The latest torture of the Fates’ demands is the worst so far.
They stalk my every waking moment with her image, only for my dreams to be filled with sounds the witch might make underneath me, the fire she could bring to my chambers with that temper she hides so well, and what her skin might taste like when she’s shaking apart in my arms.
It's far easier to hold myself in check when she's so cold and formal and, with my household following my lead, every action and word must be chosen with care. There’s no room left for further missteps; the Unseelie Court must view her as the best option for my consort on the throne, or we’re all dead.
Generations of high fae have been given riddles and lessons to parse, and it’s widely accepted that fates are never as simple as they may seem. There are far too many ways a fate can be interpreted for all of the royal egos and scheming nobles to simply accept Rooke as their new queen, even by the Fate’s commands, but there’s no doubt in my mind that the kingdom will be destroyed if I fail. Whether by the Ureen or the regent’s callous rule, either outcome can only spell doom for the Unseelie fae.
Gasps ring out as the snapped and damaged beams Rooke requested begin to lift into the air, silver lines of magic running down the structures until they bond together. The same materials, but now something new—something better—in their place. Seemingly effortlessly, she replaces the main beams and structurally reinforces the bakehouse until only the thatching of the roof is left to repair to seal the building from the harsh winter chill. There’s much cleaning to be done before the families can move back in, and furniture to replace too, but it's a good start.
When her hands finally drop back down to her sides, there's a cheer amongst the watching household, and Airlie calls outenthusiastically. Rooke turns to give her a wry smile, her face paled from fatigue, just as she warned Roan, the task clearly more taxing than her languid motions portrayed. My gut clenches and my scowl deepens.
At my curt nod, Kytan directs the soldiers back to their stations, and the builders quickly move on to their work. Airlie and the other members of the household who ventured down here to watch the display of Rooke's power all begin to walk back to the castle, the entertainment finished for the day.
Rooke follows them slowly.
Every step she takes on the uneven cobblestones is carefully considered, the toll her magic has taken evident in her caution. As I watch her pass, the arduous journey she took after she saved Yregar flashes into my mind unbidden and the ravaged mess of her wounds haunt me. A growl rumbles out of my chest, frustration at both her condition and stoic refusal to accept any aid from me. I smother the sound enough that Rooke doesn’t notice, but the high fae do, backs snapping straight and movements becoming harried around me as they scatter like Fates-cursed ashes on the wind.
Across the rubble of the village square, Roan jerks his head at some of the soldiers to escort Rooke back safely, and Reed stands at his side without lifting his head from the bow he’s folded in. He doesn’t so much as flinch in my Fates-blessed mate’s direction, but my temper doesn’t ease off. It doesn’t matter that he’s given her a wide berth; I see the way she seeks him out in the crowd, and the indignant huff she lets out when he avoids her gaze.
I see it all, and my hands itch with the need to make him bleed.
Seeing his soldier become the target of my ire, Roan steps between us, blocking Reed from my vicious glare, and gestures from the stable yards to the castle. “The fae door lies in a pileof ash outside the gate, untouched as you commanded, but we should make our own assessments.”
My eyes narrow at him, but Roan just stares back at me, unrepentant, until I finally stalk off. When I glance over my shoulder to glare at Reed and ensure he’s not following us, Roan moves to block the male again, cursing me under his breath in the old language.
At the stables, Ingor holds out the reins for Nightspark, and the stable hands scramble to prepare Roan’s and Tauron’s horses, my cousin appearing at my side with a scowl of his own. There’s no telling what has caught his ire, but my own temper is too short to deal with his, and we ride out of the courtyard without a word.
At our approach, the sentries open the gates to reveal the remnants of the fae door, the charred oak branches twisting out of the earth and the magic that once powered the door now absent. I circle the burned-out pit twice, but there’s nothing left but ash, no danger of Kharl resurrecting it.
Roan watches me closely, and when I jerk my head at the eastern side of the wall, he nods easily. We ride around to where the Lore River runs past the castle, the water still rushing by unhindered and unchanging. There are no other signs of new life, no fae flowers restored once more, chirping of birds, or water sprites in the river this far from the Ravenswyrd, but the patch of grass at the edge of the orchard still grows. It's a sign of the greatness our kingdoms could return to, if only we listen to the old ways and honor them once more.
I’ll have to stop cursing the Fates for their twisted games first.
Once we return to the castle grounds, our horses set a slower pace as we reassess the remaining damage and the needed repairs when Tauron finally breaks the silence, muttering in the old language, "What do you think your uncle is going to do tostop your coronation? It's all well and good for us to rebuild Yregar, but the real urgency for the winter solstice isn't the cold snap. If we fail to hold your wedding to the witch, then we'll have to wait another full cycle of the seasons to adhere to the Unseelie Court laws, and the war could be lost in that time. You don't truly think he's just going to hand it over, do you?"
Roan sends him a reproving look; this entire trip an attempt to distract me from my anger, and nothing could ruin that work faster than mention of my uncle’s treachery. He’s wrong though—if anything, the reminder of what failing could cost me is a sobering thought.
I answer him carefully, even with the secrecy of the old language to cover my words from prying ears. "With every resource at his disposal, he'll fight us. We should never forget he hides behind luxuries and pretend smiles, his appropriateness and the softness that he offers the Unseelie Court—every last bit of it is a mask to hide his teeth, the same ones he'll sink into our bared throats the moment our guard slips. My guess is that he intends to keep the Unseelie Court away from Yregar for the winter solstice and the wedding. As we speak, his courtiers and ardent followers no doubt have their noses buried in the tomes of old law to find some way to stop the wedding. If my suspicions are correct, he'll be using his own dubious connections to send more challenges our way."
Tauron's eyes meet mine and the corners of his mouth drop, but I've had my suspicions that the battle here wasn't entirely in retribution for Raidyn's safe arrival and the curse breaking.
It was an attempt to stop my fate from coming true.
Roan huffs, the reaction slowly turning into a chuckle, and then a proper laugh. When I glower at him, Roan shrugs back at me with far less concern than he’s given me for days.
Glancing between Tauron and I, he has a smile playing on his lips. "You both heard what Rooke said to Kharl, didn't you? Hethought himself formidable enough to defy the Fates and walk away from that act unscathed, invincible where the Sol King wasn't. His survival was nothing but the proof of his failure to kill every witch in her coven. He sealed his fate once and for all in a single act. It sounds to me like your uncle is under the same delusion that he can defy the Fates and their commands for your rule just because he craves your power. The male might hold Yris and the throne for now, but no matter his ambitions, the Fates are not on his side."
Tauron shakes his head. "After centuries of speculation, we've found something that Kharl offered the regent in exchange for his complacency. A way to break a fate without consequence and gain a crown that could no longer be in question."
Silence falls between us once more, the sound of our horses’ hooves against the cobblestones echoing through the vacant streets of a village once bustling with life but now a gutted remnant awaiting restoration.
My eyes stay trained on the inner wall, its newly reinforced gate standing before us as a beacon of hope for my household and my people alike.
By the endof the week, we're directing a portion of the villagers back into their homes, the Grand Hall emptied of half of the population in a single sweep. Each family to leave will be secure within the repaired buildings, and we're able to redistribute supplies from the castle into their homes and ensure that their lodgings aren't just secure, but also warm enough to keep them safe during the winter.
One of the maids, Tyra, leads her mother and younger sisters through the castle doors, and when they all bow in my presence, I speak.
"Your homes have been restored and the walls are secure. Yregar will prevail, no matter the raving madness Kharl Balzog sends to our gates."
