Page 62 of A Beautifully Crafted Lie

He frowns. “And what happens if we don’t?”

“Well, then we’re fucked.” I huff a sarcastic laugh, unable to fully find amusement in the situation. “If we have no allies, our forces will be too weak to break free from my brother’s rule. We’ll be vulnerable. Easy targets. And possibly forced into a new oath or early graves.”

Sloan’s laughter is deep and guttural. “Good to know. Immortality would be boring without near constant impending doom.”

I turn my attention back to Bryn, watching her hands, mesmerised by the way she tucks her hair behind her ear. I look at her basket of cuttings and notice that none are flowers, but all are gathered with purpose. Jimsonweed, nettle, lavender, thyme. Realisation hits me like a brick. They’re human remedies, a necessity for her. She’s right, I am an asshole. All along, she’s silently yearned for their support without ever uttering a word. I never offered, either.

“You missed the best part of last night’s celebrations.” Sloan rolls back his head, leaning against the balustrade. “The girls… Oh gods, the girls were gorgeous. I could have used you as a wingman. Sheridan isn’t much help in that department.” He pushes off the railing. “Where were you?”

Ignoring his question, I absentmindedly roll up the sleeves of my shirt, a nervous habit. I should be able to enjoy other women, but they don’t have her face, nor her heart or her scent. Bryn can never be mine. Human and faerie don’t mix. We’re natural enemies. We feast on their blood to prevent our ultimate decay, and they drain us of ours to cure their ailments. One is forever abusing the other as produce to harvest. It will never work. The treaty declared it forbidden with the penalty equalling death. I’m being an idiot, and she is my curse.

“I know you aren’t much of a talker, but someone has to remove that colossal stick up your ass,” he says bluntly.

I raise my brow, and the ligaments in my jaw twitch. Not today, Sloan. Not today.

“They’re here!” Eadan calls out through the open door. With a nod, I mentally fortify myself for the challenges that await.

“You remember what I told you to do if the situation takes a turn for the worse?” I ask my best friend. Sloan’s brows draw together, reflecting his deepening concern. The muscles flex along his forearms as he looks at me. “Yes.” He adds nothing more.

“At all costs,” I implore. If anyone is going to pay for my decisions, it should be me. Not my friends. Not Bryn. If things become dangerous, they’ll leave me and return home.

“What’s taking so long?” Eadan scolds, leaning against the doorframe. “You boys forget to use the privy?” The corners of her mouth turn up. With her platinum hair tied into a high ponytail, she doesn’t look like she’d spent the whole of last night at a tavern.

“Retract those claws of yours,” Sloan groans at her. “We’re just waiting for you.”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs, walking back down the passage to where Sheridan stands waiting, hands clasped in front of him. My quiet friend has never gotten used to his new tongue after his real one was severed to keep a Lord’s secrets safe. Our friendship started before the treaty with the mortals when I gifted him said Lord’s tongue and paid a witch to recreate it as his own.

“Bryn?” Sheridan asks, no longer referring to her as the human.

“She goes where I go.” My muscles tense as I eye the guards at the foot of the tavern’s stairs. Five guards, each assigned to one of us. All of them in full armour. The tallest in the group steps forward, his full-face brass helmet crafted with great detail. The Fómhar Court is famous for their elaborate clothing; everything they wear, every detail in their palace, resembles autumn, right down to the blood-drained, wilting beauties held captive within its walls. “Odhran of the Samhradh Court?”

Sloan growls as he says, “Prince Odhran.”

“To us, he is Odhran of the Samhradh Court. He is not my prince.” The soldier’s armour clinks as he shifts his hand to the sword sheathed at his side.

“Sloan.” I give him a look, demanding him to back off. Despite his narrowed eyes and tightly balled fists, he shows no reaction, not even when the guard’s eyes betray amusement beneath his helmet.

“My king awaits your arrival. Best not keep him waiting.” As Bryn enters the front door of the tavern, the soldier assesses her top to bottom before bluntly declaring, “We have a strict no pets policy.”

“Shut your mouth, lest I break it,” I tell him, my words hanging in the air between us. “One more insult, whether aimed at me or anyone in my company, and you’ll regret it.” Darkness seeps from the ground, coiling around his legs like a constricting serpent. His unease is as clear as the setting sun. “As your king’s guests, if for no other reason, we will be treated with respect. All of us.” To avoid further escalation, I release my power.

Bryn places her basket on the bench and comes to stand next to Eadan. A human with ageing skin and a fragile heart. Mortal. Breakable. However, her confidence isn’t what one would expect. Maybe she was meant to be a part of this world after all.

“Oh, for crying out loud,” Eadan exclaims with a dramatic sigh, flicking her ponytail over her shoulder. “Should I get a ruler so we can measure the lot of you?”

From the back, a guard emerges, his heavy footsteps echoing off the walls. While everyone else has full-body armour, his protective gear only extends to his chest. His burnt-orange cape, unlike the others, features a hood. He raises both hands, fingers as black as pitch, palms facing the ceiling, his hazel eyes aglow. Not a guard at all, but a summoner. Once members of the fae court, summoners decided to grovel at the feet of the goddess, Nature. Summoners are unnatural, sacrificing their fated mates as a show of loyalty to a goddess who’s never been loyal to us . All for what? Power they can’t use without the permission of a king? The room is bathed in swirling light as golden rays spread in a circle around us. When they start to spin, the air drums with magic. The tempo rises, the pounds of each revolution blending together, creating an indistinguishable roar that engulfs us. The room vanishes.

In front of me, there are two towering doors adorned with a lustrous orange metal. One by one, my friends materialise beside me until we’re all gathered together. I shoot Sheridan a glance, my silent command to keep Bryn safe. With a single gesture from the soldier, the doors open, revealing a throne room where towering trees mimic the height of buildings, forming a leafy canopy overhead. Yellowed leaves gently cascade from the sky, creating a vibrant carpet of auburn at our feet.

“Come with me,” the soldier says as he marches on, an echo accompanying each step.

“You’d think they could sweep the floor once in a while,” Sloan huffs under his breath, a mischievous glint in his eyes as he chuckles at his own comment. The guards and soldier leading us down the aisle remain unfazed, despite any annoyance on their part.

Before us, a second pair of doors swing open, smaller and more delicate than the first. We walk past the empty dais, and my eyes are drawn to the long, gleaming table of pure gold in the centre of the second room. Seated in the largest of the chairs at the far end of the table is a man.

“Odhran,” he says without rising. “It’s quite a journey you’ve made to seek my presence.” The man, regal and commanding, is their king. Despite his youthful appearance, his eyes betray a deep weariness. This king has known many hardships, has lived many years.

“King Brogan.” I lower my head with respect, and those behind me mimic my gesture. “I appreciate the opportunity to have this conversation with you,” I convey sincerely. As I raise my eyes to meet his, he invites me to sit with a simple wave of his hand. His skin has a golden colour, resembling the seat he’s perched on. The hue of his hair falls somewhere in the spectrum between blond and red.