Footsteps ring off the cavernous walls and two steady heartbeats join the already crowded din; a male and a female. There’s only so much I can learn from sound alone, but it’s clear the male is far taller than the female, and I’d guess she’s lower born as he doesn't attempt to slow his gait. Instead, she's forced into a jog to keep pace with him as they move toward us.
When they finally round the corner, Gage stiffens before glaring at my cousin's guard, the same scowling male who stayed behind in Yregar with Sari as both protector and spy. It's not my cousin standing with him, and instead, he escorts her handmaiden, Malia.
Ayron snickers under his breath, standing up from the stool to clap a hand against the guard’s shoulder as the male gloats loudly. “I couldn't help but come down and see it for myself—the mighty Savage Prince finally where he belongs.”
More chuckles ring out, but I ignore them for Malia. She keeps her gaze as far away from Gage as possible, but he stares at her, transfixed, carefully taking in her face before he checks the rest of her body as if for wounds. She’s a part-blood, the green hue of her skin a testament to her goblin ancestry, and that alone could explain his interest, but I get a sickening feeling in my gut.
As a bastard born of the regent, Malia is in a precarious position, serving her half-sister; the regent never lets them live for very long. Malia has perhaps survived the longest, as useful as she is demure and subservient. She never looks at any highfae, her eyes permanently downcast, and the regent seems to enjoy watching a part-blood female crawl at her half-sister’s feet.
If this is the blessed mate Prince Gage is bound to by the Fates, then she’s in far more danger than I first suspected… exponentially so if the regent finds out.
Malia steps forward, her hand shaking as it comes closer to the iron bars, but even as she flinches in pain, she doesn’t falter. Only when the crisp bundle of paper tied neatly with an off-blue ribbon has been set carefully on the stone next to me does the shaking female finally step back. I share as much blood with her as I do with Sari and Airlie, and yet she’s never once looked at me, nor have I pushed to speak with her, thanks to the threat of her father.
We have the same color eyes; the true Celestial blue.
Ayron jerks his head in her direction but Sari’s guard shrugs back to him easily. “The princess ismost distressedthat her beloved cousin is ‘at odds’ with her father. The brainless little cunt hasn't figured out he’s on borrowed time, and she’s been whining about coming down here. The regent shoved her at the Ancient to shut her up. I can't wait until she's shipped to the Northern Lands and I'm not stuck babysitting the overgrown brat anymore.”
Malia takes another step back with her head bowed until she stands at the guard's side, hunched in on herself as though attempting to fade into his shadow and disappear. Gage seethes at my side, finally staring at the guards instead of the female, and I curse the Fates for being so cruel to us all. When the guards finally finish swapping stories, Sari’s guard snaps his fingers as he walks away, as if commanding a hound to his side.
The other guards all chuckle and murmur amongst themselves, bolstered by the interaction, but I wait until the door swings shut before I pick up the letter. The scent of Sari’s hand oil clings to the paper, filling the cells with the light notes ofcherry blossoms and oranges, and her penmanship is just as airy as it swirls in azure tones.
Dearest cousin,
Rest assured that I’ve taken Rooke into my care and I’ll see that she’s kept safe in your stead. She’s joining me and some of my good friends for dinner tonight, and tomorrow we’ll tour the gardens together! Take heart; I won’t leave her side, and no one would dare gossip about her in my presence. I look forward to becoming the fast friends I promised Rooke we would be. The Fates guide usall, Soren, remember that. Father is only acting for the kingdom’s safety, and at the Fates command, this awful war will be over with, and we’ll all live happily here in Yris together.
I let out alone frustrated a sigh and shove the papers back into the envelope then toss it onto the cell floor next to me. I don't know what's worse; the idea of going to dinner with anyone Sari proclaims a friend, or the thought of my uncle selling off his only daughter to the Northern Lands in payment for my throne.
Either way, the rage in Rooke’s heart makes far more sense to me now.
CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR
Rooke
It takes some time to calm the turbulent grief that threatens to consume me. I stand, one fist pressed against the closed door and my breaths ragged, until my legs are steady beneath me once more. I wasn’t prepared to have old wounds torn open like that, a passing comment treated as nothing more than petty gossip by those whose hands drip with the blood of my coven.
In the decades after we arrived in the Northern Lands, Pemba would often voice his burning need to hunt down the Betrayer and all who follow him. He trained with single-minded determination and, with every new skill he learned in the Sol Army, he would picture how he would use those skills against the witches who dared murder the Favored Children.
My own motivations to learn the brutal arts of warfare came from watching far too many soldiers die from the wounds of the Ureen, my focus shifting from fleeing my own fate to keeping my new friends alive. If I'm completely honest, I’d hoped that, if I saved enough lives, perhaps the Fates would spare me and find a new path for me to walk. No matter what impressive skills ofswordplay I learned or how many I saved through the knowledge of my departed coven, I was always motivated by my fear of marrying the so-called Savage Prince.
Why have the Fates given me this task when so many others crave vengeance? Why must I be the one to look those witches in the eye and hear their contempt for the covens and the forests? Haven’t I done enough, haven’t Ienduredenough?
When the torment finally lifts enough that I can breathe once more, I take stock of the room I’ve been shoved into and find I’m the only occupant—thank the ashes for the Fates’ small mercies. With a large bed draped in white silks and plush Celestial blue rugs at my feet, the room isn’t opulent in its design, but housing me here clearly isn’t an act of aggression. There’s a large bathroom, a fireplace, and even a small sitting area under one of the large windows overlooking the rooftop, spanning as far as my eye can see. Velvet curtains soften the walls, oak furniture brings warmth to the space, and there isn’t a speck of dust to be found. The room is a welcome chamber for honored guests.
But no amount of luxury can mask the cloying air of decay that blankets Yris.
Knowing now that it's not just the regent and those high fae stupid enough to follow him that pose a danger to me in this castle but bloodwitches as well, I cast a shield around the room and take another moment to collect myself. Soren and I have come too far, and have too many lives depending on us, to stumble now. I know everything I need to know about my Fates-blessed mate and the Unseelie Court, about the regent and the Betrayer. I know what path the Fates have truly set me on and though I came to the Southern Lands refusing the offers of aid, intent on keeping all those I love out of yet another war, Baylor Fray cannot be left unaccountable any longer.
A stack of wood sits inside the fireplace, conveniently ready for use, and my gaze settles on the writing desk at the far endof the room, a small ink pot sitting stark against the light oak wood. I’m across the room before I’ve thought the act through, the large white quill unused but dipping into the glass pot to take on the ink with ease, and a small white card set out as if corresponding with other high fae via messenger is common here.
It takes me a few minutes to scrawl the bloodwitch’s name and his crime onto that small card, not due to the space but for the pain those words cause me when written so plainly. I step over and light the fire with my magic, a small spark quickly consuming the wood. As I blow on the ink to dry it, I think the message through one last time, but Soren’s words fill my mind.
Your safety means more to me than every bloodline in the court combined.
That statement is about to be tested, no doubt vigorously. With a deep breath, I crouch over the fireplace and flick the card in, then watch as the glow of the flame consumes the ink and its message and sends it on its way. Burning brightly, the fire can’t compare to the scorching rage within my gut.
I wait until every last scrap of the parchment has burned away, leaving nothing but black ash, before I take another breath, my magic flowing through the flames and connecting me to the land that welcomed me in my hour of greatest need. Anger consumes my mind as I wait, but I let myself feel it all, everything I desperately hid from for so long, just to be sure it doesn’t eat away at my good senses. Finally, the crackle of magic breaks its hold over me. With a soothing ripple of the air around me, a pulse of power swirls the ashes of my card out of the direct heat and onto the tiled hearth, dancing around slowly until they form words.
By the ashes, it’s done. To the gates, Æfanya.
