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“My brother has urgent business to attend to,” she drawls as she makes it to the end of the table where she perches on the edge between a silver goblet and a bottle of fairy wine. Her black leather armor makes her look like anything but a princess, as do the multiple blades sheathed along her hips and ribs. A warrior, and a fearless one at that, or she wouldn’t just stride into a room full of Crows like they were pets in cages. “So, I took it upon myself to see if this year’s bride is still alive.”
Her gaze meets mine across feathered, clawed monsters, fine, crystal goblets, and stacks of paper scattered along the two long tables, and the luminous green of them takes me by surprise so much that I nearly forget to keep my face impassive.
I haven’t seen normal eyes—eyes with whites around the irises—in almost two months, and I could cry and scream at the same time to see another female in a home of males. Even if it’s just for an hour.
Those eyes shutter as she looks me up and down, and I wonder what it is that makes her react that way, like there is something wrong with me.
“What a beautiful one you’ve chosen this year, King Myron.” She hops off the table, so graceful it’s hard to believe she’s real as her hair flows behind her like a streak of fire, and swaggers down the center between the long tables, all Crow eyes glued to her every movement.
Whether she intends to bind their attention so all-encompassing, I can’t bring myself to care. All I can do is stare at the female myself with her energy rolling through the corridor between males until she stands at the bottom of the dais, inclining her head to me. “Queen of Crows.”
Unsure of how to respond to her greeting, or whether she is mocking me with the gesture of respect, I stand and take a step forward.
For now, it doesn’t matter if she is friend or foe. She’s the first person I’ve seen in what feels like forever who isn’t a Crow and whose interest appears to be in my well-being rather than in my demise. So, I’ll take it.
“Princess.” I imitate her gesture in what I’m certain is a clumsy dip of my chin rather than the regal motion she performed.
“You’re alive and well?” She leans forward a few inches as if that will give us privacy in our conversation, but I’m acutely aware of the way every last male in the room is hanging at my open mouth, waiting for the words about to tumble off my tongue.
I swallow them—that I’m devastated, that I’m beyond scared of what my future holds, that I don’t expect to survive the year even with Myron’s promise he’ll let me go first thing next Ret Relah if I continue to play the good bride. That I nearly died too many times, that internally I’ve been dead since the day the Tavrasian soldiers slit Ludelle’s throat. That the only reason I still stand here is that I might not deserve to die peacefully after all the crimes I committed.
Instead, I blow out a slow breath, keeping my gaze on her sparkling jade ones. “Define well.”
Behind me, Myron chuckles, a sound so low I barely hear it, moresenseit deep in my bones, as if his approval were a living, breathing thing snaking along my limbs, granting me support.
The female laughs a chime-like laugh, and I can’t help thinking that it’s the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. She’s the first female fairy I’ve come across, and the way her features light up with momentary amusement is almost painful in its beauty.
But instead of responding to my demand, she turns to Myron. “What a spirited one you’ve chosen this year.”
Myron’s warning hiss sears through me even though it’s not meant for me, and I shudder as his bird voice rustles by my ear. “It’s not like I have much of a choice in whom I take as a bride, is it?”
At that, the princess’s face sobers. “Be grateful that you’re getting one at all. My brother has been way too generous.”
From the corner of my eyes, I notice Royad and Ephegos reaching for the swords at their hips. I hadn’t thought anything of it when Royad showed up armed to pick me up for the meeting. He carries his blade around the palace whenever he escorts me. But it’s the first time I actually see him ready to use it.
“Oh come on, Roy. Keep your little blade where it is. I’m not going to attack you. I know the bargain my brother has made with your king.”
It dawns on me then that she—that Princess Cliophera—must be the Fairy King’s sister. The Fairy King who waged war against the Crows a little over a hundred years ago.
I can’t even begin to describe how mind-boggling it is to stand in a room full of creatures from history books—history books I’ve only recently begun to read, but still—these were creatures defining the fate of this realm in one way or the other.
Royad’s hiss tears through my thoughts. “You’re not welcome here, Princess.”
My hair stands at the back of my neck as I watch my bodyguard turn into a killing machine ready to slaughter the obviously very dangerous fairy in front of me—who simply shrugs his comment off with a chuckle.
“Perhaps I’m not welcome, but at least, I care about whether your brides live or die, considering I should have once become one of them.”
My gaze darts to Myron, who confirms with a nod, his bird features on display like a mask of protection. I didn’t see it before, but it is clear to me now that the king behind his throne is wearing an armor of his own when he conjures his feathers and beak and talons—which are digging into the backrest of the stone throne now, leaving little dents between the carvings.
I try not to think about what strength he must hold if his mere fingertips can destroy ancient rocks.
“And what a lucky princess you are that you escaped that fate.” Myron’s tone is relatively bored even when the rest of him gives away how on edge he is.
“Lucky indeed. Your father wasn’t a creature to be wed to. Especially with that horrible crown…” She exaggerates a shudder and winks at me as if to tell me she knows exactly what she’s doing by upsetting the Crow King. “As for your current bride… She seems a bit … human.”
I can’t place whether it’s supposed to be an insult or a simple assessment of a fact. Myron, however, steps around the throne, his feathered arm pressing against my shoulder as he stands beside me. I don’t flinch at the contact even when a million conflicting sensations are running through my body right now.
“That doesn’t make her any less.” Much as I want to say they don’t, his words surprise me. The fact that he stands up for me does. This is still the cold, uncaring king he wants to display in front of his people, yet he shows weakness by showing that it doesn’t matter to him what I am. And I have no idea how to feel about that.
