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Until my father decided my mixed human and fae blood was too much of a problem to be ignored.
Was it my appearance that irked him so?
I had never had what you might call perfectly human ears. They were not pointy like a fae’s but neither were they completely rounded.
Or perhaps it was my hair.
Before my mother died, my hair seemed on its way to becoming a pale blonde, if not a rich gold like hers was.
But after she passed, it began to turn ashen. Then decidedly gray.
Now I was a twenty-year-old young woman with hair the color of an old woman’s.
Perhaps if I was very lucky it would be pure white by the time I reached twenty-five.
Gray was not a fae color. Their complexions leaned towards the more vivid hues. Bright greens, vibrant blues, rich reds. I once read a story about a fae with purple hair and violet skin. It sounded beautiful to me.
Humans with a dash of fae blood in their lineage rarely presented with such strong features. Many of the noble families still possessed traces of fae blood but fewer and fewer who did came to court, knowing of Arthur’s unspoken prejudice.
Usually those with mixed blood managed to blend fairly easily. They generally didn’t wind up murdered in cold blood by their king before the entire court.
I suspected there were a fair number of nobles with fae lineage in the Great Hall that day who had been quivering in their doe-skin boots and silk slippers at the sight of their king unhesitatingly executing a fae-blooded boy on the slenderest of justifications.
Overall, mixed-blood humans were accepted. Oh, they might have faced some cruelty and ridicule. But they were permitted to live their lives. They married, had children, and died like the rest of us–in a limited lifespan.
But a Pendragon queen with fae blood? I was a relic of a people who many believed no longer even existed. Not to mention a reminder of the fae-blooded wife my father would rather forget he had ever had.
So, my father decided I would simply not become queen.
What it came down to was simple. He did not believe I was worthy.
What was easier to understand was that he preferred Arthur to me. Arthur who was a replica of the boy my father had been. Arthur who was strong and hard and showed a hint of the viciousness my father believed was necessary in any good monarch.
And so not long after Ettarde died, not long after Arthur was legitimized, and only a short while after Uther had married Enid, another proclamation went forth.
Morgan Pendragon, daughter of Uther and Ygraine, was no longer the heir to the throne of Pendrath.
Instead, she would be dedicated to the Temple of the Three Sisters upon reaching her twenty-first birthday.
Arthur Pendragon would be the future king of Pendrath.
For my father, it was all very simple and very convenient.
Officially, I was still a princess of the royal blood, no matter how murky that blood might have been in my fae-tinged veins.
I was not being sent away or formally repudiated. Nothing so cruel. No, this was very...humane.
I would simply not be queen.
But unofficially, I was an outcast in the Rose Court from that day forward.
My future had been set for me before I was old enough to question it.
