Our lead soldier calls out, speaking in the common tongue, “Prince Soren Celestial, heir to the throne of the Southern Lands, is here to see the Goblin King, at his invitation.”
There's no reply, at least not one that I can hear, though the high fae all grumble and groan around me.
Tauron mutters under his breath, “They're too primitive to speak the common tongue. It could take hours for a translator to arrive, and we don't have that long.”
I glance at each of them, a frown on my face, before I sigh. I shouldn’t be surprised to find out that Prince Soren doesn’t speak the languages of his own kingdom, especially with the derision on their faces every time the wordgoblinpasses their lips.
The princess and her son are in good health and could wait for however long this mess of a meeting takes, but I’m not patient enough to endure it.
Speaking in the goblin tongue, I call out, “Prince Soren is here to see the Goblin King at his invitation.”
* * *
“You arenotto speak on our behalf.”
Prince Soren doesn't even stop to question my abilities or thank me, he just turns in his saddle to snarl at me.
With a sigh, I call out to the goblin soldiers once more.
“Prince Soren humbly requests that you bring a translator with the Goblin King’s arrival as we have need of one.” I don't think Prince Soren has humbly requested anything in his life, but I'm not as arrogant and rude as the rest of them. The goblins deserve our respect and good manners, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give those to them.
At my words, the soldiers above move about as Tauron’s hand clamps on my reins and jerks the leather out of my hands.
“What have you done?” he snaps.
I roll my eyes at him. “I requested a translator so Prince Soren can rest assured I'm not tarnishing his wonderful reputation to the Goblin King without his understanding.”
Tauron yanks on the reins to pull my horse toward his, looming over me in his saddle. The breadth of his shoulders is twice that of mine; physically, he could crush me, but I stare at him unflinching and unafraid.
“This isn't the place for your little tricks. I will slit your throat right now, Fates be damned, and face the consequences.”
I’ve never held this high-fae prince in lower regard than I do now, my opinion of him reaching the deepest pits of Elysium the moment those words slip from his mouth, uncaring of the hundreds of thousands lost to such actions across the ocean.
I turn to Prince Soren, but he ignores us both, confident his cousin can reel me into line as he watches the goblins move around at the top of the tower. A few of them disappear, but they don't come out of the door at the bottom of the tower.
Without the knowledge I have, I would assume they were ignoring us and simply going about their duties, but the goblin city is like no other. I know its actual name—Aysgarth—but the high fae don’t use it. Every part of this territory is simply called “goblin,” instead of acknowledging the culture and people behind that word. It’s dismissive in the most abhorrent way.
The city is rumored to be a mix of sparse buildings and gardens on top of the land and a much larger warren of streets and cavernous buildings beneath the earth. This tower no doubt connects to that city deep beneath our feet.
I wonder if the high fae know this or if they can hear the sounds of life beneath us. There’s no sign on their faces as they stand in silence, watching the soldiers as we wait.
It becomes clear to me that the soldier who led us here is, in fact, not a soldier. He doesn't sit motionless like the rest of us do in our saddles; instead, he fusses and twitches as he waits. He hasn't experienced the intensity of waiting at the edge of battle for hours, poised and ready to strike and yet enduring a seemingly endless expanse of nothing. It takes more control than most people naturally have, something that’s trained into soldiers over decades until it becomes second nature.
The fact that both princes have that discipline would be admirable if I could muster up that sort of feeling toward them.
The door at the bottom of the tower finally opens, and a group of soldiers spill out, marching and forming a wall before us. They're mostly full goblin, with green skin and horns protruding from their heads. Two white tusks grow from beside their mouths, which makes them look vicious as their tails whip and dance at their sides.
They're heavily armed, swords buckled at their sides, shields and spears in their hands as they stare out as though we’re not standing before them, seeing everything and nothing as they wait for orders to strike. We're outnumbered, five-to-one, and Northern Star begins to fidget. I stroke a hand down her neck, steady and sure, until she settles.
The door is held open by another soldier, and the threshold darkens as the Goblin King himself steps through it without any announcement, a mountain of a man.
He’s a part-blood himself, a mix of goblin and high fae, though only the smallest amount of goblin shows in his features, the slight green hue of his skin, and the dark hair on his head. He's taller than his people, as tall as Prince Soren, and his eyes are as cold and calculating as any royal I've ever seen.
He's dressed formally, with scaled armor plates over his shoulders and a modified breastplate covering part of his chest. It's more ornate than functional, a symbol of his capability on the battlefield as well as his station. His clothing is black and trimmed with silver, and he wears a royal family crest on his chest that’s so similar to the Celestial crest that there's no denying the connection between the two houses. The Goblin King descended from the First Fae the same as the Celestials did, regardless of their animosity.
A female steps around his side, a part-blood with pointed high-fae ears, a pixie-like tilt to her nose, and the green-hued skin of the goblins. She has a keen gaze, hinting at the sharp edge of an intelligent mind.
The Goblin King waits until we all dismount from our horses and fall into position before him, a few paces between him and Prince Soren, before he addresses us.
