She seems annoyed but not particularly concerned, a weird sentiment for a female who clung to her husband so lovingly last time I saw them, but the male in question runs a gentle hand over her cheek. “He's going to be fine, my love. I’ll sort this mess out, set up a patrol, and I'll be home to you before the baby arrives. I promise.”
A different Roan then, one who is important enough to tear an expectant father away from his beloved wife in such a dark hour. The curse lingers around her like a poisonous halo, muddying the air so much that even with all the despair that I feel from the lands, it’s still the strongest presence here. It makes me sick to my stomach.
Roan steps away from his wife to bow to the Savage Prince, formal in a way I haven't seen before in their interactions.
The chains clink together as the Savage Prince claps his friend on the shoulder, murmuring to him, “Don't worry about Airlie and the babe, just get your father to safety and protect your ancestral lands. Everything will be okay.”
None of the soldiers move or make a noise, they stand well trained and obedient as they wait for his command. It gives me an insight into who my mate is as a prince and ruler. He demands respect from his people, but he’s taken responsibility for them as well.
Which the regent clearly has not.
I suppose this could be another move against his uncle to shore up his claim to the throne, and yet there is an energy around us, a desperation that cannot be faked. They all care about what happens to Roan's father and his lands. There’s a lot at stake here; their somber faces speak to that.
Roan gives the Savage Prince a curt nod before turning back to his wife and leaving her with one last kiss, nothing more than a chaste press of their lips together. He doesn't attempt to touch her belly in any way, no connection between him and his unborn child, though Airlie’s hand rubs the mound gently as she watches him mount his horse. He swings up with the practiced ease of a proficient rider, without any sort of pomp.
He kicks his horse and leaves us, the soldiers moving into formation behind him without a word. We stand together and watch as the company moves through the castle grounds and exits the first of the walls, and then rides through the village. There's no sound other than the clopping of hooves against stone, and I find myself sending them well wishes.
Roan is the only one of the fae princes to offer me any sort of kindness, and even if it came from a sense of duty and loyalty to the crown and the Fates themselves, I still send a silent prayer for him to the Fates.
Let him come back safely. Let him return to a wife and a child, let his father survive whatever horrors are happening out there, let this mess that we have found ourselves in unravel and the high fae return to their true purpose once more for the sake of the entire kingdom and those most vulnerable within.
Airlie waits until her husband is no longer visible before she turns to the Savage Prince, her nose wrinkling. “The witch stinks. If you insist on having her up here with me, then youhaveto wash her, because I’m not going to sit around and wallow in that thing's filth. You’re asking too much of me, Soren. I won’t do it.”
His gaze drops to her belly and hardens, until I wonder if he can see the tendrils of blackened magic that dig into the swell there. “She’s staying in the castle until we sort out the latest issue. Fifty lower fae arrived at the gates this morning just after the messenger—their village was leveled by Kharl’s raving forces, and the death toll is already in the hundreds. I need Tauron to assess the damage—guard shifts will have to wait.”
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
Soren
I’ve left the guarding and daily care of the witch to my inner circle until now. It's been both a simple choice and an easy out, thanks to my duties and the ever-present eyes on me, but with Roan leaving and the witch attacks coming closer to Yregar, I have no choice but to take matters into my own hands.
Tyton escorts Airlie back to her chambers so that she might get a few more hours sleep, a weariness settling over her body now that her husband has left the city walls. Tauron waits a moment before collecting his own band of soldiers, bowing his head and sending me a decisive look as he leads them out through the village as well, only instead of passing through the fae door, they ride through the gate of the outer wall toward the remnants of the village, the smoke on the horizon still curling into the air as the sun begins to rise.
With the increase in attacks and movement from Kharl’s forces, I’m careful about how I move my forces to ensure the castle’s defenses aren’t weakened. If there are more calls to aid, Tyton and I can still ride out and know that the castle is safe under Corym’s command. I’d rather avoid such a prospect, and there are other soldiers I could send out in our stead, but we’ve survived many other years of constant attacks and I’m well prepared for the prospect.
The baby complicates things this time around, as does the witch.
The iron chains weigh heavy in my hand as I wait in the small courtyard by the barracks for a few minutes longer, lost in my thoughts of plans to come and listening as the horses reach the fae door. I hear the moment they cross through, the sudden disappearance of them all as they travel through the old magic.
I've never been quite so aware of how finite my resources are. Three hundred and fifty soldiers under my command, and thirty more scouts out patrolling in the kingdom. There’s a constant balance to ensure we’re protecting Yregar while still offering aid to the fae folk left defenseless throughout the kingdom. There's no question of how much I’d prefer to ride out and hunt the witches responsible for the attack myself, but everything is about compromise and strategy.
We need more soldiers.
Turning on my heel, I jerk the chains to move the witch behind me. But she walks without need for coaxing, staying one step back the entire way as I weave through the castle. The compliance irritates me, eats away at the edges of my sanity, proof of the game that she’s playing with us.
I prepared myself for decades for what our lives would look like once I rescued her, for the gentle way I’d have to handle her to help her heal from her ordeal. I prepared myself for kindness and understanding, yet none of that was needed.
Instead, I found out she’s my enemy and the Fates have bound us together regardless of the ruin the witches have wrought upon my kingdom.
I set off for my chambers and ignore the curious and sympathetic looks of my household as they watch us pass. In the time since Roan left, the castle has woken up and become a flurry of morning activities.
I attach the chains to one of the anchor points in my reception room, put there years ago to detain prisoners while I questioned them personally. I'm already dressed and ready for the day, but I strip off the protective gloves and tuck them into my belt, then go through to my chambers to wash up before I eat breakfast. A phantom oily feeling crawls over my skin, a layer of filth that has somehow shifted from the witch to me, even though I’ve avoided touching her entirely, and I scrub at it.
No matter how hard I scrub, the sensation doesn’t change, and the tug in my chest remains as demanding as ever.
I mutter a curse at myself, then at Kharl and his war, my uncle’s treachery, and the Fates themselves in the old language. It does nothing to lighten my mood or change my tasks for the day. Moving back into the reception room, I sit behind my desk and go through my correspondence, a large plate of food in front of me and a vicious temper growing within me.
The witch’s gaze follows me.
