For the Fae in this part of the realm, where the trees are lush and magic stirs in the breeze, it’s possible they don’t understand the depth of starvation closer to the Well. Much less on a human island in the middle of the sea. They don’t know the chill from an endless winter. Or the hopelessness of burning fleshand bone on a pyre.
The longer I’m here, the more terrified I am that I’ll forget those realities myself.
Warm baths, fresh spices, and a lush bed are comforts unlike anything I’ve ever known. The king ignores me, but he offers me everything in his absence. If I’m not careful, I could fall into this facade. I could let this mask become who I am.
I think about what Callum said of Alyssium. Without magic or comfort, we were forced to be sharper. Stronger. I refuse to forget that side of myself.
Which is why every night I sit at the window and write long into the evening. Remembering the past twenty-four years until I can barely stomach the food Isolde brings me.
I write of Alyssium. Of my friends. Of the corner in the square, where the children would gather to try and catch sight of the Guard changing. I write of home and wonder.
Are villagers still gossiping at the market over every little thing that happens?
Has starvation worsened?
Did Letia rush to marry Benjamin?
Did she attend Father’s burning? She could never stomach the dead like I could. But for me, I know she would.
Today is her twenty-fourth birthday, and I wish I was back home, celebrating with her over watery wine. Instead, I’m surrounded by opulence, standing in the great hall watching the king and his court drink and galivant, and it means nothing.
Selia giggles at something King Malachi says when he’s never said anything remotely funny.
Every night is the same. Selia watches the king while Wilder watches her.
One night, he tried to pull her aside, but she didn’t allow it. Whatever their history, it’s clear he isn’t over her.
I’m surprised Wilder bothers attending these dinners. Although maybe I shouldn’t be, considering it’s the same persistencehe shows for my training. Always present. Rarely interacting. Tonight, like every night, he refuses food and drink and keeps his distance.
Selia tips her head back, and her eyes practically glitter with her amusement as she meets King Malachi’s gaze. She glows, even as gray storm clouds brew in her eyes.
Greer has been giving me insight into the magic of the court between breaks in training, and she explained to me that Selia is a storm wielder. An extraordinarily powerful one at that. She leveled a battlefield in lightning and drowned a group of rebels in a rainstorm, barely diminishing her power.
She’s beautiful but deadly.
Like the male who has yet to take his eyes off her.
It shouldn’t matter to me. I hate everything Wilder represents and everything he intends to do. But the longer he stares at Selia, the more irritated I become.
His teeth clench, drawing out the squareness in his jawline. There’s no denying he’s attractive. If it weren’t for his constant scowl, his face might even be considered breathtaking. Framed by dark-brown hair that is wavy and thick, and falls just above his golden eyes. It’s clipped close at the sides and longer on top, with honey highlights that shine in the sun.
His arms and chest are sculpted muscle. As if he didn’t just spend a century starving in a cell.
Wilder is irritatingly perfect, except for that single scar that cuts diagonally across his face. I wonder how he got it. What is powerful enough to mark a Fae like that without killing them?
Wilder’s gaze snaps to mine, and I look away.
He might have heard my thoughts. But if so, he doesn’t whisper to call me out on it. That’s one more thing that changed after the first day in the training ring. He’s stayed out of my head.
I take a sip of Fae wine, thankful when it makes my tongueprickle and my thoughts swim. Anything to keep me from spiraling into my mind again.
With my free hand, I tug my sheer white dress out of the way so I don’t step on it as I shift forward. It shimmers under the warm glow that blankets any room King Malachi occupies.
I’ve been here half the night already, and he’s yet to say a word to me. I’d rather be reading or writing in my bedroom than waiting for him to summon me over. But I have no choice in the matter.
My throat tightens, and I search the room for Callum again. He’s busy with the Crown Guard tonight, so he’s not here, and the room is colder because of it.
I’ve yet to completely forgive him for hiding the truth about my mother, but he’s familiar to me. A constant. A hint of home. Besides him and Isolde, who asks more questions than she’s willing to answer herself, most Fae keep their distance. Even Greer, who trains me daily, sticks to the wall and avoids speaking to anyone but members of the Guard outside of the ring.
