When the scowling gets worse, I finally speak. "Why does the Unseelie Court have so much power over the throne and who sits on it? I understand they're all of royal bloodlines that trace back to the First Fae, but if your father was king and you are heir, your word should be law, no matter who holds the throne in your stead."
His jaw tightens, his teeth grinding together for a moment before he answers. "That's exactly how it's supposed to be. A lot has changed while I waited out my fate."
His words are an accusation, the extra two hundred years of waiting he did at my defection from the kingdom one of my many supposed crimes despite the Fates commanding him towait, but when the only reaction I give him is a cool stare back, he’s forced to let the issue drop.
His explanation is barely more than a growl, frustration pouring from him in waves that make my skin itch. "The regent was supposed to work in tandem with the Unseelie Court on any matters of the throne and the kingdom until my coronation. Over the years, he's slowly tightened his grip until he's effectively taken the throne and now rules without opposition. There's no one left to question him—no one but me—and there was nothing I could do about it without my Fates-blessed mate."
He stops short, turning away from me for a moment and staring at the garden again as though trying to restrain his anger. Centuries of conflict, death, and despair writhe within him and pour into the air between us as frustration. The Fates wove our path with devastating precision, because this prince would’ve destroyed me in a thousand different ways if he’d met the witch I once was, with the Ravenswyrd heart alone. It was the Ureen, the Fates Wars, and all the lessons I learned in the Northern Lands that will see me through this Fates-blessed marriage of ours.
I find it far easier to look at him without his gaze on me. He's dressed in his more casual clothing, but still far more formal than anything I'd be comfortable in. Far too many layers and finery, even as subdued as he is.
The charcoal gray of his shirt complements the width of his shoulders, the exacting embroidery of the Celestial crest against his chest in the perfect blue to match his eyes, and a single diamond-set medal of valor sits at his throat, used as a button for his cloak, something that would look gaudy on another male and yet is so fitting on him. His pale hair, worn shoulder-length as Unseelie fashion expects, frames the beauty of his face, and every inch of this male screamsdangerto me. Danger I can’t help but stare at, transfixed, the Fates’ demands irresistiblewithin me no matter my true thoughts on such a male. I find myself struggling to breathe at the sight of him, and in my desperation to remember his arrogance and his ire, I picture the way that he dragged me to Yregar behind his horse as though I was nothing more than chattel myself.
Even as I grasp desperately to those memories, others spring to mind, the complicated mess of my fate stretching out between us.
The frantic look in his eyes as he slammed Nightspark between Prince Roan's forces and me. His bowed head as he sent his own prayers to Elysium for the soldiers who were killed by Kharl's attack. The anguish in his eyes every time he looks at the destruction of the village and the condition of the fae folk there. The reverent and soft hands he used to cradle his cousin's most beloved son, the oaths he spoke over the boy that were as strong as any I could give.
I might have a long list of grievances with the male, but he's the only high-fae prince I hope to see ruling over this kingdom. There's no greater compliment I could give a high fae, though it pains me to admit it.
Pemba would have a lot to say, if he heard me utter such words.
Soren turns back to me, his mouth set. "The regent’s plans to keep the throne began when he took Yris, only hours after my parents and their household was murdered. He called those of the Unseelie Court who resided in Yris into attendance and effectively took their soldiers and resources and made them his own. Yrell, Fates Mark, and Yregar are the only remaining independent households—us, and the Goblin King."
I've never been to Yris, but I know it's the castle my father once spoke to me about, glittering white marble sitting at the very edge of cliffs that make it seem as though it floats in the air. It's a place that seems impossible to enter, and yet the lastking and queen were murdered in their beds and their entire household with them—everyone except their son.
I don't know the details, having never asked Airlie for clarification, but I wonder now how old Prince Soren was when they were killed. There are too many conflicting tales shared between the fae folk to be sure, and the longevity of the fae skews memories even further. No matter the honesty he’s offering me now, something tells me now isn’t the right time to ask Soren himself.
Glancing down at the work before me, I murmur, “It seems incredibly short-sighted to side with a male who doesn’t have the Fates’ blessings on his side as you do. What could he possibly offer them to take such a risk?”
His gaze flicks toward the door, my magic shimmering before it. I don’t need to test it to know that the barrier is holding, but with the severity of his gaze I’m expecting him to question me about it or to accuse me of something.
Instead, he turns to me with that same fire and says in a clear and forthright tone, "I have reason to believe my uncle has committed his own forms of treason against the kingdom, far beyond his complacency and apathy toward the lower fae and part-bloods."
My hand stills as I’m trapped in the intensity of his stare. Placing the knife on the bench, I step around the workbench to give him my full attention. His blue eyes are cold as he stares at me from across the room, his face stern but for once unguarded. This is the first time he’s said this to me so openly, in words that defy any attempts at other interpretation, and it marks a shift between us.
Whatever else may be going on, I’m to be trusted with this.
I nod slowly, my own face pulled into a stern mask, and Soren continues, "I have reason to believe that the regent is colluding with the enemies of this kingdom to ensure
he keeps the throne. I've also come to believe that he knew of Kharl Balzog's misguided beliefs and thought there was a way to defy the Fates without consequence. This meeting with the Seelie Court and the Sol King is just a side-step for him, not straying from his goals in the slightest. He's simply trying to find a way around the Fates instead of breaking their commands."
My brows furrow, and I let my gaze trace the cold stone walls that surround us once more. I stop at the prayer above the door.
If I'm sure of nothing else, I'm confident the Sol King won't tolerate any sort of conversation of breaking fates. Millions of fae folk died as the consequences of his actions, and there’s nothing—nothing—the regent could do to convince him to utter a single word about how he did something so inconceivably impossible as breaking his fate. In the almost two hundred years of my service, I witnessed dozens of deaths at his hands for attempts to question him or learn more of how he did it. He guarded that secret like the world depended on it... because it did.
It still does.
The talons of darkness and the gut-wrenching screeches of the Ureen slash through the farthest reaches of my mind, a shiver running down my spine that Soren takes notice of, but he waits me out until the moment of trauma has passed.
I murmur, trying to steer my mind away from my darkest memories, "Other than going to the Northern Lands and getting the backing of the Sol King, how else could the regent take the throne from you without the backing of the Unseelie Court? Princess Airlie said it's at a stalemate and has been for centuries... that's not likely to change, is it?"
Soren stretches his legs out in front of himself, the formal lines of his uniform elongating the pose so he looks impossibly large in my presence. He's as tall as all high fae but his shoulders are wider, years of honing his body into a weapon adding layer upon layer of muscle to his body.
He's not an opponent I'd take lightly in the sparring ring.
"My uncle has been trying to garner favor with the Goblin King for centuries but never made progress. He's invited the Seer to Yris a dozen times, but she fled to the Northern Lands after the Fates War ended, and theirs are the only votes still unaccounted for. Without swaying any of the votes already taken, his time ruling the kingdom is running out. The law states that my coronation can take place only after I'm married to my mate, as directed by the Fates."
He takes a deep breath and glances down, his gaze catching on the colorful rug, but there's no disapproval or scorn as he looks it over. I feel protective of all the items I’ve been gifted by the household staff, each handmade and thoughtful, especially in a time of such scarcity, but he doesn’t react to any of it. Some of the rage he came down here with has eased, as though talking about it without any contention from me has cooled some of that fire.
