Other ways I can find her weak points and drive an iron blade into them the moment the Fates have been satisfied, regardless of how they call me to her.
I meet Tauron’s eyes. “Bring the witch up to the Grand Hall. Call the household together to hear the survivors’ tales and we’ll see how the witch fares holding onto her unaffected state while the spoils of Kharl Balzog’s war is laid out for all to hear.”
A slow smirk stretches over Airlie’s lips and she stands carefully. “I’ll collect her. Corym is still down there with her, I’ll be safe with his escort and I’m getting adept at finding the witch’s sore points. I refuse to sit by and wait while the rest of you deal with the female. I’ll go insane if I don’t do something useful.”
CHAPTERSEVENTEEN
Rooke
The addition of a chair in a cell might seem like a small comfort to the high fae, but it's nothing but a piece of clutter to me. All of the finery and material possessions they’re so obsessed with are useless objects, trinkets that they keep and hoard. What use is a chair to me when there is already the ground on which I can rest?
There are many things I would have preferred in its place, the first of which are the shoes they took from me.
Tyton had left me behind with the commander and another of the soldiers, the male clearly trusted enough to be their backup when resources are stretched thin, and when Airlie finds me sitting on the ground her mouth turns down at us all. She snaps at the soldier to unlock the cell and fasten the chains over my wrists once more, and the commander moves to stand between the princess and I as the soldier obeys her demands.
I stare back at her, unflinching, as the chains lock into place on my wrists, rising to my feet only when it’s clear they’ll drag me out if I don’t go willingly. If these guards feel any hesitancy about touching me, they don’t show it.
Airlie huffs and waves a hand at me, her tone scathing. “All of my good work is undone! If you want to lie around in your own filth, then we should lock you up with the pigs we’re fattening up for winter, though you seem to be doing a fine job of that all on your own.”
I hold back a flinch at the pain in my feet, letting the ripple of discomfort roll down my spine as I straighten carefully to hide it. It's always a shock to my system to realize that, no matter what horrors I've endured in my life, the little things can still be so upsetting.
I never got used to wearing shoes.
Hundreds of years in the Sol Army marching and fighting did not cure me of my hatred for them. My time spent in the Seelie Court once the war ended only made me hate them further but, no matter what my upbringing in the Ravenswyrd Forest was like, the Fates destined me for a life of wearing uncomfortable items on my feet. I have no choice but to accept that.
The commander holds the lengths of chain as we follow the princess up the stairs, Airlie berating me all the way.
“After everything I did, you went and threw it away. Look at you! Filthy! You could’ve just sat in the chair—do they not haveseatsin the Seelie Court? I've never heard of anyone sitting around on the floor—or is it a witch thing? It wouldn't surprise me to know that you all roll around in the mud like the filthy cretins you are.”
She's not expecting an answer, and I have no intention of giving her one.
The moment we reach the top of the staircase, I feel a change in the atmosphere. The tenor of the glances the maids and servants are stealing in my direction has changed. It’s no longer simple fear and morbid curiosity—there's loathing in their eyes now.
The high fae have always looked at me like that—but not the servants.
We make our way to the Grand Hall, and I find myself hoping that the Unseelie Court isn’t here again. I don't have the stomach for their particular type of spectacle today, or any other day, I'm sure.
How anyone can live their life so obsessed with their own reflection while the world around them withers is baffling to me.
Flutters begin to build in my stomach and I curse my body’s reaction silently, the way that no matter what my own opinions of the high-fae prince the Fates have chosen for me are I’m forced to endure this connection and awareness of him the moment we’re drawn closely to one another. When the large doors open in front of us, the Grand Hall is almost empty compared to the last time I was here. Soldiers and servants mingle as we walk through, and I realize I’m seeing more of the household of Yregar Castle, those who live here and serve the Savage Prince.
As we get closer to the thrones, I see high-fae families as well. Not just the inner circle of the Savage Prince but other nobles who wear the right shade of Celestial blue. It’s the only visible sign of their loyalties I can trust, because their facial expressions are often a calculated façade, a lesson I learned from the Seelie Court that holds true across the high fae.
Princess Sari and the guard at her side are the only two in attendance wearing the wrong color, and my curiosity deepens about the female. There’s a crowd around her, accepting her into the fold, and yet she’s marked herself as the opposition. I’m adept at navigating the political sphere of the Northern Lands, but there’s clearly much for me to learn about the Unseelie Court.
A gaggle of males and females stand with a perfect view of the prince. He isn’t taking the throne, but there’s no doubt he’s the head of this castle.
The females all smile and blush in his direction, stealing glances and acting as though they’re attempting to win his favor. The Fates have clearly chosen the wrong male for me, because I feel no jealousy or sorrow at their fawning over him, nothing but derision and the itch of frustration—and poorly woven cloth—across my shoulders.
I want to ignore him while I pick apart the room and discover what I can about these people, and yet every inch of my body has come alive in his presence. A hum of power dances along my skin, as though the influence of the Fates is no longer centered on my scar and instead runs riot in my blood until there’s no escaping it. I keep my gaze away from him, but every step brings me closer to the inevitability of looking upon him, just as our fates loom undeniably.
When I finally stand before the Savage Prince, one of the soldiers yanks down on the chains until I fall to my knees, bowing before their prince as the soldier locks the ends of the chains into an iron loop on the ground and traps me there before my Fates-cursed mate. I grimace at the pain shooting through my knees.
When I glance up at the Savage Prince, I find him still dressed in his fighting leathers, his armor removed but the formal attire he usually wears in this hall absent. There’s dirt and blackened witch blood on his boots, as though he just arrived at the castle and immediately called his household into attendance.
These circumstances can’t be unusual—none of the high fae seem concerned about his attire, and it’s the first time I’ve seen any of them disregard their delicate sensibilities regarding appearance so easily. There’s a low murmur through the crowd as everyone watches us both avidly, but the words that stand out to me don’t center around the state of their prince. Instead, their derision is directed firmly at me.
Killed them all.
