She leaves me to my desk full of letters and half-baked plans of the future, the lives of the people of my kingdom in my hands. The day drags on into the late afternoon, and I plan and strategize until I’m certain I’ve thought through every possible scenario to ensure the best outcome.
I’ll fight my way into the Goblin City if I have to.
As the sun begins its slow descent in the sky to make way for a clear and cold evening, the scent of fresh smoke arrives before the soldier does. Riding as though the Fates themselves command him, one of the males who rode out with Tauron doesn’t slow his pace until he reaches the castle and flings himself from the saddle. He tears off his helmet, ash and dirt streaked across his face as he bows deeply to me.
“Prince Tauron calls for aid. As we finished the last of the funeral pyres at the village of Mirfield, we saw more smoke on the horizon. Havers Run has been attacked, possibly by the same witches. The prince rode there immediately and sent me to you.”
My soldiers are always ready to ride out, so it’s as simple as giving my command, and a troop is waiting for me outside the stables, covered in weapons and already in their saddles. I leave Tyton behind to keep an eye on Airlie and Sari, my order to stay in their chambers now a direct one, and Sari meekly ducks her head into a bow as she obeys. Airlie scowls at me, concern rolling off her, but I squeeze her hand reassuringly, the only gesture I can give her in my haste to get to Tauron and the witches pillaging my kingdom and murdering defenseless fae folk.
Havers Run is a small village northeast of Yregar, one of the few still standing. Most of the villages currently bursting with fae folk are within the walls of the castles, but there are a few, such as Havers Run, that built walls of their own early on in the war and have survived the attacks so far. While Mirfield was unprotected and almost fully abandoned, Havers Run should have been able to withstand an attack.
Part-bloods and lower fae are the only fae folk left in these free-standing villages and towns that are scattered throughout the kingdom. Before the war, the villages were filled with witches and high fae as well, a cultural melting pot as everyone came together to carve out a life for themself. I was only a faeling then myself, and many centuries have since passed and taken with them the communities that once thrived. The last time I came through Havers Run, doing a welfare check on the villagers as we hunted another raiding party, it was clear that desperation had taken hold and the challenges we faced at Yregar were taking lives in the less fortunate areas. Homeless fae crowded the streets, and the market stalls were mostly bare of food.
The soldiers ride in formation, fanning out in case the witches have laid a trap for us, but I see nothing of concern as the smoke thickens in the air around us. When we see the walls of the village, we find the first of the dead witches. They’re strewn around in pieces, lying wherever they fell as their blood seeps into the ground and begins to poison it.
Grim satisfaction courses through me at their deaths, and I hold on to that when we see the carnage ahead. Blackened bodies line the village walls, hanging from the top as though sacrificed by the witches. It’s a gruesome sight, and no matter how many battles I’ve fought or villages I’ve seen pillaged like this, the sickened feeling never leaves me.
Men, women, children…age doesn't matter to the witches. They might not hunt the part-bloods and lower fae the way they hunt the high fae, but they kill them all the same, especially if they believe that they're taking our side in the war.
I push Nightspark into a gallop, riding around the wall as I follow the sounds of battle ahead.
At the far side of the village, facing the Lore River and the trees beyond, we find Tauron and my soldiers as they cut down the last of the raiding witches. There are bodies everywhere, and I draw my sword and ride into the chaos, swinging without hesitation as I cut my way to Tauron.
When he sees me, relief blooms on my cousin’s face. Blood runs down one of his cheeks, and blackened witch blood splatters his armor and his horse as he cuts down the raving enemy in front of him. The battle is over in a matter of minutes, the last of the enemy fleeing at our arrival, and I call out orders for soldiers to follow them and leave no survivors.
“You’re late,” Tauron mutters as he grimaces and sheaths his sword.
I shrug back at him. “I came straight away, and you had it handled. Any losses?”
He grimaces again, lifting his sword arm as though it pains him, and jerks his head at the wall before us. “The village had plenty, but we arrived in time to save some. Not enough.”
His tone is bitter, and I turn away, giving orders to get the witches piled up and burned before their blood can do any more damage. The soldiers move swiftly, and I ride around the wall toward the gate to witness the witches’ handiwork inside for myself, my cousin and two other soldiers following behind me.
“Barbaric fucks,” Tauron mutters under his breath as the smell of the rotting enemy crawls down the backs of our throats, permeating everything until it's all we know.
They smell vile even before they’re dead, and when I look down, I find one of them splayed on the dirt in front of the gates, torso cleaved open by a high fae sword. Black spittle still stains the witch’s lips and teeth, its mouth open wide in a final scream, the ground surrounding the body already showing the charred effect from the toxic blood. Sightless silver eyes stare at the stars above us.
My stomach clenches.
I have to force my gaze away from those eyes, another set of silver irises flashing through my mind as I rub a hand over my face to clear away the anguish haunting me.
The village gates are open, the paneling of iron-lined oak hacked to pieces during the siege, and I stay in Nightspark’s saddle as we pass through. Everything is smoldering around us but the air is clear enough to see the blood and signs of the massacre. The flames have dampened to embers, thin streams of smoke still streaming around us and polluting the air. The dead grass was easy kindling, and there’s a fine layer of ash and soot underfoot. The thatched roofs of the houses have all burned away to nothing, and there isn't much for us to see.
I direct my soldiers to dismount and look for clues, any small semblance of proof that my uncle had a hand in this, and Tauron goes with them for his own search. Though all of my males know what signs I’m looking for I’ve always been careful not to discuss openly what the witch marks are proof of, treason a marring of my reputation I won’t help feed into. Especially not where my uncle is concerned. All I have so far is circumstantial evidence and my own gut feeling, which is more than enough for me to know that he’s guilty of my parents’ deaths, but without hard evidence, there’s little I can do to stop these senseless attacks on the kingdom’s most vulnerable people from happening again and again.
The regent’s treachery and greed has dragged my kingdom into despair.
“The survivors are in the temple—we’ll escort them back to Yregar when the pyres are burned through,” Tauron says. He steps toward me and lifts one hand, showing me a small piece of charred and broken wood.
An arrow shaft with black raven feathers for fletching. We’ve seen thousands over the years; they’re a marker of Kharl’s armies. The wood creaks in Tauron’s hand as he closes his fist around it once more.
“There are children everywhere,” he mutters, his jaw clenching as he turns away.
The fae folk all practice different belief systems relating to the Fates and the ways we honor them, but we all agree on one practice, no matter our station or where we call home.
We burn our dead.
As the soldiers build a funeral pyre for the villagers, I join in to help move the bodies onto the massive structure. It's nothing fancy, unlike the pyres in the ornate rituals the high fae perform to send our own dead back to the Fates and the comfort of Elysium, but it's what little we’re able to offer them. It takes hours, and by the time I lift a torch to set the kindling alight, the sun has long since set and the flames glow bright in the darkness.
