Mercer. I know the name, and I know where I am. The nightmares have found me again, and the witcheswane robbed me of any semblance of control, ashes curse the fucking weed. Tyton sounds worried, but Prince Soren’s answer is instant and snarled.
“Mercer can die at the end of my sword for all I care, the barrier stays put until she’s awake and aware again.”
Hands circle my wrists, prying my hands from Prince Soren’s chest, but no matter how hard I try I can’t clear my vision or find my voice. The waves of pain replace my torment, rendering me useless even with my mind functioning once more. I fight to slow my breathing, the gasping sound awful and raw as it bounces around the decrepit room.
Soren tucks my hands back onto my chest and secures them with one hand. My mind latches on to the rasp of the callouses on his fingers against the soft skin of my wrists, the tremors still shaking me, but some of the panic recedes as I divert my attention. He’s avoiding the burned flesh of my palms, curious, and with every breath more sensations flood my awareness.
Soren is pushing against the mind connection, but opening it to him now and exposing more of the damage within me is unthinkable so I move my fractured focus elsewhere, desperate to find purchase as my sanity still threatens to slip through my fingers. I’m on a bed, still clothed, but my boots and cloak have been removed. The mate the Fates have chosen for me sits at my side to restrain me, but no other hands touch me. It’s too dangerous to use my magic now, so Tyton is the only other presence I can be sure of.
When my breaths slow but remain labored, my hair is brushed away from my face before Soren presses two fingers against my throat as though checking my pulse. High fae can hear heartbeats, the prince has no healing training that would explain the action, and he’s being far too gentle with me. Is there some royal high fae here he’s trying to sway?
My stomach clenches again at the thought of more eyes on me. I have no shame for my injuries or the processes of healing, but it’ll be impossible to keep my temper if any of the high fae mention my nightmares or any errant details of this cursed experience. If any of them make light of the Ureen and what they did to me, what they did to all those I love back in the Northern Lands, I’ll become the witch they all fear me to be.
Blinking rapidly, I fight to clear my eyes and see for myself who is in the room, but the white light remains. My heart pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat but with every beat that the blindness remains, the action grows more violent.
“He holds a seat on the court?—“
“Fuck the court.Hold the barrier or die.”
My nightmares still crouch at the edges of my sanity, they always have, waiting for the moment my defenses slip and they can overwhelm me once more. As the Fates writhe under my scar at his seething snarl, the reminder of what the Ureen did to me severs the tenuous grip I have on my senses. An icy flood of terror washes over me, and what little awareness I had of the room disappears under the echoes of the Ureen’s unearthly screeching.
I know nothing else until the vile stench of selkie-salt overwhelms me.
My chest tightens to stop me breathing any more in, but one lungful is all it takes. My mind is instantly wiped clean of anything but the desperate need to get away from the putrid smell, the light finally clearing from my vision as my innate drive for survival kicks in. There’s no real danger from the salt, an effective cure for hysteria and one I’m baffled the high fae have at their disposal when even fairy wine is scarce in their stores.
“You’re dead if she doesn’t take another breath soon, Snowheart.”
My gaze flicks to Soren, his lip curled into a snarl that’s far more familiar to me than the gentle hands that still lay on me, and I have to wrench one hand away from his grasp to push the salts away from my nose. He lets out another growl but this time I watch his gaze flick down to the vial, then to the male holding it there, his ire not directed at me.
Reed stands at my side, Roan scowling at his shoulder, but it’s the Outland soldier who grasps the vial, and with a knowing look in my direction he wedges the cork back into the glass and stows it. A thousand tales of woe pass between us, the shared experience of grunt soldiers in a war we have no power in that formed our tentative friendship in the first place, and the hold I have on my senses firms.
“She’s awake, Your Highness.”
The fingers still pressing at my throat shift to turn my chin, forcing my gaze back to Soren, but it’s only once the first shuddering exhale rattles through my chest that some of the tension eases from the air around us. With another deep breath my senses sharpen, and I find we’re back in the room that Prince Mercer’s keeper assigned me to. I lay on the bed, a musky scent surrounding me that I welcome over the alternatives, and only a handful of the ancient standing lamps have been lit, their weak glow barely illuminating the room.
Tyton stands by the door, deep frown lines cutting through his usual jovial features, and his magic encases us all in its protection. Reed and Roan have already taken off their armor, though both still have their cloaks on. There’s no blackened blood or poison on either of them, another anomaly, and they share a long, grave look as I focus on getting myself under control. Keeping my gaze away from Soren seems like the best course of action, the Fates still dancing wildly under my scar at the heat of his body so close to mine.
A knock at the door startles me, the jolt of surprise jarring my raw hands, and I have to bite my lip to keep a gasp of pain from escaping me.
Soren curses viciously again but Roan cuts him off, snapping at Tyton, “Tell that miserable Fates-cursed male that we’ll be down when we’re ready. Tell him that a lowly keeper ordering a Celestial prince to do anything isn’t just poor manners, it’s treasonous. I’ll happily deal with him on Soren’s behalf.”
Even with my short time at Yregar outside of the dungeons, I know that any high fae who dared to call Firna a “lowly keeper” would swiftly find themselves answerable to Prince Soren. Her close relationship with Airlie and her grandmotherly ways with Raidyn make it obvious that Roan holds her to the same regard,and the dusk-adder poison that drips from his every word is reserved for this keeper in particular.
No maids or servants within our household seal their gaze to the floor in terror as the high fae pass, not the way those here at Yrell do. Every fae I’ve met has been wary and desperate. Food scarcity and war explain that well enough, but none have looked at the high-fae princes or soldiers with terror. This household is a window into the cruelty of unchecked Unseelie high-fae arrogance, and if Prince Mercer is a loyal supporter of Soren’s claim to the throne, then I don’t hold much hope for those who live within Yris.
Tyton cringes but moves to the door without question, stepping through the barrier and answering it as Roan instructed. His body obstructs the room from whoever has come calling, and his words to them are blocked by his magic, so there’s no way to know just how much of Roan’s ire Tyton is channeling or softening.
Reed blows out a breath, ducking his head into a bow as he steps back. “I’ll go to the kitchens. There’s less chance of Rooke’s food being tampered with if I see the staff there myself. I won’t tell them who it’s for.”
With a soft groan I sit up, avoiding putting any pressure on my hands, and remind myself with the single action of my absence from training, something that will need to be remedied before I lose my hard-won skills. The sound catches all three males’ attention, Reed’s head jerking up as Roan startles forward, his hands outstretched as though warding off some invisible foe.
Grimacing, Soren reaches out to me with both hands, and I flinch before I can stop myself. He freezes, his body turning to stone at my side as my shoulders hunch forward protectively to protect the center of my chest from a blow. The selkie-saltcleared the nightmares that gripped my mind, but my body hasn’t broken free, and my instincts screamdangerto me.
The air thickens around us both.
I hate everything about this moment. The loaded silence, the feel of their gazes on me, the searing pain in my hands, the breath they’re all holding as though I’m moments away from falling into madness once more—all of it threatens to be my unmaking and, after everything I’ve done to submit to my fate, I can’t allow that to happen.
“Thank you, Reed, but I don’t need much. Water and something sweet? Sugar will help.”
