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Everyone was holding a breath when we finally reached the end.
Fovea’s last brand was traced on the back of her right ankle. “Seventy-one.”
I chalked the final brand on the top of North’s left foot. “Seventy-one.”
The fae woman whose name I didn’t know carefully re-inspected every single inch of Fovea’s skin, moving her braids as needed, and even peering at the leader’s scalp while looking for one last, hidden brand.
None was found.
With a dark expression, the fae carefully set her chunk of the chalk—ettisho—on the ground. “Seventy-one,” she repeated.
I followed her lead, carefully looking over North’s skin. The girl’s hair was already stained reddish-black thanks to the chalk I’d gotten in it as I moved it around earlier, but I didn’t hesitate to move it again, looking for just one more marking.
One last brand would change everything. It would force the harsh to accept peace—and to release our women.
But I didn’t find one.
So, with my heart pounding in my ears, I slowly lowered our ettisho to the ground and then stood back up, saying, “Seventy-one.”
Silence rang through the cave. The men outside had stopped fighting ages ago. I didn’t know where they were, or what they were doing—but none of us dared to bring it up.
Priel was still unconscious, though the blood had dried on his skin after his wounds healed themselves.
Earlier, I’d noticed Aev and Lian, both also unconscious, dropped unceremoniously in the corner of the room furthest from the women. A few female fae guarded them—though I was pretty sure they were threatening more than protecting.
“How do we determine the leader, then?” North asked, her voice hard.
“A fight, to decide which of us can better protect our life-bringers. Under the full moon,” Fovea said, through a clenched jaw. “The victor leads. The loser becomes second-in-command.”
My throat swelled.
Either way, North was going to have some say in how the fae women ran things.
“I don’t know how to fight,” North said, her own jaw tightening.
“Then I suppose you have three weeks to learn. Until then, I retain full control.” The female fae’s eyes narrowed at North, but I noticed them flick to January, and linger on the curve of her abdomen for a long moment.
Finally, she gave her women one last command.
“Leave the unwilling protectors. We go now.”
The first of the harsh women shifted their fingers into claws, many of them also gripping weapons, as they moved fluidly toward the crack in the wall that the woman had slipped through to get the chalk.
The speed and unity with which they moved was kind of impressive, but I didn’t miss the way their gazes went.
The same way the queen’s had gone; to January.
And to the swell of her belly.
They had lived for hundreds of years, at least. Always being taught that they couldn’t create life, and that they were made to protect those who could.
A shiver rolled down my spine as I realized how they must’ve felt, seeing a harsh woman growing the life they had always protected so fiercely.
They must’ve wondered whether or not they could do the same—and fought the urge to drag January into their arms and protect her the way they had always protected their own pregnant females.
Fovea wanted to retain the sliver of control she still felt like she held. She didn’t want to bring it up—or voice those thoughts.
But she had to be having them.
