Page 42 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

I tighten my grip on the shawl around my shoulders and continue on my way, dropping my chin to hide how their reaction stings.

A group of children runs past, laughing. The ribbons tied to their celebratory sticks trail behind them. Faded banners flap in the breeze from dirty windowsills, far more than there were yesterday.

I frown.

The Elders should cancel the Late King’s Festival. All of Verdanthia is at risk. Inviting other towns to share in the danger is callous, borderline immoral.

Except you’ve kept the depth of the danger from them.

I swallow the guilt searing the back of my throat. It doesn’t matter that I can’t speak of the Fae’s threats—just their presence in Verdanthia should be enough to make the Elders halt the celebration. The fact they haven’t is alarming, but I’m too exhausted to puzzle out their motives right now.

A seabird squawks. The stark-white creature soars through the cloudy sky toward the coast, where its nest likely sits on the jagged cliffside.

My imagination fills with the sound of metal striking rock, the grunts of men and boys, and the stifling air deep within the unstable caverns. Mining doesn’t stop for any reason. Not violent thunderstorms. Not frigid temperatures that creep off the coast despite the rumors that the ocean should temper our weather.

And not the arrival of deadly Fae overlords.

I drop my gaze and lift a hand toward the group of women the children have circled—the same women I treated recently. Each of them suffered a relentless, wet cough, probably given to them by the rascals bouncing and shrieking around them.

With sharp gasps, the women lower their eyes, and their conversation devolves into hushed whispers. Furtive glances fly my way.

Long ago, I told myself I shouldn’t expect gratitude after helping others—that I should just do it because I can. The Gods gave me a gift, and it’s my responsibility to use it.

But is it so wrong to hope for even the slightest acknowledgement for all I’ve done?

I blow out a resigned breath and walk past, willing myself not to let their behavior deter me from my task.

But I suck that breath back in when I focus on one woman in particular. Lovely brown hair hangs over her face, but it fails to hide the latest black and blue bruise on her sharp cheekbone.

Fief’s wife.

I grit my teeth but force myself to keep walking, anger licking my throat, making me want to scream.

I scan the crowd.

Four soldiers wearing loose tunics and dirty trousers stand in front of the meeting hall, holding paintbrushes. They watch me pass. Paint drips onto the dirt.

They’re young. Maybe sixteen. They can’t do anything for Fief’s wife. No one but the Elders, General Ironheart, or his second and third can. And I doubt they will.

The few times a woman has dared to speak against her husband, the Elders offered sympathy, then reminded everyone it’s a man’s right to run his household as he sees fit.

Patriarchal bullshit.

Verdanthia is so desperate to reverse our dwindling population, our leaders have sacrificed basic decency, especially when it comes to protecting the vulnerable.

“Elara!” Lev jogs across the market, coming from the barracks where he sleeps.

His hair is mussed. His civilian clothes are wrinkled, like he just rolled out of bed.

“Hello, Lev.” I keep my voice even, flicking my gaze toward the crowded square, where dozens of people are watching. “Did you just wake up?”

“I had morning patrol.” He slows to a stop in front of me, eyes trailing over me, searching for any sign of injury. “Where are you going?”

“Juniper’s.”

“Perfect,” he says with a grin. “I’ll walk with you.”

“That’s not necess⁠—”