Tauron and Tyton both shift on their feet as they watch me, their gazes like an itch over my already raw presence, and the sneer I direct at them thickens the already suffocating air around us all. Everyone waits, teetering on the edge of my madness, but I have nothing left to give any of them. No pretense of civility, no acts of a refined prince—it’s all gone, once and for all.
That was never truly me in the first place, the toeing of the line set out before me by the Unseelie Court in order to win their favor and keep my father’s throne. I spent centuries trying to avoid any further loss of lives within my family, and it’s all been for nothing. Nothing but my uncle carving his way into the kingdom like a fucking poison, and now I have an even bigger problem to deal with.
My eyes flick back up toward the windows of my chambers, and I could pluck them out for the slip. Unbidden, an image of the Ureen slips into my mind, and the ripple of horror working its way through my muscles is impossible to avoid. The tales of those monsters don’t do them justice, and the sickening roil in my gut grew at that rendering the Sol King had brought to life and the possibility that it’s a pale comparison to the real thing.
Rooke fought against them, closely enough that she was grievously injured. Healers are always sent to the front lines in battles, and no matter how good she is with a sword, those—things—are made from depraved magic that could come only from the will of the Fates being broken. The Fates sent me a witch for a mate, one beloved by the very land beneath my feet, but not before they crafted her into a weapon.
Even such a fleeting thought of her has my teeth gnashing together, and I’m certain there’s a barbarous sort of look on my face that will keep anyone with good sense clear of me.
Cursing the Fates under my breath once more, I snatch my sword from the rack and buckle it to my belt, then bend to shove an extra dagger into my boot before slipping another intothe holster on my forearm. It’s far fewer weapons than I usually carry but, with many hours of manual labor ahead, I need to be able to move.
Tauron mutters unhappily about my carrying so many blades but as the scowl on my face grows vicious, Kytan is the one to step in. “Once I get the sentry duties reassigned, I’ll take over the guard watch. There’s no use assigning more training, and with enough rotation we can be sure no lapses occur.”
Lapses.
That’s one way to describe the friendship Reed has struck up with my Fates-blessed mate, strong enough that he committed treason for her and willingly submitted himself to the consequences. A jerk of my head is all I can manage in Kytan’s direction, but it’s enough, the male calling out orders and the courtyard filling like a hive once more at his command.
“Soren, I wouldn’t have left him with her if I thought?—“
I cut Roan off with a growl. “I’m working in the village until I can open my mouth without swearing violence on the Fates for this fucking mess. Don’t speak to me about reason until I can find some.”
Long after thesun has set and my arms burn with exhaustion after the days' work, I arrive back in my chambers to find the crown-consort chamber empty and Roan standing in my reception room with a resigned look fixed on his face that might just be as permanent now as the fury is on mine.
“Your Fates-blessed mate returned to the healer’s quarters the moment she finished her first proper meal. Kytan called for me to come and attempt to sway her when she refused to stayhere, but it seems Rooke woke from her healing sleep with very little patience for any of us.”
I fix him with a glare, and he shrugs again, relaxing slightly when I don’t immediately hurl a chair at his head. “I escorted her down there, but even when her legs almost buckled from the effort, the determination in her eyes left no room for argument. For what it’s worth, she was vicious toward Kytan and I as well, so her ire isn’t directed solely at you.”
It doesn’t help, not even a little bit, but I dismiss him without another word, intent on cleaning myself up and stalking down to the healer’s quarters to see for myself that she’s still alive.
Roan hesitates at the door. “My father and his soldiers are returning to Fates Mark in the morning. Airlie has arranged dinner for us all—we’re going to name our son before his grandfather leaves.”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer him, and I stay under the hot stream of water until some of the bloodlust haze lifts again. If it will ever lift entirely, there’s no telling, but for now, I’m spurred on by the possessive compulsions lingering within me. Any fae folk dumb enough to put themselves between the Ravenswyrd witch and our cursed fates’ demands will pay a heavy price.
When I finally make it to the Snowsong chambers, I feel the pull of the Fates in my chest, and my teeth grind together. The soldiers guarding the doors bow deeply to me as I pass them, the ever-present tension thickening the air around me. My entire household holds its breath, with good reason. Every attempt to calm the storm in my veins has proved it’s an impossible task.
Stepping into Airlie's reception room, I find it in a very different state of chaos than the one that rages within me. Dozens of maids and seamstresses bustle about with militant vigor, and Rooke stands in the middle of it all looking vaguely horrified, her arms stretched out as the women fuss over her.Despite the harrowed look in her eyes, she's in far better condition than when I last saw her. There’s no sign of the witcheswane damage, her legs steady and sure beneath her, and even some color to her cheeks. The healing brew has definitely helped her, even if it couldn’t heal her wounds. She looks tired and irritated, but alive.
She's back in robes, but not the black ones she fought in days ago. Trimmed with green embroidery of oak leaves and vines, those had proudly declared her an Unseelie witch of the forest. The robes that wrap her body now are dyed a dark, regal silver, the exact hue of the formal color of the Celestial household. The same needlework has been replicated along the hemlines only in another shade of silver, one that matches the hue of Rooke’s eyes perfectly. The pins she brought with her from the Seelie Court hold the bands together, and the garment is tailored to fit her perfectly, clinging to the swell of her hips like an invitation.
A growl over my shoulder is all it takes to have the soldiers retreating and closing the door firmly behind them. Despite the fabric covering every inch of her skin all the way to her neck, there’s never been a more alluring female to wear the Celestial colors—mycolors. I’m both enraptured and overwhelmed by the urge to murder my own soldiers for looking at her.
Fates curse this fire that grows wild in my blood, but she’s my mate—mine—and no other should lay eyes on her like this.
The seamstresses all cluck over her as Airlie stands beaming in the doorway, all of them ignorant of the danger I’ve become. Instead, the entire room is beaming with satisfaction at their good work, all but Rooke herself, who looks like she's been forced at the edge of a sword into letting them play dress-up with her.
Stalking over to Airlie to put an end to this display before it gets someone killed, I cut my plan short when the sickly-sweet tones of Aura's voice drift from further inside the chambers,directing the kitchen staff about the dinner table. Airlie glances up to meet my enraged look with an overly meek one that doesn't suit her at all.
Her voice pitches low enough that Rooke and the other lower fae can't hear it but the high fae all will. "Take a breath, cousin, I’m doing as you’ve commanded me to. I'm working very closely with my mother to change the perceptions of your Fates-blessed mate to ensure the entire household knows exactly how high we hold her in our regards. That starts with clothing that's appropriate for her and family dinners, those we share blood with and those who are yet to come into the fold. Who better to twist the perceptions of the court than one of their own? Mother is always thrilled at the prospect of honoring the Celestial legacy with her lavish tales of greatness."
I hear Roan's father's cutting tone, as he says something to his son's mother-in-law, and the true chaos Airlie has incited for us to stew in over wine and Firna's perfectly cooked feast becomes clear to me.
By the ashes, someone is going to die tonight.
Rooke turns to Airlie, a grimace on her face that disappears in an instant as one of the seamstresses straightens to beam at her. Rooke nods her head as she listens diligently, a welcoming sort of kindness rolling off her in waves as she smiles warmly. The female has done exceptional work; Airlie is favored amongst a coveted group of skilled workers, but no matter how much she deserves the respect Rooke is showing her, my gut still clenches at the sight of it on my mate's smiling face.
It has rankled me from the moment she arrived at Yregar—the grace and humility she shows everyone but the high fae. She looks at the soldiers with respect now, in the aftermath of the battle, her assessment of their actions a positive one. It's only the royals and the highborn she takes issue with, though even that comes from her humility.
My Fates-blessed mate has looked over each of the fae folk within Yregar and judged them on their own merits… or lack thereof.
