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“My curse.”

“Your curse?” I lick my lips, still tasting him and the berry-flavored wine he had been sipping when I walked in.

“I made a deathbed promise to my mother to keep the Thaelon bloodline pure,” he says, voice gruff. “I made the vow to console her during the Fading. But afterward… anytime I had any form of intimacy with a non-fae female, excruciating pain would flare up within me and my lover.”

“Riven, that’s…” I press my fist against my mouth. “I had no idea. I never would’ve kissed you if I knew it would hurt you.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not okay.”

“I kissed you back, little witch.” His hand cups his neck again and massages the skin there. “And when you cried out, I thought…”

“You thought you hurt me,” I say quietly. “You didn’t, though. It was just the letter opener.”

He exhales a long breath. “How is that possible?”

Because I was claimed by Death and returned to the world of the living as something other, I want to say, want to scream. I might claim to be a witch, to be a creature of the Wyldelands, but if he really is cursed, then why did his kiss not bring forth pain?

Why did it only fill me with a desire for more?

“I hate this,” Riven says. “I have more power than most creatures as king and supreme, and yet I don’t have the power to choose something as simple as who I take to my bed.” His hand finally leaves his neck, just for him to drag it through his already mussed hair. “In the spirit of honesty, you should know I couldn’t very well have the Wyldelands knowing something was wrong with me, so Arkyn and I…” His words trail off, and he swallows. “So Arkyn and I created the narrative that Riven Thaelon, fae king and fae supreme, only fucks fae females, and everyone believed it so godsdamned easily.” His laugh is ripe with bitterness. “I guess I can thank Edric and his bigotry for that.”

My mind spins as I work to puzzle out everything I’ve learned since being swept up in this mystery. If Riven’s mother cursed him, then the most obvious answer is that the blight must be a side-effect of said curse. Right? Except… The blight didn’t have any of the noticeable markings of a curse. No imprint, no casting signature. Instead, it was drowning in sadness. In loneliness.

An idea races through my mind as quick as Achlys when he’s chasing his prey.

“What does that face mean, little witch?” Riven asks.

I hold up a finger to shush him as I latch onto that thought and reel it in.

Could the blight be a manifestation of Riven’s psyche? Or could his magic be so closely tethered to the lands that his unhappiness, his self-denial, is causing the blight?

No… that’s— That cannot be it. Could it?

I don’t have the power to choose something as simple as who I take to my bed.

Does this all boil down to Riven’s desire to choose?

“Gwyn,” he says impatiently. “What are you thinking?”

I should tell him my suspicions, but I want to be sure first.

I’ll need to test my theory, and to do so…

“I’m thinking we need to find you a bride,” I blurt out, surprising myself. Even after what just happened, I can’t let desire steer this. I know he’ll never truly choose me, and I won’t let myself be the one he marries out of convenience. “Though with your reputation, it’s not going to be easy to convince your people or the Wyldelands that you’ve had a sudden change of heart.”

“I know. That’s why I proposed to you first, even though I figured you’d reject me.” He climbs to his feet and rolls his shoulders, crossing the space to pick up the bundle of scrolls. “Now, I can move on to the real plan and find a bride in a way that avoids political upheaval.”

I arch a brow. “And that is?”

“I’m going to host a marriage mart.” He grins at me, and the way that look burns me up from the inside out is obscene. “While you were asleep, I wrote letters to the rest of the Seven, requesting they send their strongest candidates, most fit to be queen, to the Fae Isles for the chance to become my bride. So they’ll send me their top choices, you’ll pick whichever one is the best for me over the course of a few weeks, and then I’ll marry her.”

It all sounds so simple and yet⁠—

“How, exactly, will I know which bride is the best for you?” I ask.

“Because you’re going to pretend to be vying for my heart alongside them.” His grin shifts into a smirk. “You know me, Gwyn. You know what my kingdom needs. If you pretend to be a potential bride, you’ll have the unique opportunity to see their true natures when they’re no longer performing for me. That’s how you’ll know which bride is best.”