Things go progressively from bad to worse.
Every day I receive more information about the dying kingdom, and when soldiers are sent to the village to let them know rations will be cut again, there’s an outcry amongst the part-bloods and lower fae. The desperation that comes from starvation is boiling over, and I’m forced to double the soldiers’ presence to keep the peace.
Further inaction will only stack our funeral pyres higher.
I call one of my messengers, Hamyr, into my reception room. He bows deeply to me and then to Tyton as my cousin’s magic stretches out around us to conceal our conversation. Roan is training with the soldiers at the barracks, and Tauron has taken a shift watching the witch, his spite for her fueling his surveillance. The witch’s nose won’t twitch without his assessment.
“Seek out an audience with the Sol King. I want to negotiate a trade agreement with the Seelie Court and the kingdoms further afield that require passing through his lands.”
Tyton doesn’t move an inch, but Hamyr cringes, his golden eyes flicking between us both before he asks, tentatively, “May I speak freely, Your Highness?”
I chose this messenger specifically for his loyalty, tested many times already, but also for his Seelie heritage. He’s the bastard son of a Seelie high-fae lord and a part-blood of that court. His face is more selkie than high fae, but his eyes are as gold as Roan’s own, a marker that facilitates his travels there at my command.
He trusts me as much as I trust him, and if he has something to say, I’ll listen.
At my curt nod, he speaks plainly. “The Sol King has no love for the Southern Lands. Our gold won’t be enough to sway him—if anything, he’ll see it as an insult. We denied him aid in the Fate Wars—if we ask for it ourselves without apology or explanation, we could make a very powerful enemy with such a request.”
He hesitates again then adds, “There’s talk in the castle about the witch.”
My gaze hardens, and he gulps, quickly adding, “I mean no disrespect, my prince, it’s just…the Sol King offered his protection toallwho answered his call. The talk said you found her at Port Asmyr in possession of Seelie gold. If the Sol King finds out you’ve imprisoned one of his soldiers, there will be no negotiation—there’ll be war.”
That strikes me dumb, my mind crashing to a halt.
She holds herself like a soldier. She killed two high fae with a dagger and no struggle. She hasn’t cowered or flinched at the rough treatment she’s received, and she walked behind the horses like the journey was nothing more than a casual stroll. She hasn’t tried to fight back, though, clearly outmatched, and I doubt that she was much more than a foot soldier or a sentry, nothing worth concerning myself with when the lives of my people hang in the balance.
I would do anything to save my kingdom and stop the suffering of my people. Nothing will change that, not even the truth of who my mate is. I won’t let the witches win, not by spurning the Fates or by allowing her to twist my mind.
Meeting Hamyr’s gaze, I say, “Go to the Sol King. Offer him my apologies for the wrongs of the past and assure him that things will change in the Southern Lands under my rule. Tell him I’ve found my mate and will take the throne soon, offer him our gold. Tell him we’re eager to build a beneficial relationship with the Seelie Court once more. That the Snowsong heir also wishes to see his aunt and that, as Prince Roan’s closest confidant, I’m determined to secure that meeting for him.”
It’s the truth, and one I’ll wield now if it gets our stores filled once more. Roan has never met his mother’s family, though he communicates with them often through messengers. They forbade his mother from returning to the Northern Lands during the war, the dangers of the Ureen far too great to risk the journey, and she died before the Sol King won against the monsters of the Fates.
Hamyr blinks at me, his mind sharp enough to understand exactly what I’m not saying, and he mumbles, “Yourmate. If the Sol King asks about her, I’m to say…that the witch is your mate?”
I let out a deep breath. “Chosen by the Fates themselves. Whatever rumors reach his ears of her treatment, he can rest assured that I am obedient to the Fates’ commands and will take her as my wife.”
He leaves, and when Tyton lets down his magic, I see the task to the end. Hamyr will hold my confidence to his dying breath, but if I want the gossip mills to do their work, I need other ears to stumble on the news.
“Tyton, take over the guard shift from Tauron. See if you can get my Fates-cursed mate talking—she was watching you closely, and we can use that to our advantage.”
My cousin bows to me, a smirk tugging at his lips as he opens the door and finds both soldiers stationed there scrambling to change their expressions, mouths gaping and eyes wild. The entire castle will know by nightfall, as will my uncle the moment a spy can reach him.
* * *
The regent’s herald arrives one week later.
The high fae male is dressed in my uncle's colors, a mockery of the true Celestial family shades, with lighter blues and ruddy silver. The cloak around his shoulders is lined with ashy furs, and the Celestial crest is pinned at his throat. He stands with an arrogance that all the regent’s guards display. He looks down his nose at Yregar Castle and my household with a contempt that he doesn’t try to mask. I hate the male, and all of his ilk, but I know how to play these little games like the best of them.
By forcing him to stand before my desk as Roan and I ignore him in favor of discussing the progress of the soldiers’ training for a full hour. It’s petty, but as the herald’s hold on his temper grows thinner, Roan’s smirk grows wider. Galling these pathetic high fae is the quickest way to force them to slip up, a tactic that has worked for us many times in the past.
When it’s clear the male is about to snap, I finally turn away from Roan but keep my eyes on the map in front of me, waving a dismissive hand at the herald and drawling, “Get on with it then, we have better things to do than trade gossip with a lowborn.”
Color stains the male’s cheeks, my words a very specific blow. I don’t care about bloodlines, but a high fae without a title or a place in a succession tends to be either resourceful or miserable. I cultivate the resourceful—those who want to channel that drive to climb higher within my ranks—with productive tasks. My uncle gives honeyed promises to the miserable, playing on their insecurities to gain their loyalty with the promise ofmoreif only they side with him.
With his back straight and a sneer not quite concealed on his face, the herald declares, “His Majesty, the regent of the Unseelie Court and exalted ruler of the Southern Lands, travels with haste to Yregar. The entire Unseelie Court will arrive by nightfall to absolve you of the rumor that has reached Yris—that your mate has been found, and she is a witch. His Majesty, in his mercy, had proclaimed he will execute anyone speaking such treasonous lies about his beloved nephew. He is concerned about such slander against your reputation.”
Roan scoffs and ignores the herald’s dirty look. As the heir of Snowsong, one of the strongest and oldest families of the Unseelie Court, Roan is untouchable, and there’s nothing the regent can do about his contempt. Not unless he succeeds in taking the throne from me.
I’ll never allow that to happen.
