The last time we met, we were attacked as we rode from Yregar to the now-destroyed fae door, and the look of horror on her face at the bloodshed and violence was a crack in the spoiled princess mask she’s always worn, but she wears it perfectly now. The guard standing at her side is the same male who journeyed to Yregar with her, preening as he stands by the throne as though his position as the regent’s lapdog holds any honor.
My uncle clicks under his tongue as though dealing with an unruly child. “Nephew, you are such a disappointment to me and to your kingdom. After all the centuries of waiting, to commit to such treason against all those loyal to you…all of it for nothing.”
I keep my gaze away from Sari, just as I always do, and it takes me a moment to convince my jaw to loosen enough to speak. “What treason are you accusing me of, Regent? How is ittreasonous to defend my kingdom against those who've come to take it from us, uncle, while you sit on my throne?”
A frown pinches Sari’s eyebrows, and she glances toward her father, looking childlike as she defers to him. Casting me a placating look, she says in her sickly sweet tone, “I know you have been forced to bear many sorrow, Soren, but Father is only acting for the wellbeing of the court and our kingdom. You have to understand, there are grave concerns about the true allegiances of your Fates-blessed mate… and now you’ve brought Rooke to Yris with a goblin prince in your company. Father has done a lot for you, cousin.”
Sari always did lack good sense in all areas outside keeping herself in the regent’s good graces. From the corner of my eye, I see Gage’s lip curl in fury at her but Sari doesn’t spare him a glance—she never looks at fae folk in her father’s presence. The guard standing over her sneers at him instead, adding kindling to the heat of the goblin prince’s rage. I’m not sure how long he’ll hold himself back while we’re forced to listen to the so-called noble acts of a betrayer while his own Fates-blessed mate’s life hangs in the balance, thanks to all these gullible and selfish creatures.
Sari’s eyes flick back to Rooke and then I watch as she attempts to divert the course of our confrontation, sliding the spotlight away from the goblins and her father’s accusations of treason. “When I came to Yregar to stay with you, you said that you had concerns about the witch and so, when I returned to Yris, I spoke to Father about sending messengers to the Northern Lands to enquire after her. I thought you’d be pleased with me, Soren? I was only trying to help.”
My uncle glances down at her, his expression never changing, but Sari settles back in her seat and presses her lips into a firm line, as though she’s been scolded thoroughly. Nothing about the room changes, but there’s still a shift, anawareness, as though all of those in attendance wait for the next display of bloodshed to begin.
After a fraught beat, he turns back to me. “The War of the Witches will soon be over, and our kingdom will return to the glory we once knew. The Sol King has agreed to discuss terms of alliance, and his emissary will be enjoying the hospitality of the Unseelie Court for some time. I’m eager to see what truths he has to give us about the witch; your own vague claims of her true allegiances have only caused the Unseelie Court further concern.”
At the sound of footsteps, my head jerks toward the so-called emissary only to have the air squeezed from my lungs.
The male is most certainly soldier of the Sol Army; the gold of his cloak so bright it looks like woven sunlight against the dark umber of his skin. The sword hanging from his belt is decorated with a delicate filigree across the grip that matches the handles of the knives strapped to his thighs, all finely crafted for beauty and deadly use. His head is shaved, and tucked behind one of his sharply pointed ears is a gold disk, sitting flush against his scalp with sunbursts that fan out to cover a third of his head. One of the tendrils curls against his temple and is the exact same shade as the gold color of his eyes. It’s a crown of the Seelie design, extravagant yet no doubt functional.
The finery is a statement of his lineage, but it’s the unblinking gaze and timelessness of his gaze that gives me pause. The Ancient stares at us with apathy, disinterest even, and the frown on my uncle's face grows until he’s scowling at the soldier. A thrum of triumph sounds in my chest that he’s misjudged Rooke and isn’t getting the spectacle he was hoping for.
Before I can truly enjoy his misstep, a screeching sound that defies all reason fills my ears and sends icy terror flooding my veins. My heart thumps violently, bile jumping up my throat, myentire being screaming at me to flee, then the wall between my mind connection with Rooke slams into place.
When my heart instantly calms and my mind is my own, I know without a doubt that this pain is what Rooke hides from me, a remnant of the war she fought in, and sound was that of the Ureen.
This soldier sees all of her panic and stands across from us both, unconcerned by the pain he’s causing. The soldiers holding my arms all mutter as though they can sense the power writhing beneath my skin, responding to the sheer depth of my fury and demanding the lives of them all.
CHAPTER TWENTY TWO
Rooke
Overcoming the paralysing effects of my terror is almost impossible and it’s only by the ashes great mercies that I’m able to keep myself from vomiting when I finally wrench my mind free from the memories of the monsters that still hunt me, no matter how many years have passed since that last of their stain was washed away from the Northern Lands. The beat of my heart against my ribs is still a violent pounding when I meet the Ancient’s gaze from across the room, the expanse of marble between us strewn with blood and gore.
A fabled warrior of the Northern Lands, he’s served in the Sol Army for more centuries than the fae in this room have taken breath combined. The Fates writhe beneath my scars at this echo of the past, threatening to rob me of my sanity once more.
The first time I ever laid eyes on this male was across a grand hall as luxurious in design as this one, though instead of the stark colors of the Unseelie high fae, we were surrounded by the riches of the Seelie Court, golden suns decorating every surface to proudly declare it the property of the Sol King.
When I left the Northern Lands, I never imagined I’d see him again. Certainly not like this, with hundred of Unseelie high fae eyes greedily drinking our interaction in and passing their judgements on us both as though they know anything of either of us.
Heartbreakingly beautiful as all high fae are, it’s not by the crest on his cloak that sets Phaedra apart from the Unseelie high. It’s not the dark hue of his skin, nor even by the thick scars running down one side of his throat. Instead, it’s the menacing air around him, the feeling of a power that has walked the earth for too long, something that should no longer be here and yet, by the will of the Fates, here he is. He’s lived for so long that the mannerisms of the fae have left him and now he’s as unknowable as the trees deep within the forests calling me home.
As old as the rule of the high fae, when he fixes his unblinking gaze on me a thrill of panic runs through my blood in response. Despite the city below rattling my senses, seeing Phaedra standing before the regent thrusts me back into being the soldier I was for two long and blood-soaked centuries.
Soren shifts on his feet beside me as though he means to step in front of me to block the Ancient from my sight, but the guards hold him back. I could curse myself for leaving the wall down between us, the slip of terror between us the exact reason I insist of leaving it in place. When a growling warning rumbles from Soren’s chest and more of the regent’s guards step over to him, I snap out of my stupor. I need to regain control of the situation, and fast. The scent of blood still coats the back of my throat, and our survival here depends on our ability to play the twisted games of the high fae courts.
Princess Sari hesitates as her gaze roams over Phaedra, but she speaks in the same bright tone. “Soren, this is Phaedra of the Seelie Court. The Sol King sent him as an emissary, and he was kind enough to stay at Father's request.”
Phaedra doesn’t acknowledge the princess’s words or the introduction, instead he stares at me with his eerily unblinking gaze until I'm sure Soren is on the edge of losing control. Even Gage shifts on his feet, seeming uncomfortable with the piercing scrutiny the Ancient directs at me as the silence stretches on.
Ayron steps forward and clasps a hand over his chest as he bows deeply to the regent, a smirk stretching far too comfortably over his lips. “The witch spoke treasonously of you and the entire Unseelie Court, Your Majesty. She claims you hold no sovereignty over her and I have grave concerns about the intentions that brought her here before you today.”
Murmurs break out and, though I catch only a few words, I’m sure Soren is being subjected to hundreds of lines of gossip, and yet he doesn't falter and neither does Gage, both of them watching Phaedra carefully. The Ancient’s gaze stays fixed on me for a moment longer before finally it shifts, and Soren’s deplorable cousin flinches back as it lands on him.
Being the sole focus of a male as old as the kingdom, who’s seen civilizations built up and torn down, learned and forgotten languages as old as our history books go back, isn’t a pleasant experience. Even the Sol King looked upon him carefully in the Fates War, commands given with a particular respect not often afforded to other soldiers.
In a voice as cold as ice, Phaedra says, “This is the soldier you wish for me to speak of?”
The regent inclines his head. “Word from the Northern Lands is that the soldiers of the Sol Army are enlisted for life. From the moment my nephew brought the witch before us, I have feared she’s a deserter; I want no part in harboring a traitor.”
