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Her expression softened and she squeezed my hands. Shavarra was nothing if not forgiving. Her tongue slipped over her lower lip, moistening the dry skin. The intentness of her gaze drifted from me back to the woman who brought me in.
“I knew we would find you in a bar.” She forced a chuckle.
“I, uh, didn’t have anywhere else to go.” Avoiding her sympathetic look, I let my eyes wander the small cottage for the first time.
The assassin stood with her arms crossed over her chest, her shoulder leaning against a bookcase that was filled with books. Literature with bindings ranging from two inches thick to thin slivers were stacked upright and on top of each other, shoved into whatever space was available.
Next to the bookshelf was a small fireplace, cold and dark. Dust from old ashes fanned out from the stones and onto the worn, wooden floorboards. The dirt neared two broken-down chairs and a couch that looked more like a deflated balloon.
Pictures were propped up of smiling faces I didn’t recognize and one all-too-familiar face. This was, if I had to guess, Shavarra’s real home. And it was a far cry from the luxuries I had been living in.
“I heard they took your rights to the crown away.” Shavarra nodded. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Sometimes Shavarra liked to fill the silence that occasionally rose between us. I had never been a fan of small talk, specifically when it reminded me of what I lost.
“I guess I finally got what I’ve always wanted.” I tried to shrug it off like it didn’t matter, even though everything in me felt drained of what normally fueled me.
You’re a fool, Dace, it does matter.
“There is some good news, though.”
My gaze stopped the adventurous wanderings of the space around me and found its way back to my friend's face. Her mouth ticked up into a sideways grin.
“And what might that be?” I drawled.
“Resources tell me that there are a lot of people who are upset that you lost your crown. Fae have been flocking to us from all over the court expressing their loyalty toyou.”
To me? People actually liked me?
No, it wasn’tme. It couldn’t be. It was my cause.
I chuckled through my teeth, running my fingers through my greasy hair. “What resources may that be? Because so far, everyone is treating me like a disease they don’t want to catch.”
Shavarra pointed at the assassin. “This is Jesseline. She serves a guild of assassins. They represent a lot of really wealthy Fae who want to back you.”
Jesseline raised her eyebrows but said nothing to confirm the statement. In the light, I could see into the darkness of her hood. Dirty blonde hair stopped in a blunt cut at her chin, her lips a faded plum pressed into a tight line.
I blinked away my warring thoughts and looked between Shavarra and Jesseline.
“How many Nymphs made it out?” I finally asked the question that had been eating away at me since the refuge was burned down.
“Only about a third of them.” She nodded, turning toward closed doors that led out of the living room. “Would you like to see them?”
“They’re here?” The surprise in my voice was evident as Shavarra gave a tender smile.
“I didn’t know where else to take them, so I brought them home.” Her cheeks flushed crimson and she wrung her hands in front of her. “I, uh, know it isn’t much, but it's what I have and it’s far enough out of town that it’s easy enough to hide them.”
Compared to the Twinity Court castle or even the refuge, this place was grim and poverty stricken. A strong wind, much like the one that howled against the thin windows, might even be able to blow it over. No wonder she had practically lived at the refuge. But she was giving everything she had, and that’s what mattered.
“Your home is lovely,” I said, hoping I was convincing enough.
Her throat bobbed, her gaze trailing over me once more like she had to make sure I was still in one piece. Physically, I supposed I was. My brown pants were creased with dirt scuffed up the side of my calves. The white button-up over it wasn’t so white anymore. And I could still feel the stickiness of whatever was on that bar top on my cheek.
Shavarra’s cheeks tinted crimson, her fingers finding the doorknob that had been rubbed bronze. The door at the back of the living room opened into a small kitchen and dining room. Bodies bandaged and blistered sat at the table or leaned propped up against the counters. A few were curled up on mats that cushioned them from the hard floor. Nymphs spoke quietly, their conversations hung in suspense at the sight of me.
If I had thought that I looked bad, these people were in hell. Many of them were bruised and cradling makeshift splints. None of them looked as if they made it out without a scratch.
“Prince Dace,” many of them murmured in greeting.
My heart leapt at the name. The title I had often rejected and now missed. Even without my title, I was still the prince to some, and maybe one day even the king.
