I've reassured them all many times in the past, but a new light shines within their eyes, a confidence there after our first real victory against the High Witch in centuries.
Rooke comes up from the healer's quarters to see the villagers off as well, offering her help to any who look shaky on their feet. Her eyes are sharp as she watches over the entire crowd protectively, as though responsible for their safety, her title of Mother fitting. It's clear she cares deeply for the lower fae, and though none of them have offered her kindnesses in the past, it changes nothing in her own attitude toward them in return.
The female who runs the orphanage, Whynn, stops to speak to her, the two of them murmuring quietly to one another about the children and any care they may need, a clear trust between them. Rooke's hands are gentle as she looks over one of the toddlers, a small rash on the boy's belly easily visible as he squirms in his caretaker’s firm grip. My Fates-blessed mate presses a hand against the inflamed flesh for a moment, rubbing a little before checking his mouth and murmuring gentle and calming words to the boy.
When she strides off in the direction of the healer's quarters, I have to stop myself from following her, no longer fighting just the Fates’ pull between us but my own newly ignited obsession with her. Irritation scratches at the edges of my sanity, my shoulders tightening, and the soldiers standing guard around me all shift on their feet under my glower.
The flow of villagers continues unhindered by my temper, though most give me a wide berth on their way out. Whynn stands and waits patiently, oblivious to my infuriated scrutiny and the battle I'm waging to keep myself in check, her children surrounding her in a subdued group. The very obvious high-fae bloodlines of some of them only deepen my descent into rage, and I’m forced to turn away from them before I do something stupid.
A distraction from high-fae arrogance and cruelty arrives just in time. The sentries call out from the top of the walls, their words clear to me but not the lower fae surrounding me. A hush overtakes the villagers, terror filling the crowd with its acrid stench no matter how many soldiers stand guard around them.
Holding out a reassuring hand, my voice carries through the fraught silence with ease. "Messengers arrive to the gates with news, their work throughout the kingdom ensures our safety. There’s nothing to fear. Yregar is well guarded, and if we come under attack again, we'll defend its walls just as we did the last time."
There are mumbles and whispers of agreement, showing their trust in my word after the last battle, but they move slower now, too shaken to be placated easily.
The gates of the outer wall open and allow the riders through unimpeded, no signs of the enemy in their wake. Then the tell-tale fire ignites in my blood once more, and I force myself to watch as they ride past the folk moving back into their homes instead of turning back to Rooke, my gaze finding her only once they're safely within the courtyard. She’s tending to the child in Whynn’s arms, but both of them have eyes on the approaching messengers.
Fyr arrives first, riding his horse straight to the stable and sliding from its back in a hurry. He stumbles over his feet to bowdeeply in front of me, his gaze darting around at the crowds in the courtyard and then to Roan behind me.
With a firm look, I halt his hasty advance. "I'll hear you out in my reception rooms. Go there now and wait for me."
Fyr bows again then hurries up the steps, and Rooke's eyes catch on his urgency, interest in them appearing and disappearing just as quickly. She may tuck herself into the healer's quarters and claim to be happy there tending to others, but a soldier's heart beats within her chest. The righteousness that comes from standing your ground for a cause greater than yourself can't be wiped away, no matter what she once thought herself to be.
Another scout rides forward as swiftly as Fyr, but he dismounts from his saddle with a little less haste. He bows deeply to me and gives his news without concern for the crowd, an easy task to be done with without preamble.
"The supplies will arrive tomorrow, maybe the following day if the weather turns. The goblin soldiers have escorted the wagons through the kingdom, just as they did the last time, and they brought a wagon of their own once more. A gift for your—the witch." The scout stumbles over the last few words, apprehension in his eyes as he meets my gaze.
They're all unsure how to address her, even after her actions saving us all. My fury isn’t helping them to figure it out either, but I have nothing to give any of them.
With a curt nod, I dismiss him, and the final messenger, Lior, steps forward looking haggard and weary. There’s dirt and blood streaked on his riding clothes, a bruise on his cheekbone, and several of the weapon sheaths on the harness over his chest are empty. This wasn’t an easy journey for the male. When his foot catches on the uneven cobblestones and he staggers, one of the soldiers lurches forward to catch his elbow.
With a scowl at his condition, Rooke steps toward him, likely to offer aid, but the messenger wasn't here for the battle and reels back from her in horror, only to find his escape halted by the soldier holding his arm. Rooke doesn't look offended, she simply stops and holds out her hands, a universal offering of peace. A calm sort of kindness radiates from her even as disgust curls his lip.
My own reaction is far less understanding, a sneer curling my own lip as I step toward them both, and Lior immediately ducks into a bow, regret rolling off him in waves. My own frustration fuels the rage in my reaction, and when Rooke turns and looks at me expectantly, it deepens, twists, and triples in size. My anger is at the Fates and, worse,myself.
There are far too many eyes taking interest in this display, and Roan steps up to my side as though he’s ready to restrain me the moment I lose my head, taking over when it’s clear I’m biting back a slew of rage-blinded curses.
"Zamyr, see Lior up to Prince Soren’s reception rooms. Rooke can see to his wounds there while he gives his report."
The soldier bows to Roan and me immediately before he marches the messenger into the castle without question. Rooke turns to me, her face carefully blank in that mask of calm immovability that she wears within the view of my household. The corner of her mouth twitches, a grimacing and joyless thing, but she stays silent as she bows deep enough to be respectful but with no clasped hand over her heart before she follows Roan’s direction without a word.
The entire courtyard watches her leave.
Tyton follows her up the stairs as though she’s a beacon of light he can’t keep his gaze from, and the most primal part of me roars at his infatuation. Tauron shoots me a glare, but when Roan and I follow them without another word, my cousin’sshoulders rigid with fury as he watches over the last of the villagers leaving the Grand Hall.
In my reception rooms, Lior is still shaking. Rooke takes his fear in stride as her eyes glow silver and her magic washes over the messenger, his skin returning to good color in an instant under her competent ministrations. Fyr isn't so worried by the magic or the witch casting it. A keen interest lights up his own gaze as he watches the abrasions disappear and tremors that rock Lior's slight frame ease.
When he notices my arrival, Fyr bows once more, his foot tapping against the rug in a nervous twitch, but at Roan's reproving glare he stops it.
I wait as long as it takes for Lior's hand to stop trembling before I address him first. "What news do you bring?"
He lets out a shaky breath, pulling himself upright once more and glancing at Rooke before he speaks, as though questioning her presence, but Roan was unerringly adept in sending her here. Even in my frustrated state, I'm intent on gauging her reactions to the news of the kingdom. Throughout her disastrous stay here, it’s been clear that the best way to learn anything of my mate is to watch her and listen to the words that slip between the cracks of her scathing and frustratingly apt retorts.
"Kharl's armies have pushed the line of the Witch Ward border once more, claiming more land into their hold. The direction they're moving makes it clear they intend to attack Yrell and take the castle. The forces they sent to Yregar are a tiny portion of their overall numbers, and they march there now in earnest."
I curse under my breath in the old tongue, similar sentiments spilling from Roan and Tyton, but Rooke stays silent as she works. Her hands are steady and sure, even as the horrors of the war are laid out before her.
Lior takes another deep, steadying breath. "Prince Mercer has begun to move a portion of his people out of the city, sending them into Elms Walk to take shelter. He seems to think they're safer there rather than trapped within the walls if the witches breach them."
