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After centuries in solitude, I’m unused to so many voices and bodies and⁠—

Gods, the noise.

It’s too much before they notice their king, and it only intensifies the moment their twinkling eyes land on Riven, knowing who he is without him donning a crown, as they fall into the deepest of bows. Some even weep—crying out in awe, with breathless murmurs of “Your Majesty”—while others shout at the top of their lungs.

Even overwhelmed, I find it all rather endearing.

If Riven truly is as awful as I’ve heard, why would he inspire this reaction from his people?

Is it because they’re afraid of him?

Or is this love and adoration?

Riven smiles at them, and I have a nagging feeling it’s the latter.

“You may rise,” he commands, and they all do.

It’s then that their gazes collectively sweep over me, and all the awe twinkling in their eyes is snuffed out as they realize I’m⁠—

“A witch,” someone cries out, touching their head and making a sweeping gesture over their heart.

Several others mimic the movement and back away from us.

A hush—sweet, sweet silence—falls over the crowd as if they expect their king to speak to my presence.

“The witch is my guest,” Riven says, projecting his voice so even those furthest away should be able to hear his declaration. “You will treat her with the same respect you grant me.”

Instead of waiting for a response, he turns from them, encouraging me to do the same as he slides his hand behind me. He doesn’t touch me, though. His hand just hovers above the small of my back like he’s torn between making contact and repulsed by the idea of it. I make the choice for him and walk onto the bridge. It spans the width of the calm water surrounding the palace, and I smile when Achlys shifts from hound to raven, becoming a shock of black against the fat white clouds lazily drifting across the sky.

“What was all that about?” I ask tightly, temples pounding. “Were they… warding me away? Like I’m some kind of monster?”

“My people aren’t aware of the blight, but they can feel something is wrong. Their magic is weakening, though they’re too proud to admit it, and the Fae Isles yields fewer harvests each season. My kind has always been quick to draw their own conclusions, and there have been rumors that either the Sovereign Sisters have revoked their blessing on me as king or that a witch has cursed the kingdom.” He pauses before adding, “I know without a doubt it isn’t the former.”

“How so?”

“I just do.”

“Compelling reasoning.” I glance at him sideways. “So you think you’ve been cursed?”

“I suspect something foul is afoot, but I don’t necessarily know if it’s witchcraft.”

“It’s not,” I say defensively.

“Who else would have the power to do such a thing?”

It’s a fair question, but one that leaves a bad taste in my mouth.

For all of witchkind to be blamed for terrible curses anytime something goes awry is the rhetoric that caused the great divide between covens during the Crimson War. Those fed up with being other creatures’ scapegoats aligned with the mortal kings, including my coven matron. Those who wanted to prove witchkind’s innocence in such acts remained in the Wyldelands and founded their own covens under Eliphas, the warlock supreme.

Which is why I can’t tell if Riven’s suspicion is born of genuine concern... or if, deep down, he’s like every other fae who’s been raised to see witches as convenient targets for their misfortunes.

We fall quiet as we cross the bridge, and I’m grateful for it.

I don’t want to hear or speak about witchkind as I take in my temporary new home’s surroundings. At least, I’m assuming I’ll stay in the palace until our bargain is fulfilled, and then I’ll retire to a cottage on one of the neighboring isles far away from court politics.

But for now, I will enjoy this.

A peek behind the curtain of luxury.