I curse under my breath, shaking my head as my hands fist at my sides. The blood-soaked scenes the regent curated as a welcome for us are so commonplace here that none of the fae folk still freely roaming the castle looked bothered by it, but that only makes me angrier. How cold they’ve all grown, how selfish and cruel to sit back and allow the regent to take everything from this kingdom and the innocents within.
Gage’s gaze flicks over my face, the tight press of my lips the only sign of the precarious grip my magic is held with, and says quickly, “My father made it clear that he sides with Rooke in all of this but, if you’re true to your fate, and to her, then the semantics of it all don’t really matter, do they? If she stands at your side, then the Briarfrost follows your command.”
I don’t have a chance to answer him or to feel relief at his words as my magic slips away, and the barrier hazing our view of the dungeon disappears without a sound. Blinking away the mist from the sudden clarity, we find dozens of guards now surrounding our cells with Ayron standing at the forefront of them all.
My snake of a cousin stares through the bars at Gage, loathing roiling unmasked across his features. The goblin prince stares back with the same disregard, and the sharp end of his tail stays pointed at the high fae prince despite the way it slowly sways, an adder waiting to strike.
“The regent warned us all—your reign will destroy the Unseelie Court and all the high fae hold dear, but I honestly thought you'd wait until you held the throne before you launched your first attack.”
Moving with exaggerated swagger, he takes the stool from the wall and places it in front of the iron bars. It’s close enoughthat the vile metal must be singeing his skin, but he ignores it as he sits, the tip of his sword almost brushing the marble floor. He sets his elbows on his widened knees, hands hanging loosely between them, and leans forward, staring at Gage as though he's a peculiar fae and not a prince of higher standing.
“Did you decide to form an alliance with these green fucks before you found the witch, or after? I suppose it doesn't matter, does it. Either way, you’ve chosen to bed beasts instead of your own kind.”
I let my head drop back on my shoulders, stone crunching against the back of my skull with its rough texture. “When was the last time you drew your sword for something other than butchering innocent fae folk?”
The smirk on Ayron’s face grows, a devious look lighting up his eyes. “You know half of these traitors tried to switch sides when the regent came to lock them up? He has enough votes to change the law, but why bother? What use are the old laws against true power? He won the throne from you centuries ago, a task far easier than you could possibly imagine. Now all that’s left is to dance around one last fate… thenfinally, the time of waiting is over.”
A smile as cold as any that have graced my uncle’s face stretches over my lips. “Then what, Ayron? What happens when you give unlimited power to that male and let him act without recourse? Butchering his own people, locking up royals and nobles without question, seizing armies to command as his own, letting a madman spill magic across the kingdom and bring it to its knees simply for his own gain… what happens when that male rules it all without contention?”
There's no hesitance in Ayron as he shrugs, ignoring the murmurs breaking out in all the cells around us, gasps of fear, agreement, helplessness, despair. “Then I suppose we see if your little goblin friends do have enough power to come at Yris. Andwe gut the last of the witches until all that's left is high fae… as it should’ve always been.”
Growing like a fist in my chest, magic trembles through my words as it’s done to Tyton’s a thousand times before. “The witches were here first. They were in the forests before we came to this kingdom, and they'll take it back from you. The time of the high fae is coming to an end.”
True to her word,Rooke keeps the mind connection between us closed off, but it's different than how we existed for the two long centuries she spent in the Northern Lands. I can feel her now, and whether that's something she has allowed or due to my new connection with my own magic, it doesn't matter; I'm grateful.
As long hours crawl by, I find myself pressing against the wall between us more often than not, hoping only to feel her there and never pushing for more, and I discover a lot about the hidden storm that rages within my Fates-blessed mate. Despite her demeanor always exuding a level of serenity that eats at me, there’s a seething rage within her heart, and my own magic responds to it in an unexpected way. It rages with her, predictably, but it also quietens down, as though stopping to bear witness to her pain.
There’s no way of telling if this rage always burns in her or if something has happened, and my imprisonment suddenly becomes unbearable without my uncle’s guards lifting a finger. There are countless reasons a witch would feel rage in this castle, all of them justified, but very few things pushed my Fates-blessed mate to the edge of her temper in Yregar. What fresh nightmares are the high fae unleashing on her now?
Staring through the iron bars with loathing rolling from me in waves, I let the possibilities play through my mind, and my blood-lust grows with every passing second. Ayron stares back at me like he’s enjoying every second of my fury, as though being the target of my ire is exactly what he’s always craved to be.
Shifting uncomfortably on their feet at the contempt hazing the room, the rest of the regent’s guards all share looks between themselves the longer Ayron and I square off. The high fae in the cells are less concerned with my temper, probably hoping it sees them freed soon, and they murmur quietly amongst one another. That’s how I learn a vital piece of information—that witches are living freely within Yris.
The regent stopped trying to hide his treachery within this castle a long time ago.
The loudest voice in the cells belongs to Valo, Vyrain’s cousin, and a Mistheart prince whose territories were stolen by Kharl Balzog and made into the Witch Ward. He was a pampered prince, nothing like his brother, which is both a blessing and a curse. Where Vyrain's ability on the battlefield would be of great use to me, his loyalty to my uncle is unforgivable.
“I never thought I’d share the same fate as the fabled Celestial heir,” he drawls, waving a dismissive hand at one of his cousins as she hisses at him to shut up.
Ayron ignores him, his gaze fixed to Gage’s tail as though it will tell him the workings of the goblin prince’s mind and keep the castle safe from the Goblin King’s wrath.
I look at Valo as one of the other lords locked in the adjoining cell mutters furiously, “We’re all stuck in this cursed pit, no point trying to win favor on the path to the ashes.”
“This isn’t about favor, Dryss, you sulking shit,” snaps Valo, shaking his head vehemently. “It’s only Prince Soren and I who’ve found ourselves with treacherous family members who are willing to sell out their own blood—no, tospillit!—all to claim something that was never theirs. Venyr was eaten alive by a fucking death curse, that putrid magic grinding him intonothing, and Vyrain was the architect of at all! He'd rather watch Kharl Balzog shit all over our family's covenant than to see it belong to someone else.”
Ayron chuckles. “I’d rather gut Aura and that little cunt she birthed than see her take up space on the court. If half the high fae in this dungeon had the gall to admit it, they'd say the same thing about whichever kin stands between them and a seat.”
Gage scoffs and shakes his head, his eyes steady on the iron bars. “So says every spineless fuck who ever existed. I’d slit my own throat before taking a blade to my brother, or any of my sisters. I’m tempted to break the accords and spill your blood just for suggesting it.”
Ayron shrugs, the curl of his lip shifting from gleefully arrogant to disgust. “No matter what high fae titles yourpart-bloodfather had the nerve to give you, the real Briarfrost line died out generations ago. You're not high fae, and all that green shit makes you weak.”
“I'm killing that one… let Rooke know as well,” Gage says in the goblin tongue, choosing simple words but speaking fast enough that it still takes me a moment to figure out what he said.
I answer in the common tongue. “I’ve been planning his death for centuries. You’ll have to reach him first.”
Gage turns to me, the sharp points of his teeth stark against the hue of his skin as he grins. “I look forward to besting you in that contest. His throat is marked for my blade.”
Ayron rises from the stool slowly, as if unfurling, but his dramatics are lost on the two of us; nothing about that maleis concerning in the least. He takes a single step forward before stopping abruptly as doors at the end of the dungeons open. The large oak panels scrape along the stone as they have for countless generations, and a hush falls over the cells. The prisoners’ fear burns on the back of my tongue and lies heavy in the air; the horrors of what the high fae here have seen my uncle enact has certainly left a mark on them all.
