at him and step forward. “Speak plainly.”
He gestures over the side of the wall, and I glance down. All I see is the same death and decay.
When I glanced back up, he murmurs, “The fae flowers are gone. There was a patch there, always, every year, but this year only two bloomed. Overnight…they’ve died. There are none left. We stopped the villagers from coming here to pick them for their healing tinctures in the hopes that they would survive, but we woke up this morning to find the last two gone.”
The last of the fae flowers.
Other words echo in my mind, repeating and blurring together like some sort of death omen until I’m forced to face the possibility of them. Theprobabilityof them, if I don’t accept my fate.
The time of the high fae is over.
I have no choice but to marry the witch. Fates have mercy on my soul and my kingdom, but I’m going to have to do it.
CHAPTERSEVEN
Rooke
The days begin to bleed into each other.
The only way that I know time is even passing is by the flow of my magic into the earth beneath me through the cracks between the giant, dirty stone pavers of the cell. My mind slips into a meditative state as I feel the day cycling above me. The sun's rays soak into the parched soil, the soft afternoon breeze rustles the bare branches of the now-dormant orchard, the mist of the late evening evaporates before it can soak into the ground…the land’s magic shows it all to me as I honor the earth with my sacrifice of power.
To pass the time in moments of calm before battles while serving in the Sol Army, I played card games with Pemba until we were both more than adept at gambling, despite our reluctance to utilize the skill. We told old witches’ tales to my friends and listened to stories from other lands. I wove the ribbon Pemba found the supplies for, at first trying to recreate the old patterns of our coven, and then using the task as a diary of sorts, a visual history of my time as a soldier with every pass of the shuttle as the ribbon grew. We tried many things to pass the time without thinking of the monsters that hunted us, but nothing was as effective as this magical connection.
The guards are a silent constant in the dungeon. They stay away from me, laying eyes on me only when they bring me buckets of water and plates of the same meager scraps. The lack of food doesn’t concern me.
My connection to the earth sustains me.
I don't feel hunger or thirst, though I’m careful about drinking the water. I don’t need to push my body any further than this and, in the end, I’m still a prisoner in a high-fae dungeon. It would be reckless to act otherwise.
I find myself trapped within my own mind with nothing but my thoughts to keep myself occupied. It would be easy to lose myself in grief and sadness for the horrors that I witnessed during my time in the Sol Army. Instead, I murmur prayers to the Fates and perform a far smaller version of the old rites of my coven to honor this sacrifice of my power into the earth below, keeping my mind sharp as time creeps on around me.
Maybe the Savage Prince will just keep me down here.
Maybe he's found some way to marry me without my consent or participation, and maybe the Fates will be satisfied with that.
