Royal weddings are elaborate and ornate, full of finery and rituals that have been handed down since the First Fae came to the Southern Lands. Nuptials amongst high fae are few and far between these days, thanks to the witches’ curse preventing new generations of high-fae bloodlines.
I’ve attended two dozen in my lifetime, and the only wedding I remember fondly was Roan and Airlie’s. It was the most extravagant ceremony that I’ve attended, but with Airlie involved I’d expected nothing less. Aunt Aura had been a nightmare as they’d planned it, the regent had spent countless months on a smear campaign against them both, and Roan’s mother had fallen ill only weeks before the ceremony, fighting to stay alive long enough to see her only son wed. Through it all, Roan and Airlie never let anything come between them, each obstacle and trial only bringing them closer together. Their marriage is a testament to the Fates knowing better than anyone else who completes us.
The love that was so apparent between the two of them was something I’d hoped to share with my own mate someday.
The Fates must be laughing.
I step away from my uncle and go to the table of food, bypassing it all and finding a goblet of wine to drain instead. The crowd gives me a wide berth, even my supporters. No one wants to approach the Savage Prince after the spectacle they’ve just witnessed. I don’t blame them; the bloodthirst within me is begging for a fight, anything to burn away some of this frustration.
The wine calms me some and, as I look over the sea of high-fae females and their fancy dresses, my chest tightens. A wedding between the heir to the Unseelie Court and his mate should be the most lavish and extravagant event of our lifetime, no expense spared, and the most joyous occasion the kingdom has ever seen, and yet, looking around the room, I know I'm not the only person who is considering the prospect with nothing but apprehension. My uncle is also right, though I’m loath to admit it.
How the hell will I convince the witch in the basement to consent to such a thing?
For the magic to seal us together and bond our souls, she has to agree to the marriage not only verbally but deep within herself, and the sly look in her eyes says that she’s not impressed by me at all. If the witches have sent her here to take over the kingdom by marriage to me, they chose the wrong female for the job.
She hasn’t protested our fated union yet, showing only resignation at the prospect and a contempt for me. If that changes and she unveils plans to use her fate for Kharl’s war, I’ll find some weakness within her to exploit, something to hold over her to ensure her compliance without giving an inch to the witches.
The laws of the Unseelie high fae are clear. I must be married to my mate to take the throne. But there's nothing in the laws that says she must sit beside me and rule as an equal. It doesn't matter what my parents did, or their parents before them—none of them were in this situation.
My fate also never said that she had to stay alive.
* * *
Many hours after midnight, I watch as the court devolves into its most debauched state. Their drinking and revelry seem to take on a new intensity, as though they’re trying to use up the last of Yregar’s provisions. The regent encourages the extravagance as he calls on each of the royal families and questions them extensively, until none of high fae feel safe to leave the hall lest they catch his ire. Instead, they drink until they’re stumbling and eat until the tables lie bare, then they call out to the maids to refill the platters with haste, all while I sit at my uncle’s side and endure.
There's a tug in my chest from the Fates themselves and I wince.
My magic lies dormant, but I feel it shifting there sometimes, reacting to the Fates’ call. Right now it’s pulling me toward the dungeon to watch over my mate myself, to be sure that none of my uncle's loyal followers attempt to kill her for him, but doing so would paint a bigger target on my back. Tauron is more than capable of keeping her safe, the iron bars immovable even if the metal doesn’t affect her like the other witches we’ve held there, and my soldiers have the castle hallways as well as the walls covered.
Roan took Airlie back to their rooms shortly after I sent the witch back to her cell, but Tyton still lingers here with me, a goblet of fairy wine in his hands and a sour look on his face as his mother glues herself to his side. Princess Tylla Celestial is a cousin to me on my father’s side but removed by several generations. I call her sons “cousin” as a sign of our friendship and not due to the strength of our blood connection.
Her voice is like a death knell to my ears, a pretty sound intended to lure listeners to their own demise. “I do wish your brother had stayed, it’s been too long since I spoke to him. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was avoiding me!”
Tauron is absolutely avoiding his mother.
Elyra, one of the maids, steps over to refill my goblet with a bow, and I hide my smirk into the rim as Tyton sends Tylla a sympathetic nod, shielding his brother with a petty display of contriteness. “Of course he’s not, Mother, he’s just been busy fighting the war. He’s an obedient son in all ways, and your loyalty to Prince Soren is reflected in his attention to his duties.”
His mother glows at the praise, the crowd around them murmuring their agreement, and she stares at her younger son in delight. She’s never figured out that Tyton’s loyalties don’t lie with her, his kind and loyal words a front to keep her from stalking his brother.
Tylla’s ego is smaller than Aura’s; she feels real affection for and pride in her sons, but she’s still far too concerned with the gossips of the court for Tauron’s tastes. She was overjoyed by the frivolity that overtook Tyton at his fate, seeing it as something she could mold into a useful trait for her, something to be bargained with, but Tauron was always headstrong, and his own fate only enhanced that quality, turning him into the surly and unapproachable man he now is.
Tyton’s steadfast bond with Tauron means he’ll endure their mother’s whining and simpering presence as she pushes him for gossip about me and my witch mate. She’ll learn all the details she can until she has everything she needs to manipulate the court for her own gain. Her loyalty is to herself, always.
I can't stand any more of it.
I make my excuses to my uncle, the wine he’s downing like a dying male finally having dulled his temper, and I leave the Grand Hall behind, stepping out into the clear night and taking a deep breath to clear my head. I barely drank a thing, but the cloying presence of the court clings to my mind like a poisonous essence, influencing my every thought with a knee-jerk reaction of rage. It’s not the way to navigate these circumstances—no good decisions can be made with such anger—and I center myself before I move off.
When I reach the barracks, I find them overflowing with bodies, extra males here thanks to the Unseelie Court’s arrival. The soldiers’ accommodations are tucked into the base of the castle on the east side, where they lie in the shadow of the wall for the majority of the day. It’s a dark and gloomy place and one in which most high fae would hate to live, but those who’ve chosen to pledge their lives and swords to me don’t complain. I've never had trouble filling the beds.
I have a room set aside for my own gear, and it takes a matter of minutes to change out of the stiff and ornate court attire and into training armor. I have a replica of my own sword, weighted perfectly but with a dulled edge. I worked with the blacksmith to get it right, to make sure the swing is identical to my sword.
Forged of Seelie steel with a large blue diamond in the pommel, my sword is a Celestial family heirloom and was given to me by my father the year of his death. Calling it an heirloom makes it seem like nothing but a pretty object, as useless as the royals still dancing in the hall at my household’s expense, but my great-grandfather carried the blade when he conquered the kingdoms and united them as the Southern Lands.
It feels like home in my hand and, while the training sword might be the perfect substitute to ensure I don't kill my own soldiers in the training ring, it doesn't sing the same way.
Two steps into the barracks mess hall, I know that the gossip about my mate has already reached the soldiers. Dozens of sorrowful eyes turn my way, these soldiers still awake after guard shifts or preparing to take over soon. They’re no less respectful than they were yesterday, but every last one of them appears to be struggling to come to terms with the news.
The sorrow leaves their eyes the moment my own narrow at them. I turn to the commander, waiting there diligently for my orders. It doesn’t matter that it’s after midnight, that we’re entertaining high-fae society, or that there are a dozen other things that the soldiers and I should be doing.
