There's a lot of love and respect in the room for the Savage Prince, and sorrow hangs in the air. The true trials of his fate are fast approaching, and they all know it, a clock ticking over his head as the summer days grow shorter and autumn takes hold. It’s clear this household is of the opinion that the only fate worse than a slow death by starvation is the prospect of a witch queen.
Some of the servants and lower fae in attendance share haunted looks, a scarred hand here and the remnants of a burn there, and I can’t blame them for their opinions of me. I might not be ashamed of my witch blood, of my family name or the coven I hail from, but only a blind person wouldn't be able to see the damage my kind have done. Not just to the high fae but to those they rule as well.
They don't sit down for a proper dinner, instead eating by the buffet tables and mingling around the room, and it's only once the empty plates have been cleared away and the jugs of wine handed out that the Savage Prince calls for a chair to be brought over for him.
He sits an arm’s length away from me, never once glancing in my direction, before he calls out to one of the soldiers to come forward.
The soldier is covered in ash, streaks of it coating his white-blond hair. His eyes are hooded and bleak. His hands have been washed, but when he removes his helmet and tucks it under his arm, bowing his head respectfully at his prince, his face is still marred with the grime of the battlefield. It doesn't take a genius to figure out this is a display for the high fae, a reminder of the reality of what the kingdom faces outside the walls of Yregar.
The Savage Prince stares at him with far more empathy in his eyes than I’ve seen before, calling for a goblet of wine to be placed in the man's hands and waiting patiently until he's drunk his fill.
The soldier hands the goblet back to one of the servers and clears his throat, his voice hoarse as he addresses the Savage Prince. “My deepest apologies for appearing before you in such a state, Your Highness. I was escorting the last of the survivors into the village and seeing to their care. Please know that I would never keep you waiting for the sake of my own comforts.”
There’s a murmur of approval around the room, a respect that he’s saying the right things to their prince. Sari wrinkles her nose at the state of the soldier, but when she looks around at the rest of the crowd, she shakes off her reaction, only the tense lines of her shoulders showing her disgust. My gaze drifts over her shoulder to her guard, and when our eyes meet, I see contempt written all over him.
The expression doesn’t change when he looks at the Savage Prince. If anything, it deepens.
“Well met, Byzir. You can report to me now. It's important that everyone here understands just how extensive the damage from these raids is.”
Byzir does a double take when he sees me kneeling on the ground. His face twists into a mask of anger before he catches himself and ducks his head in shame. “My apologies, Your Highness.”
The Savage Prince merely shakes his head. “There's nothing to apologize for. Tell me what happened, what you found there.”
Byzir lifts his head again and stares rigidly at his prince. As he speaks, his eyes never stray to the crowd, no matter how loud and distracting the gasps become. “We rode through the night, following the tracks the witches had left behind. They led to Mirfield, one of the last elven villages still standing. It had been attacked, the fae folk murdered and the houses gutted. We searched for survivors and found none, and so we built the funeral pyres. We stayed while the entire structure was consumed by flames and the souls passed on to Elysium, but before the last pillars turned to ash, we saw smoke on the horizon as Havers Run was hit next.”
Murmurs grow loud again in the crowd, and Byzir waits until they quieten once more before he continues, “Prince Tauron sent a soldier for aid while the rest of us rode out. The scale of the damage at Mirfield spoke of a large group of witches, and we didn’t want to leave any of them alive. I went with the hunting group as we split off at the wall. The witches had already infiltrated the village, and forty of their numbers fled at our arrival. I was in the group that hunted them. We killed them all on the path to the Brindlewyrd, and it was there we found signs of the villagers who were able to flee before the witches attacked. Most of them were children old enough to run without aid, and a few younger ones they carried with them.”
He drops his head and clears his throat once more as he collects himself. “We offered to escort the survivors to one of the other villages, many have family nearby, but most wanted to come to Yregar. The villagers know that Yris isn’t accepting any displaced folk, and their safest bet is to be here with you. We all know you’re the one protecting the kingdom.”
He dances around the line of treason but no one in the room questions it, almost universal pride and admiration shining in their faces as they stare at their prince. There is no love lost for the regent here, except for the guard full of loathing and Sari, whose own face is carefully blank.
“How many survivors? You said a small group, how small?”
“Two males, eight females, and fifteen children. The youngest, only a few weeks old, was carried out by her grandmother. Her parents were both killed helping the rest flee.”
The Savage Prince nods slowly, motioning with his hand to dismiss Byzir, and the soldier melts into the crowd without another word. The court accepts him without reproach, another stark difference to the night with the regent. No one here cares about the state the man is in; appreciation shines from them all.
The Savage Prince gestures to one of the maids, and she steps forward with a chalice of wine, refilling his cup as he murmurs a quiet thank you to her. I see as an idea strikes him, his hand catching her wrist gently as he stops her from stepping away.
“Tell me, Shyla, how does your father fare now that he has lost both of his hands to the war of the witches? Tell my Fates-blessedmate.”
The female startles, and then her eyes flick down to where I'm kneeling on the floor. She frowns as she tries and fails to keep her contempt from showing. “He cannot work, Your Highness, nor can he help my mother with my siblings. He’s no better than a beggar on the street. Were it not for my work here in the castle, my family would starve. I'm very grateful to you, Your Highness.”
He nods sagely and continues to call out to several of the servants, all of them part-bloods from villages similar to Havers Run and Mirfield, and each of them with a terrible story of what the witches did to them.
I kneel there, my knees screaming with pain, as I listen to the horrors the Southern Lands have been subjected to. Yregar Castle has become a sanctuary for those who have been maimed by the witches. This conflict wasn’t perpetuated by the part-bloods and the lower fae, and yet here they stand as victims of the war.
The consequences of Kharl Balzog’s deceptions are thick in the room.
Slowly but surely, as the stories of horror and pain weave around me like a spell of their own, the ice that surrounds my heart chips away, a small fire in my gut melting it until,maybe, I consider doing something about Kharl and this war he’s waging. This Fates-cursed mate of mine might not deserve any of my help after all of the terrible treatment he’s dealt me but the people of this kingdom are blameless and it’s clear he’s done what he can to help them. How much longer can the Southern Lands withstand Kharl Balzog? How much longer can I sit and wait for my fate to occur while others wither and perish?
It's not my fight.
It's not my fate to step in now, not before my union to the Savage Prince…but when has that ever stopped me?
CHAPTEREIGHTEEN
Soren
