I just want to be left alone.
The soldiers at the door hesitate before bowing their heads to their prince and opening the door. I’m struck by their behavior. Even the maids who move around us are tense as they glance our way, but not because of me. It seems that the Savage Prince isn't just whispered about in the Seelie Court; the rumors must run rife in his own kingdom as well. His family’s concerns about him bringing home a witch mate go beyond the ramifications of the war; it’s about his ability to take the throne with the support of his people. Without it, the regent may keep the throne for good.
Each of them seems calm now, as they haven’t been staring at me with such loathing. The only sign of weakness is the way that the princess holds her husband's arm and the gentle way he cradles her against his side, his hand slipping around her to cup her hip.
He treats her tenderly, but it’s glaringly obvious to me that he is purposefully avoiding the babe within her womb, a detachment that comes from a specific form of grief.
This is not the first baby they have lost.
Back in the forest, before my family was murdered, I trained from a very young age in the delicate art of midwifery. Before I went to the Seer to receive my fate, I assumed I’d stay in the Ravenswyrd Forest forever, healing anyone who came to us and specializing in midwifery care. There's nothing so incredible to me as helping bring new life into the world, and though my duties didn't allow for many opportunities, I did attend several births during my years there.
My mother told me I had a gift for it.
I can read a situation and tell exactly what a patient needs, preemptively providing for them in their most vulnerable hours. Mother said my gift of coaxing babies gently from their mothers came from the Fates themselves. I delivered my first baby by accident at thirteen, attempting to help when my mother was busy with another birth. I unwrapped the umbilical cord from around the little babe’s neck and breathed life into its lungs, and the first cry almost brought me to my knees.
I wonder who attended the princess’s previous birth and if they knew how to do such things.
As the doors to the Grand Hall open, I feel the circle close in around me. My shoulders tighten as I prepare for a fight, but they become an impenetrable wall. Each of the princes positions himself so that the princess and I are surrounded, cocooned within their protective stance. Physically, I'm not worried about any of the high fae. I can hold my own in hand-to-hand combat; I was a soldier in the Sol Army after all. But they’re not an enemy to take lightly.
All of the high fae are tall. I’m at least a head shorter than the princess. I choose not to be intimidated; instead I pull myself up straighter, preparing for the battle that these males and females are clearly expecting to face.
I know what it means to stand my ground and defend it.
The herald announces the Savage Prince’s arrival and, without a word, we move forward as one. The chains around my wrists clink as they knock together, the only sound our group makes even as whispers start up around the crowd. Stepping into the Grand Hall is like walking into a sheet of ice, and not just because of the freezing glares from around the room. Everything my gaze touches feels as if it’s a reflection of the snow. Pale skin, blue eyes, hair so blonde it looks like moonlight. It's a sea of the same image, over and over again, and I feel as though I've been cast into its waters as I stare around at them all.
The more I study them, the easier it becomes to see who sides with the Savage Prince and who backs his uncle. They wear their allegiance in the colors they’ve chosen, the Celestial blue and the slightly off-shade version of it, and though the colors mingle together in the crowd, there’s a clear divide in the way each side regards the heir to the throne.
There are dozens of groups bunched together staring at us with fear and loathing shining brightly in their eyes, and it's not just directed at me. They look at their own prince and heir to the throne as though he’s a problem, one that needs to be dealt with viciously and swiftly.
The other half of the court stare with horror and pity, looking at the prince as though he has been given a death sentence, and their country right along with him.
Kharl’s army has broken the spirit of these people—broken the high fae in a way I did not think possible. Starvation, death and the culling of an entire generation…they're on their last legs, and the Fates have decided to test them once more.
This time, I'm sure it will push them over their limit. The Savage Prince had said so himself.
I can’t see the regent, but a shudder ripples down my body at the sound of a sinister tone. “Nephew, what horror have you brought before us now?”
* * *
The regent looks like his nephew in a physical way, but the longer my eyes spend picking him apart, the more my skin crawls. The Savage Prince is hauntingly beautiful; the Fates don’t have to pull me toward him for me to recognize that, but there’s something honest about his face. His eyes are cold but sure, and the scar cutting through his face is a testament to his abilities, every inch of his body keenly honed for the protection of his people.
The male sitting before us is beautiful in the way of a snow-capped mountain, waiting for a single word to bring down an avalanche of destruction. Everything about him is perfect and untouched, no scars or signs of hardship. He’s never lifted a finger to do a day’s work in his life, I’m sure of it. There’s no sword hanging at his side, despite every other male in the Grand Hall wearing one, even if just for decorative purposes. He thinks himself above the defense of his people, or he’s pretending to be.
His eyes narrow on his nephew, a smile curling his lips in a mocking fashion, and my jaw tightens.
There’s something verywrongabout him and the farce of him sitting on the Unseelie throne. The colors of his banners are off, and the way he’s positioned his advisors is unintuitive—nothing about him sitting there pleases the eye. I don’t need the uncomfortable energy that radiates from my Fate scars to tell me that this male is not a good person.
I’ve spent time in the presence of a lot of powerful men, males who, I would argue, are far more powerful than the regent sitting before me, but none of them lounged on a throne the way that he does. The Sol King has never been so disrespectful to his court, never held such that my teeth ache at the sight of it.
There’s sarcastic air to him as he looks us over, a grating and belittling way that he stares down the future king of his country. Realization settles deep in my gut that this male has no intention of handing over the throne, and the Savage Prince’s loathing toward me makes a little more sense. To be so loyal to the Fates and determined to marry at their command but so viciously set against me had seemed peculiar, and here is why.
I’m just another obstacle he must overcome.
The regent scowls down at us all, the platform that the throne sits on giving him the high ground, though he doesn’t use it wisely.
His voice is rich and smooth, but it makes the itch on my body even worse when he says, “Awitch? A witch you didn't kill immediately? We've had this conversation before, nephew. It's treason to keep them alive.”
The Savage Prince doesn’t cower from his uncle's scorn or his sharp gaze. I'm not sure of the royal etiquette for such a situation—the Unseelie Court is different from that in the Northern Lands—but the other princes and princesses around us lower their gazes to the ground respectfully.
