“Such a great sacrifice you’re going to undertake for your kingdom and to win your crown. I thought the slash across your face was your biggest trial to become king, and yet now, to be forced to tie yourself to one of them… towedit, Your Highness. The Fates have chosen a cruel path, yet your feet move steadily upon it, the true makings of a king! Your uncle only hides in his castle, crouching over his riches with a wall of guards between him and the rest of us. Yrell stands with the true Celestial king!”
He declares it proudly, his voice lifting at the end, and the room applauding. His household stands crowded before us, dressed impeccably and clutching at their silver goblets with vacuous smiles on their faces. The staff line the walls, their eyes cast down as though watching any part of this evening would land them on a whipping post.
Rooke studies all of this, her eyes seeming to catch on the same details as mine. I watch as the air around her becomes malevolent. I’m sure this is how the Fates look as they make their decisions on who lives and who dies, and what trials we should suffer between. When her gaze lifts to mine, I see vengeance and bloodshed waiting there.
Prince Mercer just made himself a very adept enemy.
My temper alight, I fix a smile on my face that’s nothing but a baring of teeth as I lift my own goblet. “To the Fates, may theyforgive us for the arrogance that stole our magic from us, our obsession with our own image, and our unquenchable lust for power. May their great mercies look kindly upon our kingdom once more and lead us out of this bloodshed and horror.”
Some of the royals and nobles call out their approval, already too drunk on the fairy wine to understand exactly what I’ve said, but no one in the crowd dares to question me as they all lift their goblets. I survey them all, never softening my gaze as I assess just how many of them are gritting their teeth through this show of loyalty.
Only when I’m sure I’ve made my point perfectly clear do I let my gaze land on Rooke. There’s a goblet in her hand, raised to her lips already as she downs it all in one go, though it appears she was barely given an inch to begin with. Yrell’s rations are as tight as Yregar’s have been, but others in the crowd are having their glasses refilled for the third time.
The servants have been instructed to give the witch a wide berth.
It's clear Mercer has every intention of ignoring her now that his spectacle is over, no lesson of her skills or competency learned. The banquet grows more raucous by the minute, and the prince seems content to sit back and enjoy the evening without acknowledging the reason his castle stands.
I tilt my head to catch the attention of one of the servants and make no effort to conceal my order. “Bring my Fates-blessed mate a seat. Prince Mercer seems to have forgotten his manners, and there's nowhere for her to sit with me while we both enjoy the festivities.”
Mercer’s eyes bulge as he startles, his head jerking around to stare at me, aghast. The low murmurs of the crowd pause for a moment as none of them dare to speak. Whether they’re afraid of my carefully displayed anger or of missing out on the show, I couldn’t guess.
Rooke doesn't react, her eyes meeting mine before she glances at the arm Roan has extended to her as he throws his own birthright into the fight. She’s careful not to show any hesitancy as she takes it with her bandaged hand and allows him to escort her to me. The crowd skitters away from them both, their path widening as though by force.
No matter Prince Mercer’s opinions of the Outlands, there’s no mistaking the power of the Snowsong name. Jaw clenching as he watches the two of them move steadily across the room, he barely holds himself in check.
The servants move with silent urgency and place a seat next to mine, set a little back and smaller than my own. It’s the customary position for my Fates-blessed mate before our marriage but I have no intention of leaving any room for the truth of my fate to be twisted. Ignoring Mercer’s indignant muttering, I grab the arm of Rooke’s seat and drag it forward until it’s positioned at my side.
Equals by marriage, as the Fates command.
It's not customary for me to stand at Rooke’s arrival or to see her seated but it certainly is for Prince Mercer. A spiteful sort of satisfaction takes root in my chest as I watch a muscle in his cheek twitch violently, his arrogant pride shredded before his household. Still, he waits until the last possible second before he finally submits.
My gaze is iron-clad as he pulls himself to his feet and gestures at the seat as though such a thing costs him dearly. Rooke stares at him for a moment before her steely gaze flicks to meet mine and she bows again, her hand clasped over her chest in the most respectful action. It’s the first time she's bowed like that for me, and though it’s nothing more than an act for the high-fae eyes trained on us, I can’t contain the heated tendrils of pleasure that spread down my body.
When she takes her seat, Mercer all but throws himself back into his own, and Roan turns on his heel to stand at Rooke’s side. He could call for another chair, but instead he stands guard over her with a haughty look on his face. It’s the same one his father wears, the derision that comes from living in such a harsh environment and being forced to listen to pampered royal families whine about frivolous nonsense.
The music begins to play but the nervous shuffling of feet is the only sound the crowd makes for a moment or two before finally conversations pick up around us. The longer we sit, the more attention we draw, and the more uncomfortable Prince Mercer becomes.
I take a malicious sort of pleasure in watching him squirm.
Rooke’s hands are clasped loosely on her lap, the serene look on her face as practiced as any I've seen. She's not uncomfortable here amongst the high-fae royals, and I know now with certainty she’s spent more time in the Seelie Court than she’s admitted. She's too practiced at overlooking her own thoughts and concerns as she presents a blank mask to all those who might use weakness against her. She sits as regally as any princess, her form and execution as precise as Airlie’s. It’s only the clothing Rooke wears that distinguishes her from my cousin, marking my Fates-blessed mate as not only a witch, but a soldier primed for war.
“Your uncle will never give up a throne forher,and the Unseelie Court won’t force him,” Mercer murmurs over the rim of his wine goblet. The effects of the elixir have finally soaked through enough of his indignant mood to loosen his tongue.
I turn to him, and he gulps at the brutal death brewing in my eyes. “They’ll side with me if they want to survive Kharl’s campaign, and at some point he’s going to set his sights on Yris. Do any of the court truly think the High Witch would take the Southern Kingdom but leave the high fae’s seat of power alone?If we don’t stop him, he’ll take our territories and castles, one by one, and leave the seat of the Celestial throne until last, but hewilltake it. Any who are foolish enough to think otherwise, or to use the war for their own gain, will find themselves answerable to the Fates when I’m through with them. The only mercy I’ll have is a funeral pyre and the ashes.”
It's as close to accusing the regent of colluding with Kharl’s tyranny as I've ever gotten, carefully chosen words with very little detail, but Mercer understands me all the same, gulping as he turns away, the frivolity wiped away until there’s nothing left but the bitter high-fae prince who’s witnessed hundreds of thousands of deaths.
His eyebrows pull down tight. “I want Kharl Balzog dead and every last one of the raving cunts he controls gutted along with him. I suppose if it takes a witch to do it, we all have to accept that.”
A pulse of fury bursts out of me, the tables and chairs rattling violently as a murmur of terror ripples through the crowd. Mercer’s chair is shoved a few inches away from mine, but Rooke’s stays put.
Magic.Mymagic, power I’ve never had control of and barely knew existed.
Mercer stares at me, aghast, his eyes flicking over me as though he’ll find remnants of a curse or some creature who cast instead of me, but when all he finds is my enraged gaze, his own flicks to Rooke.
The worst possible action the Fates-cursed male could take.
He startles at my growl, eyes lifting back to mine as the color leaches from his face and his head drops into a bow. The room is silent, holding its breath, and the only person unaffected by my magic and my rage is Rooke. She sits comfortably at my side, resolute in her own cool observation of the high fae around us, calmly ignoring my savage actions.
