THE SWORD

A MORTAL FATES NOVELLA

VOLUME 2

J BREE

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Coming April 27th

PROLOGUE

The scent of spilled blood wakes me.

I’ve never been to war, never spilled more blood than what’s welled from a simple nick here or there while training, and yet there is no mistaking what I'm smelling.

At sixteen years of age, I’m barely more than a faeling, not even close to being considered fully grown by fae standards. My body is near maturity; I already tower over my father, and in the sparring ring, I'm stronger than most of my family. Now that summer’s begun, my closest cousins and I are being trained by the sword master here at Yris Castle, our home. It never gets truly hot in the Southern Lands, but as the blizzards and bleakness of winter recede, we’ve come to our summer home to live and rule.

As the heir to the throne of the Southern Lands, I have more than just a bedroom here at Yris Castle. I have my own wing. A bedroom, a bathroom, a sitting room, chambers to entertain in, my own dining room should I choose not to join my parents in the formal areas…I have never been in want of my own space, and as I pass through it all, there isn’t a drop of blood to be found.

Yet the scent is choking me, creeping down the back of my throat until I feel as though I'm being smothered.

It's true that the fae have a keen sense of smell, but I've never experienced anything like this before. Growing up, I heard stories of old rituals to the Fates, sacrifices involving blood—gallons of it—and I have to shake myself to clear the wild images that fill my mind as a deep sense of dread settles in my gut.

The truth may very well be worse.

I may be young, but my father has been preparing me for the throne my entire life, teaching me what it means to be not only a man of the realm but a king, and I am deeply aware of the unrest that exists in my kingdom. There are whispers that carry through the castle but stop when I enter a room, as though they're all trying to protect me from the coming war with the witches. As if I don't spend my days training at the edge of the sword, to sense the sword, to become the sword, and ensure that I will fulfill my duties.

I have no intention of remaining safely in one of those war rooms, demanding the sacrifice of my people while I stand there draped in finery, never to see any of the horrors myself. No matter what I’ve been taught in my years of preparation for the throne, that is not the man I wish to be.

The hallways are empty. That is the first real indicator that my nose is not lying to me, that something here is wrong. Yris Castle is my family’s ancestral home, the seat of their power, and it’s always bubbling with life, overflowing with people, as the entire household lives here. With the maids, the cooks the gardeners,, and the hundreds of guards to keep our family safe, I've never walked down a hallway without bumping into dozens of people, and yet, there is no one.

Not so much as a single guard.

When I turned twelve, I demanded my own space from my parents, insisting I was more than old enough to sleep in chambers by myself. My mother was reluctant to agree. Like most high fae women, she had struggled with her pregnancy, struggled to fall pregnant in the first place, to carry me to term, to bring me into this world, and so she had to fight hard not to coddle me.

In the end, she had agreed to moving me into the heir’s chambers. It was as though she was proving to herself that she could share her most beloved son with the world and the realm as was expected of her.

As my feet pick up their pace, I almost wish she had fought a little harder so I didn’t have to travel so far to find them, to get their reassurance that everything is okay, to know that they’re smelling what I am in the air and finding themselves confused and disoriented by it too.

I reach the double doors to my parents’ chambers and, before I get the chance to take stock of what I'm seeing, blood seeps slowly out from under the bottom of them. By the time my brain has caught up, I’ve shoved the doors open, and I see the carnage everywhere.

Bodies of maids and guards litter my parents' entryway. My feet slip in the mess as I stumble toward their bedroom, my eyes flicking around everywhere at my family's household, my mother's chambermaids, dozens and dozens of people who had a hand in raising me, all of them cold corpses. The only way these people could have been killed without waking me is magic, the type the high fae forgot a long time ago.

Even as panicked as my mind becomes, I note the guard who shouldn’t be here amongst the dead. He’s not one of my father’s men; the colors of his cloak are off and stand out amongst the rest like a beacon. A dagger protrudes from his back, plunged deep into his heart. It is the only wound on him.

A sigil peeks out from a tear in his uniform, blackness oozing from it as though it’s bleeding ink. It’s not ink though; the way it shimmers and sizzles speaks of the magic it contains. That sort of magic isn’t used in the castle, and certainly not by the high fae.

My mind absorbs the information, but I can’t get a hold of it; nothing truly resonates as the blood fills my senses and renders me dazed and desperate. I work my way farther into the room and begin praying to the Fates that I won't see my parents amongst the dead.

When I get to their bedroom door, my hand hesitates above the handle. Dread chokes me, rising from my stomach and creeping into my throat until I can't breathe. I hear screaming behind me, someone else having found the massacre that I have uncovered, but I can’t turn and look at whoever it is. I clench my teeth around the bile that fills my mouth as I shove open the doors to my parents’ bedroom and then drop to my knees in the pools of blood within.

The reign of King Silas and Queen Eldris has ended.

May the Fates have mercy on their souls.

ONE

983 years later

AS THE FRIGID air whips around us, my horse’s gait becomes unsteady.

The thick fur cloak around my neck is pulled taut over my mouth and nose, so tight that I struggle to breathe through it. Regardless, the air burns my lungs with its icy kiss and the cold seeps into my bones.

Our party of ten soldiers, two of my cousins, and myself is moving slower than ever before, and even being Unseelie high fae of the Southern Lands, born and bred in the ice and snow, we struggle across the frozen plains.

I can't hear anything over the roar of the wind, and all that I can see in front of me is the blank canvas of flurries as the ice storm rages around us as though it were created by the rage of the Fates themselves.

Tyton, my cousin and a prince of the realms, set us on this path this morning. The magic in his blood is stronger than anyone else’s, and he assured me, when we came through the fae door—a relic of high fae magic that helps us cut through the kingdom in moments rather than days—that we could make it through the storm. He was sure it wouldn't outlast us so long as we guided our horses to keep putting one hoof in front of the other through the thick of it. We’ll get through this.

His eyes had glowed a little brighter when he spoke, and I’d known that it wasn't just a belief, it was the solid truth of the Fates speaking through him. But now, looking around at the mess we're in, I have my doubts. The objective of our journey is worth the risks to me though. I will do anything to prove my suspicion that treason is taking place.

I glance over my shoulder, but visibility is so bad that I can't even do a headcount of our scouting group. I can't see beyond my cousins, who flank either side of me a half step back in a formation that displays their respect for me as the true and rightful king.

One without my crown.

We came out here under the guise of checking over the kingdom to learn which regions most need assistance, but I have another motive, one I’m not ready to share with anyone but my closest family. After almost a thousand years of fighting against the witch armies and losing countless fae, time is running out for my people. If we’re going to win and survive this war, we need to uncover whoever is helping the witches and hold them accountable. The witch armies are always one step ahead of us and, no matter how hard we fight or how secretive we are about our battle plans, they are never defeated.

After nine hundred years, the memory of my parents lying in pools of their own blood surrounded by the corpses of their household is still as fresh in my mind as it was the day I found them.

Someone let the witches in.

I have my suspicions about who it was.

My hands are steady on the reins as I guide Nightspark. My calm disposition washes over the horse, the surety of my actions settling him better than any words ever could. There's nothing that will spook a horse faster than a nervous rider who doesn't know how to stay in control. I can feel Nightspark’s labored breath as he fights through the crushing mountain of snow in front of us, but he does not waver.

His dark coat, usually as inky black as the night sky for which he's named, looks gray to my eyes, thanks to the snow. When I finally reach a hand down to stroke his neck, rewarding him for such hard work, he whickers, not loud enough for even my fae ears to hear through the storm but I feel the rumble of it underneath my thighs.

There is nothing quite as sacred to me as my relationship with my horses. I’ve had dozens over the centuries, each perfectly bred and trained to follow my every command.

Nightspark came to me on a different path but he’s still the perfect steed for me, a beast of a horse who towers over most others. He was on his way to the butcher's block for bad behavior when I got my hands on him. The stables at Yregar Castle know of my love for headstrong steeds, and at the last moment they’d put him aside for me. When my uncle became the Regent, to rule in my stead until I find my Fates-blessed mate, he took over Yris Castle and left me to pick from the rest of our ancestral homes to call one my own. I had many fond memories of Yregar as a child, enough that no one questioned my strategic reasons for choosing to live there.

Namely, its distance from my uncle, and the impenetrable wall that encloses the village and castle.

Nightspark is big enough to make his way through the drifting snow and, when the storm reaches its peak, even Tyton and Tauron have to direct their horses to walk in his wake. His body works hard, but he doesn’t waiver, pushing through with brute force and absolute trust in my commands. My cousins return to my side only when the storm finally breaks and, as if by a feat of magic, the blue skies appear suddenly in front of us with not a single cloud in sight.

For a moment I fear we’ve been ambushed, our minds taken over by witches, and my hand slips to the pommel of my sword. But when I glance behind us, I find the skies black and the snowstorm still raging. We’ve just reached the edge of it, escaped through sheer persistence.

It's unnatural, not the way that weather should behave here—another sign of just how far the Southern Lands have fallen from the natural order.

There's a soft whistle, and I turn to Tauron, knowing it's a subtle signal from him to get my attention. He points at the sky to the right, and I see the stream of smoke curling into the air. A camp, or something else—something needing our attention.

Though we are on lands that belong to me, we are within the Goblin King’s purview, and not all whom we meet on our path will be so respectful of their future high fae king.

I give him a curt nod and steer Nightspark toward the smoke. There’s no need for us to avoid the area when we see a sign of someone’s presence. Goblins, witches, lower fae—it doesn’t matter. My small scouting party is more than capable of disposing of any threats.

There's every chance it will be nothing more than a small group of goblins or part-bloods, but from the moment we stepped through the fae door that connects Yregar Castle to the goblin lands, we’ve been on the lookout for witches and other signs of warmongering. My suspicions have been growing for many years—centuries—and this isn’t the first time we’ve gone looking for answers.

The smoke is our first real indicator of life.

The goblin territories begin at the southernmost border of the Southern Lands, the kingdom that my father ruled during a peaceful time, one that ended with his death. It's the coldest of the regions, and even in a full set of armor and a thick, fur-lined cloak, I can feel the icy winds bite into my skin and seep into the marrow of my bones.

The Goblin Lands are the least friendly of all of the principalities of the Southern Lands, the one closest to benefiting from the War of the Witches by getting out of the servitude contract with the Celestial family, and so it has always been on my radar as a potential ally to our enemies.

The charred remains of the witch on the stake in front of us definitely throw some doubt into that theory.

There’s nothing else around us, no tracks in the snow or signs of life, just the charred and stinking remains of one of my greatest enemies. There's no mistaking it for any other lower fae creature though. The witch markings are so deep that even in the charred remains they can be seen clearly, and the flames that still glow around the wood pyre spark as though hit by a magic current within the creature.

I walk around it slowly, but there’s no need to cut it down to find what I’m looking for. The magic in the witch's blood makes the markings stand out, shining unnaturally as the paltry rays of sunlight hit them, and the witches’ sigil carved into its shoulder shines clearly even through the charred mess, the shimmer of magic helping it to stand out. It’s a simple shape, like an upside-down three tined fork, and yet there’s no mistaking it for a cut.

I don’t utter a word about it, though it’s the exact sign I’ve been searching for. Another piece of evidence in the growing pile that cannot be ignored.

I stare at the corpse for long enough to confuse and irritate the rest of the scouting group, though only my cousins are brave enough to comment on it.

“Are we gonna stand here and look at this forever? I understand that we hate these Fates-cursed things, but this is starting to feel perverted,” Tauron mutters, and I finally turn away from the corpse and face him.

He’s one of my closest confidants, someone I trust with my life, but he’s also a surly sort of fae. While he looks like most of the Celestial line of Unseelie high fae, with silvery-blond hair, pale skin, and icy blue eyes, he’s bigger than most fae males, broader and more defined. But I still dwarf him. Hundreds of years of training and then fighting in the War of the Witches has left its mark on me. I'm sure at this point, even my father wouldn't recognize me. The son he was raising to be a good and fair king is barely more than a general in a war. A mindless sword not suitable to rule at the highest level of the perfect and faultless Unseelie Court.

The Savage Prince.

The royals all whisper it behind my back as though I can’t hear the derision and disgust in their voices, brave thanks to the blocks in the way of me taking the throne.

“Should we cut it down? Examine it further or do…anything?” Tyton says from behind his brother, a lick of disgust curling his lip as he looks at the smoking corpse.

He's more refined than the rest of us, almost identical in looks to his brother but more carefully put together even while traveling the open road, but he swings a sword just as well as any of us. My scouting party is smaller than usual, only a handful of men and myself as we travel across the lands to take stock of how far things have progressed, a ruse for our real mission and a trip to the Seer to keep the regent from asking questions.

Even through all the snow, it’s clear the goblin lands are flourishing.

We came here only a few years ago and found every village in good condition. None of the villagers were starving, and even now there isn't a whiff of death in the air. The villagers had all stared at us as though we were monsters, grotesque and rabid. I'm used to having that sort of derision thrown at me, but to see it aimed in my cousins’ directions as well was something else.

I could tell neither of them liked it.

The prosperity only deepens my suspicions about the Goblin King. His people seem to flourish, even as the rest of the lands are dying.

“Just leave it up there. The Goblin King wants to send a message, and I'm sure it's the same as ours. Witches aren’t welcome here.”

The other soldiers are happy with this, happy to get back on their horses and continue through the snow-covered terrain, but the words are empty to me. The corpse suggests he’s on our side, but his hostile treatment of the rest of the Unseelie Court and the fact his lands are flourishing suggest otherwise. I don’t know where the Goblin King’s loyalties truly lie.

But I’m not unhappy to find the corpse. No witch should be safe in Southern Lands.

I give the corpse one final inspection to see if there’s anything striking about the other tattoos, or anything that might give us a clue as to who else was here but, other than the sigil, there's nothing.

Witches all look the same to me.

THE FARTHER we venture through the goblin lands, the hotter the rage in my belly grows, until the sting of the icy air against my cheeks no longer cools me.

Even in the depths of one of the harshest winters we have ever experienced, there is so much life here. The forests that line the path we’re on are untouched. The ground is frozen solid beneath the hooves of our horses, but there’s no damage to it. The ride is smooth, as though we’ve been transported back in time a thousand years, before the war had even begun. Every villager we pass is in good health and, though they scurry away from us fearfully, they are plump and well taken care of.

The rest of the country starves and yet, somehow, the goblin lands thrive.

I can tell that my rage is not the only one burning here. I look at Tauron, and he meets my eye, the azure blue of his irises—so like my own—cutting as he takes in the same scenes as I do.

The rest of the high fae regions in the kingdom are fighting a war that’s ravaging not only our populations, but the land itself, and yet the goblins sit here, untouched.

The body of the witch no longer seems like a good sign.

The regent sent out an edict to each of the royal houses, asking for provisions to find out how well each area was faring with their harvests, and the Goblin King ignored it. Was that an admission of alliance with the witches, or was he merely hoarding food and hoping the rest of us starved to death and left the kingdom behind for him to rule? I can’t say for sure, but I held on to my temper by a single, rapidly fraying thread.

“Maybe the witch was trespassing. The Goblin King always did rule with an iron fist,” Tauron murmurs to me as we break away from the rest of the group.

I might trust every man riding with us enough to ride with them today, but that trust goes only so far outside of my inner circle. There are too many hoping to be paid handsomely with either gold or social standing.

Things have changed a lot since the time of my father.

“I think you're right. It doesn't seem as though there’s been a battle here that would warrant any other swift retribution.”

Tyton steers his horse to join us, the deep blue of his ancestral cloak a stark contrast to the white around us. The hood is drawn up over the silver blonde of his hair, hiding some of it but not all. He looks every inch the refined high fae prince of his bloodline.

The difference of course is that he’s here, now, with me.

Every other member of these brothers’ family is too afraid to be out here, combing the lands in search of any signs of our enemy. I'm sure their mother would give up her entire fortune to get Tyton back into the circuit of the Unseelie Court. I'm even more certain that she goes to bed every night cursing my name to the Fates themselves for dragging her son into such things.

The high fae never did enjoy the brutality and dirtiness of war.

“We should stop here for the night,” Tauron says, jerking his head toward the small river that runs alongside the path we’re traveling on.

The edges are frozen, but there's water running through the middle, little icicles drifting along in the current without any sort of pattern or reason. I loathe the very idea of stopping here, of being on the lands of a male I'm so sure is my enemy, but there are more dangerous things out here than the King of Goblins.

I have a responsibility to my men to put aside my personal feelings and do what is right for them.

I instruct the soldiers to make camp by a small stand of trees and get the horses water a little farther down the river. It doesn’t matter how much royal blood runs through his veins; the moment I tell Tauron to check, make, and secure a perimeter, he dips his head at me respectfully and moves to do as I command without question.

The guards all take in his surly demeanor with respect and more than a little fear. It's still less tension than the Unseelie Court regards me with, but I suppose that’s to be expected. They’ve seen what I can do, what I have done, to protect my people, ruthless and without mercy to the very end.

As though it has a mind of its own, my hand moves to the scar on my face, my fingers finding the mottled and destroyed skin by habit. I gained it during my very first campaign against the witches, and the scar still pains me in the cold. It glows white, a mark of the magic it took to stop the blow from killing me.

It was the first real attempt on my life.

The war with the witches had truly broken out not long after my parents had been murdered. I’d been young, fighting alongside Tauron and Roan, my best friend and a prince of the Snowsong line. We were under the command of Prince Rydern, another of my uncles and the father of my fondest cousin, Princess Airlie, but we’d gotten separated as the day went on. I was skilled but inexperienced, too green to see the signs as the tide of the battle turned and the witches began to overpower us. It didn’t matter that we were better armed, better trained, better in every way.

They outnumbered us ten-to-one.

Rydern had called for a retreat, but it was too late for me and the soldiers fighting at my side. We’d been cornered, and I’d been gravely injured. It had taken magic from one of the last high fae healers to save my life, and none of the other soldiers had survived. When I woke from the magic-induced healing sleep, I heard about the devastation of the battle, the loss of hundreds of male soldiers that we’d taken to the funeral pyres.

I learned how close I’d come to dying, and of the mysterious injuries that my uncle Solas, the regent, had sustained.

Though he’d led the charge to battle, when he’d come to visit me as I’d recovered at Yregar Castle, he’d had nothing more than a bandage on his shoulder. When I’d questioned him about it, he’d replied that it was nothing more than a scratch, irritated by the witches’ magic, which had slowed down the healing process. His explanation had never sat right with me, but I’d kept my unease to myself, distracted by the worsening state of the kingdom as the war waged on.

My own injuries had healed, and only the scar on my face remained. Though the entire society of high fae sees it as a flaw, something marring the looks that they're all so obsessed with, I have never viewed it that way.

This scar is proof that I survived.

Proof that no matter what the witches throw at me, I will persevere and do what is necessary for my people. That I can overcome the cruel magic and bloodshed that this war has inflicted upon us, that someday, somehow, I will find my mate, Fates-blessed and out there somewhere.

Together we will end this war.

In a short amount of time, Tyton has the horses resting in the small outcropping of trees, a modest fire melting the snow around them, and a handful of sweet apples to feed them. We'd taken only enough rations to ride through the goblin lands with three or four nights of camping out, and we are already running behind schedule. I wasn't expecting the snow to slow us down as much as it has, and I certainly wasn't expecting to stop to take in our enemy, staked and smoking like a warning to all of those who look upon it.

I find myself unable to make civil conversation with our soldiers, so once they have set up their bedrolls and Tyton has started another fire to cook our rations for us, I take a seat on the side of the small blaze closest to the camp’s edge.

The fallen log is frozen solid and chills me, but I ignore it, pulling my coat in tight around my body as I stare into the flames. There's so much on my mind, too many things for me to decipher. The politics that come with my position are maddening, and it would take the patience of a Seer to sift through it all without making a misstep or saying to the fires with it all.

Preoccupied with the mess of intrigue and guesswork, I would have missed the footsteps behind me if my senses weren't so sharpened thanks to centuries of war.

Tauron sits beside me and rubs his hands together, blowing on them as though that will do anything to warm them. “Should we stop in and see King Galen? He can't continue to refuse you. You're the heir.”

I’ve tried to contact him myself twice, and both times my messengers were turned away at the edges of the Goblin City. There’s nothing I can do about the insult, not without taking the issue to the regent and the Unseelie Court, and the Goblin King has already made his disdain for them clear. Until I have my throne, there’s nothing I can do about him.

If we somehow manage to win the War of the Witches, and we will, I have no doubt we will face a civil war soon after. The Goblin King merely has to bide his time and wait until the witches decimate us, then he can declare his region an independent kingdom, free and clear of the Unseelie Court and the Celestial family’s claim to it. He's always been on the verge of doing it; my father had told me at a young age to watch out for the Goblin King’s knife in the dark, and I’ve never forgotten that warning.

King Galen is the only king amongst the princes of the land but, historically, the Goblin King has answered to the king of the Southern Lands, has aided his calls for help and paid the same dues as the rest of the princes of the realm.

The moment he finds an opening, he’ll draw that dagger across my throat, anything to weaken the contract and get him out from under it.

I shrug and roll my shoulders back, still tight from travels by horseback. “I might be the heir but I’m not the king yet. I don't think he’s worried about impressing me.”

I’m saying a lot more than the words coming out of my mouth, because if the Goblin King is not concerned about impressing me, then we all know who he thinks is going to end up on the throne. To speak my mind fully right now would be treason against the regent and the Unseelie Court, and so I keep the words to myself, tucked away as they always are beneath the surface.

Tauron is one of my oldest and closest friends, part of this small group of family I trust who have been with me through everything, and he hears everything left unsaid as clearly as if it had passed my lips.

“He is wrong to dismiss you so easily, and we both know it. You are the king that this land needs, whether the Unseelie Court is willing to overrule the stupid laws or not.”

That may be true, but I am not the king the Unseelie Court wants. At least not the majority—too many of the royal houses are drunk on their own beauty and gentile ways, happily drinking and dancing their way to the very edge of extinction because, while they ignore the war that ravages the lands, it takes its toll.

The goblin lands might not show the effects, but that makes the difference here even more damning to my eyes.

There's treason afoot.

I might not be sure who is aiding the witches in the war, but there’s no other explanation, and to turn your back on your own kingdom in such a way is deplorable. The problem is that the situation needs more than just a sword to deal with it. The mind games and the moves of a politician are the real war I’ll be pulled into.

Whether I like it or not.

TWO

Tyton’s magic keeps us from freezing solid overnight, the warmth radiating from him covering us all. He’s never had any formal training with his magic—there’s no high fae left who can cast—but after years of trial and error, he’s mastered some useful tricks. It’s still frigid even with his help and the extra furs of our cloaks thrown over our bedrolls, but we endure it well enough. I’m used to sleeping rough by now. I could sleep under a blanket of snow if I needed to, so it doesn’t bother me at all.

Tauron wakes up ready to murder someone, so clearly he feels differently.

I ignore his mood and get to packing away my bedroll and supplies without a word. He’s always respectful of me, always aware that I’m the heir and much more than just his cousin, but I respect him enough to give him time to get himself together after a rough night.

There’s a two-foot-high ring of snow around the magic perimeter, though it has finally stopped falling. It takes only a little time to pack up the camp, but as I look around, a bad mood settles over me. As if the guards and my cousins sense the black cloud forming around me, all of them work without a word and get everything packed up.

When I make my way down to the small stream to fill my water canteen, I feel them all take a sigh of relief. I catch my reflection in the water and see the ire in my eyes. I can’t go on like this, so instead of raging out and becoming the nightmare I’m believed to be, I let my eyes fall shut and take a deep breath.

As a reflex, I do the same thing I've done every single morning for almost two centuries.

I reach out to my mate.

The moment I heard her sweet voice in my head all those years ago, I’d known exactly who she was. It’s not common for mates to speak like we did, but my parents had the same ability. Sometimes I think Roan and Airlie, also Fates-blessed mates, do too, but it’s rude to ask about such things. I still remember every word spoken between us, her name for me, the way she reacted to my commands. Though we had such a short time in each other’s company, losing her is still like an aching wound.

One I would do anything to fix.

No matter how hard I push, all I feel back is emptiness. She’s built a wall around herself, the same one that appeared out of nowhere when I was hunting so desperately to find her centuries ago, or someone else has done it against her will, some cruel magic to keep us from each other. Hearing her sweet voice in my head was a beacon in the darkest days, one small ray of hope that maybe the Fates were wrong, maybe I’d find her sooner and end the suffering of my kingdom, only to have her vanished without a trace when I was so close.

In the years since she disappeared, I’ve searched the kingdom for any sign of her and come up empty-handed. I blame myself for not telling her my name and giving her a bargaining chip with whoever has taken her, because whatever ransom they asked, I’d pay it.

Then I’d hunt them down and give them the death they deserve.

She was young when they took her, young enough that she has to be Seelie fae, because the curse was already cast over the Unseelie Court to render the high fae women unable to birth live children. She had the naivety of a sheltered princess, the type with overprotective parents, and I’d used my limited connections in the Northern Lands to look for her there as well but, with the Fate War raging and the monsters descending from the tear in the sky… I’ve had no choice but to wait as the clock runs down on my own fate, bringing me closer to meeting her on a schedule I’ve never agreed with.

A Fates-blessed mate is a given in my family.

Every last one of the kings who have sat on the Celestial throne have been married to the woman that the Fates have decreed is perfect for them, each of them happy and blessed.

When I traveled to the Seer a few months after my parents’ death, I had been jaded and unhappy at the idea of finding someone for myself after losing the two people most important to me. It seemed unfair that I could find happiness and contentment when my parents had been brutally murdered, the first outright act of war from the witches, shifting the conflict from rumors of unrest to the death and destruction we now face. I thought that the Seer would reveal that one of the princesses of the realm was meant to be mine, the same as they had for my father and my grandfather. I thought that getting married and claiming my throne would take nothing more than simply reaching out to one of the royal families and informing them of my Fate.

That’s not what had happened.

The Seer herself was once a witch. She had been chosen from amongst her peers and then spent centuries being trained by her predecessor to become a vessel of the Fates. The day that I’d come to her, she’d turned those wide glowing eyes on me, and a look of sorrow had passed over her features.

I will never forget her words to me, and I will never stop trying to find my Fates-blessed mate.

When I return from the river, I give Tauron a curt nod. As he registers that my mood has changed, I try not to let the stark relief on his face sting. There’s too much for us to get done today to waste it feeling angry about old wounds.

It's only a half day's ride to the other edge of the goblin lands. There we’ll cross into the province of Prince Meridian, another distant cousin of mine. His region is where the worst of the crop damage has been reported. I need to see the situation for myself and attempt to find some real solution, whether there’s any salvaging the harvest of winter crops, or if we need to source food for his people from elsewhere.

We need to shore up supplies for the entire kingdom by the autumn harvest. Even now, in the depths of winter, I’m not sure we’ll be able to pull it off, and yet we have no choice. Food security is vital.

It’s just another way that the witches are chipping away at our kingdom.

The leader of the witch armies, Kharl, made it clear that no act of war was off limits for him to get what he wants—the high fae dead or run out of the kingdom and the witches ruling the land. Generations had lived in peace in the Southern Lands, or so we’d thought, until he built an army. A rabid one with a nasty ability to use their magic against us. They cursed the high fae so that we can’t reproduce, they cursed the land to wither and die, and I’m half tempted to believe they caused the snowstorm we were trapped in as well.

Anything to weaken me so they can strike.

I give Tauron another nod, and we mount our horses and set off. Thankfully the farther north we ride, the more the weather clears, and we leave the worst of the storm behind us. By midday, we make it to Prince Meridian’s land. We know the moment we cross the border. Thanks to the snow easing up earlier, we’re able to see the divide where the lush and lively earth of the goblin lands becomes dead and decayed. It's as though someone has come and marked out the border themselves, burning everything right up to the Goblin King’s domain.

I shrug off my cloak and stuff it into the pack behind me, securing the straps to be sure I don’t lose it, all while steering Nightspark with my knees. He doesn't miss a beat, his strides strong as he sets an aggressive pace. I check quickly that my weapons are all still in place— sword on my hip, daggers hidden beneath my clothes, quiver slung over my back, and bow resting on the back of my pack. Everything is accounted for and ready for immediate use.

There is every chance that we’ll be ambushed.

We were careful about who we told we were leaving, and no one knew the exact path we were taking. No one except Roan, my best friend and the only trusted male in my life that I left behind.

His wife, my cousin and the only woman I count close enough to me that I think of her as a sister, just birthed and lost their son, and she has not recovered from delivering him to the funeral pyres. If the death of my parents began the war, the thing that spurs me on and continues to stoke the flames of retribution within me is the curse the witches placed on the high fae. We might be stronger than the witches, even without magic, but without coming generations, we’re dying off, our numbers dwindling dangerously.

There has not been a live birth amongst the Unseelie high fae population in almost nine centuries.

A lot of women stopped trying, the pain of losing babies too great to continue, but Airlie has always been stubborn, and though Roan tried to talk her out of it, she insisted that they try.

Their son didn’t make it through the birth, and Airlie almost died with him.

Even if she weren't my blood and someone I love and respect greatly, I would not have brought Roan with me. We’ve always fought side-by-side and he’s been my most loyal supporter, but he's not in the right frame of mind after what happened. I would never risk him out here while he’s still lost in grief.

It was the first time that I had held one of the babies who have been taken by the curse.

I was in my early twenties, nothing more than a faeling, when the witches cast their curse upon us. It took at least a century before most fae women decided to stop trying, and Airlie is the only woman I have a close relationship with. She is younger than I, so at the time the curse was cast, she was still decades away from meeting Roan and consummating their Fates-blessed marriage.

Looking down at that tiny baby as I gave him last rites before we sent him to Elysium on the funeral pyres changed something inside me.

It changed something inside every member of our close-knit group.

It was no longer a curse that we knew of and hated on principle. With Airlie’s attempt and the loss of her son, it became deeply personal.

That little boy, and the thousands of others over the years—they deserved to live.

I will hunt the witches until every last one of them is dead.

AS THE DAY GOES ON, the scenes before us don’t get any better.

We make our way through the farmlands, where there should already be some ground preparation for planting. The weather here is milder than the Goblin King's lands, being farther north, and there should be gullies being dug, and other such preparations for the coming season, and yet… there's nothing.

Field after field of decay, senseless and infuriating, until we finally arrive in the first village. There clearly isn't much food to go around. The villagers are all part-bloods; most of the people in the rural outcroppings tend to be a mix of half-fae and half-goblins, and some humans as well.

I glimpse a silver eye here and there, but those beings quickly make themselves scarce.

Witch bloodlines are not something to take pride in.

It’s certainly not a lineage to flaunt in front of high-fae princes, and they mostly stay out of our way, bowing their heads respectfully as they shoo their children behind themselves and out of our path.

It doesn't bother me so much until Tyton shifts his horse closer to me, his hands tight on the reins and his lips pulled in so that his mouth is nothing but a sour slash across his face.

“They didn't want to catch it,” he snaps, grinding out the words from between his teeth.

I glance over my shoulder at the village now slowly disappearing behind us, but it doesn’t look any different to me. None of the rural villages are anything to take note of, all of them stuck in poverty and decay thanks to the war.

“They were keeping the children away from us because they're afraid they'll catch it too—that they won't be able to have any more. They don’t just think we're cursed—they think we’re diseased,” Tyton spits out, and I glance at Tauron. He doesn't look surprised by this.

When he meets my eye, he simply shrugs. “The villagers at Yregar speak the same way. They try to interact only with certain members of the household and never the pure-blooded high fae.”

“I thought they just feared those above them?”

Tauron shrugs again. “I’m sure that plays into it, but the chambermaids talk an awful lot when they think no one is listening. The regent Solas had to raise salaries to keep the villagers applying for jobs within the castle because they're afraid of being too close to us.”

My own hands tighten on Nightspark’s reins, and I immediately roll my shoulders back, pulling myself up even straighter in my saddle. The soldiers behind us mutter quietly amongst themselves. With my high fae sense of hearing, I pick up what they’re talking about, and though it's nothing more than respectful and nervous chatter, I wish more than anything that Roan and a dozen more of our seasoned soldiers were here instead, all of them trained to follow my every command without a word.

These men are some of our newer recruits, high fae without the money or bloodlines to stay fed and thus forced to work. My seasoned soldiers would never put us at risk of detection by talking amongst themselves. I have trained with those men for centuries and trust them.

It wasn't an option to bring them.

We have finite resources, and the kingdom hasn't gotten any smaller, despite the Goblin King’s reluctance to play nicely with the rest of the realms.

When I realize that the day is running away from us, the sun creeping lower in the sky, I push Nightspark into a gallop. We need to reach the eastern side of the Lore River before nightfall. If we don’t make it to the fae door in the Augur Mountains by nightfall tomorrow, we’ll miss the ball that I have no choice but to attend, and so I push my horse as far as he can go.

The others will struggle to keep up, but I don’t look back even when Tauron curses me loudly. I ignore him until a line of trees finally comes into view, the beginning of the largest forest in the kingdom.

The cursed forest.

Before it runs the Lore River, and at a point that will be difficult to cross, but that’s a problem for us to overcome tomorrow. For now we merely need to make camp before the sun sets and we lose the light.

I don't have to say a word this time; everybody moves to complete the same tasks they did the night before. Tyton sets up a perimeter, this time less concerned about keeping us from freezing solid overnight and more about discouraging raiding parties.

I lay out my bedroll on one edge of the perimeter where I have a good view of the rest, and then I head down to the river to refill my canteen and take a moment to myself.

The entire area feels dead.

There should be water sprites playing in the river. So close to the forest, there should be birds and small creatures and the sounds and signs of life around us. We should be able to hear the trees speaking to one another as the wind passes through them, and yet, there is nothing. For centuries the kingdom has been slowly declining but in the last two hundred years the situation has gone from bad to catastrophic.

The witches aren't just bleeding life out of the high fae but from the land itself. Acting against nature the way they are is destroying the land and the very purpose of the magical beings that live here. We're supposed to live in harmony with nature, with the magic flowing through the earth and the trees and the stars above us just as strongly as it flows through our veins.

They care for none of that.

They just want us dead no matter the cost.

When I get back to the small camp Tauron has set up, his bedroll is laid out next to mine as always, showing he’s ready to guard me and lay down his own life for mine should it come to that.

I take a seat by the fire and hold out my flask to him.

There’s a small amount of whiskey left in it for us to share, and he takes it from me with a smirk, knocking back a quick swig before he hands it back. “I won't have more than that. I don't like it here.”

I nod and do the same, taking no more than a mouthful to warm my blood before I tuck it back into my pocket.

“It’s wrong here,” I say, and Tyton joins us, stretching his legs out in front of himself then pulling his boots off and wriggling his toes in front of the fire like a child as he dries his socks.

“I tried to replenish some of the magic in the lands as we traveled, but they've taken too much. It was as though I was throwing out a drop of water to the driest of deserts. It was gone before it even hit the ground.”

I nod, knowing it's a lost cause, but Tyton scratches the back of his neck.

That piques my interest, and I ask him, “Do you think it would be possible to restore the lands if we found other magically gifted fae?”

Tyton grimaces and shrugs. “I’m not sure there are any of us left with enough power to do that. I hate being out here.”

I nod, but I don’t give him an answer as to why I insisted on this journey. It goes beyond wanting to measure the damage to the lands myself, but I won’t speak of it, not even to my cousins. Some things have to be kept close until I’m completely sure of them.

Even then dealing with my uncle will be dangerous.

I offer him the flask, which he takes willingly. Like Tyton, he drinks only a mouthful before handing it back. The unease that has settled in my bones is clearly rearing its ugly head inside him as well.

“It's important to see it all with our own eyes. We need to ensure we never forget what the kingdom looks like outside of the high fae castles and walled cities. If the Unseelie Court has their way, we will dance and drink our merry way to oblivion.”

Tauron nods slowly and then tips his head back, grinning up at the sky. The stars shine bright above us, perfect and untouched, the one thing that the witches haven't been able to take away, though I’m sure they would if only they could.

“I wouldn't mind drinking and dancing my way to the end right now. I feel like we're already tumbling over the edge. Why not enjoy the ride down?”

THREE

None of us sleep through the night, and it has nothing to do with the constant changing shifts of the guards. There isn't a stray sound or any sign of danger, nothing to arouse our suspicion, and yet all of us can feel it in the air. When Tyton finally gives up on rest, stumbling bleary-eyed toward the river to dunk his head in the icy water, I go down to join him and do the same. I enjoy the refreshing way that the ice stings my cheeks and clears my mind.

“The trees aren't happy,” Tyton mutters under his breath as I slick my hair away from my face, droplets of water running down my forehead and catching in my eyelashes.

I don't need to see the glow of his eyes to know that this is his magic talking, the raw and untrained power within him that connects him to the Fates. There's no point trying to reason with him when the magic bubbles up inside of him so powerfully that he cannot help but speak. There’s also no point in doubting his words. They’re true.

“We’re not going into the forest. We know better than to step into the Ravenswyrd,” I reassure him, but the strain on his face doesn’t ease.

The Ravenswyrd Forest is notorious amongst the high fae. I’ve never stepped foot in it—no high fae would do so lightly, because the stories of what happens in there aren’t something to ignore. Battle-seasoned males losing their minds, screaming and sobbing as they run as though the Ureen are chasing them, never to fully recover. No one has entered in more than a thousand years without losing their life or their senses. Even standing on the edge of it like this has my senses cringing away, every inch of my body desperate to run from whatever lurks there, and so we will take the long way around.

There’s nothing on this earth that could force me to walk amongst those trees.

“You can tell the trees that,” Tyton mutters unhappily. “They are not happy.”

“Tell the trees we’re not happy to be here either,” Tauron says as he swaggers down the embankment, water flasks in hand to help prepare our packs for the days’ travel.

Tyton shakes his head. “They're mourning. The Favored Children are gone. The Favored Children will never come back.”

I have no idea what sort of nonsense he's speaking, but I know better than to ignore magic when it speaks. The Fates do not look kindly on those who turn away from their wishes. “What do the trees need, Tyton? What can we do?”

Tauron stops filling the flasks and studies his brother closely.

“The Children need to come home. The Favored Children need to come home to the forest. It longs for them.” The magic has crept further into his voice as the madness takes over.

I glance at Tauron, but he shakes his head and shrugs, eyeing his brother wearily. He's never liked the way that the magic speaks through him, never liked that he's had to defend Tyton over the years from the Unseelie Court, who see his ability as a curse and not the blessing from the Fates that it is. I am more than prepared to listen to these warnings.

I’m not going to be stupid enough to ignore such things.

“Who are the Favored Children, and how can we get them back? Give me something, anything, to work with, and I’ll do what I can to help the trees.”

Tyton stands up and looks across the river to the line of trees. His eyes narrow as though he is looking for something, but the trees grow so densely that you can barely see beyond the first line of trunks.

I've come past here with Tyton dozens of times, hundreds even, and never has he reacted like this. Whatever has changed, it’s impacting his magic, grabbing his mind and using him as a vessel to speak.

Something deep within the forest has woken, and it's not happy.

“Do you think it's the witches’ doing?” Tauron asks, but my gaze stays glued to Tyton as he mumbles under his breath and shakes his head.

I finally answer, “Everything bad that happens around here is tied to the witches. Only they would be dumb enough to go into the Ravenswyrd and mess around in there. I'm more worried about who the Favored Children are. I've never heard of such a people.”

Tauron nods and then ducks down to clap his brother on his shoulder and pull him to his feet, supporting him until the white glow in Tyton’s eyes slowly dims. As Tyton returns to himself, he glances down at his hands as though he's expecting something to be there only to find them empty.

“I hate the forest. We need to get out of here,” he mumbles, and Tauron nods, clapping his hand against his shoulder once more before he helps him back up the riverbank.

I follow them, ducking down to grab the water flasks, which Tauron forgot about in his concern for Tyton. My feet are slow as I make my way up the steep riverbank, turning my cousin’s words over in my mind. When I reach the top, I find the camp already packed up and the soldiers waiting with our horses, ready for our next command.

One of them steps forward and holds out Nightspark’s reins to me, his head bowed respectfully. I take them without a word. My mood might be better than the one I woke up with yesterday, but none of these men know me well enough to realize that. They see the scarred and disfigured prince, his face as savage as they all say, and assume the worst.

They’ll learn otherwise, through blood and pain, in this war.

As I swing into Nightspark’s saddle I call out to my Fates-chosen mate, the same ritual I do every morning, and when nothing comes back, I steel myself and direct my horse down the riverbank to cross the rapidly moving water, my hands fisting the reins so hard the leather bites into my palms.

Hope lives deep and resilient inside my chest—hope that someday she’ll hear me and reply. How much will her captivity have changed her? The long years without contact, going through whatever horrors she might be facing…my temper blackens at the thought of her circumstances.

The entire scouting party follows me without a word, urging their horses through the current. Nightspark makes it across without incident, and I stop on the other side to watch as, one by one, the men go through. Tauron’s horse slips, its hooves sliding on the river rocks, and whinnies a little as it panics, but he directs it across with a firm hand. Tyton’s mare is more steady but takes twice as long with its concerned rider.

Half the soldiers have to dismount and lead their reluctant horses across, fighting the rapids themselves. Keeping their footing in the swift rush of the river is just as difficult for them as it is for the horses, but they make it through. My legs are wet from the knee down, but I can say with surety that I would not want to spend the rest of the day riding with my clothes wet from the chest down.

Tyton flicks out a hand, using his magic to dry my wet clothes, then his own, then his brothers’. He doesn't have enough magic to dry everyone, of course. No high fae has that sort of connection to our magic anymore. But it's not expected of a prince to do such things for the lower born.

Though it doubles the length of the trip, we ride around the Ravenswyrd Forest, never getting too close to the tree line. A low mist fills the air as we get closer to Augur Mountain, where the Seers’ temple resides, and even without my cousin’s magic, I can feel a deep sadness in the air.

I can feel the trees mourning.

“Was it like this the last time we came through?” Tauron murmurs as he urges his horse alongside my own.

His gaze doesn’t stop darting between his brother, myself, and the tree line, as though he's not sure who he's protecting anymore.

“Last time we went through here we were distracted,” I remind him.

We were fighting our way through the Southern Lands with my soldiers, one of the first times I’d gone out as a leader and not under someone else’s command. I was still too young by high fae standards, with only a century under my belt, and I had grand ideas of winning battles and forcing the witches to submit to us once more. Once, long ago, I believed that brute strength and battle prowess was all it would take to win this war.

In the thick of the battle, Roan took a poisoned arrow through the chest, and we had lost track of him.

I had cursed and raged and become a mindless killing machine as we fought off a grotesque war-band of witches. Their magic had rendered our defenses useless, and we’d had to fight them head on with brute force, cleaving them apart one by one as they continued to come at us in a never-ending wave.

We’d won because we wanted it more, pushing them to retreat through nothing more than a killing lust that had driven me into a frenzy of blood and death and pain. Tauron had yanked me from my horse’s saddle and shaken me, screaming that I was going to kill myself if I chased after our enemy the way I wanted to. We’d set up a perimeter and gathered ourselves to hunt for Roan, preparing for the worst.

At dawn, Roan had appeared at the edge of the Ravenswyrd tree line, his skin unnaturally pale. He’d been oddly silent about what had happened to him in there.

His wounds were healed.

THE FIRST SIGN of something wrong is the blood in the grass.

I raise a hand to signal to the rest of the scouting group and, without a sound, they fan out around me. Tauron sidles his horse up on one side of me as Tyton does the same on the other, flanking me entirely as we move forward.

I don't unsheathe my sword, there's no need for it yet, but I hear some of my soldiers do so behind me. They’re less confident in their skills and still green in battle situations.

There are no sounds around us.

The silence is not uncommon for witches’ raids. They learned early on that casting a sound barrier was the best way to ravage a village of lower fae and part-bloods without being interrupted. It's only by chance that we've come across the fresh blood.

Tyton taps my arm as we ride forward, motioning with his hand that we're about to cross the magic barrier. I can't see whatever it is that he sees, or maybe feels, but I know the second we cross it.

The screeches of warring witches stab like nails into my skull, and I draw my sword. The screams of women and children are deafening, the high pitch distinctly elven. The wagons strewn around us indicate this is a traveling band, which is no surprise—the elven are commonly a nomadic race.

The ground before us is littered with bodies.

Elves are taller than most witches but still shorter than the high fae for the most part. Their ears are distinctly pointed and less humanoid than ours, their faces and limbs elongated but their torsos stocky. They're a peaceful race, particularly the traveling bands like this one.

My guess is that they were heading toward the ports, whether to trade or attempt to cross the seas to the Northern Lands I can't be sure, but whatever defenses they have against the witches are not effective. Nightspark has to step over a dozen corpses to get to where the fighting is happening.

Magic flies through the air.

I don't need Tyton’s proficiency to feel it; the singeing heat of the spells burns my face, and I hold up my sword so the iron cuts through them as I work my way toward the worst of the fray, swinging off of Nightspark and chasing down the witches as they begin to flee through the trees when they see our arrival. Behind me, Tauron curses and dismounts the moment I do, throwing the reins in Tyton’s direction.

There are not so many witches that we can't deal with them easily. I am careful not to hit any elves as I slash through witch limbs and shove elven survivors in the direction of the soldiers, careful to protect myself from the magic with my iron blade.

One of the witches turns to face me, the black marks across its face glowing like an omen as its eyes roll. It looks sick, black spittle oozing from its teeth as it grimaces in my direction, and when I swing the sword once more, cleaving its head from its shoulders in one swoop, I relish the satisfying thump as body parts hit the ground.

The soldiers move forward, picking off the witches around us until they're all lying still on the ground.

Once we’re sure they’re all dead, Tyton hands off the horses to one of the soldiers and begins to help the injured elves, binding wounds and murmuring instructions on how to stop infections from taking hold. The elves look at us distrustfully, dipping their heads in my direction as they realize who I am.

The scar across my face makes it obvious.

I don't take it personally as I help the soldiers pile up the dead witches to burn. Eighteen of them effectively wiped out three traveling wagons, with two others housing survivors. I would simply leave the witches’ bodies here to rot if it wouldn't poison the land, something we discovered centuries before.

Nothing grows where witches decompose.

As we plan to begin building a funeral pyre for the elven dead, one of the elves steps forward and murmurs a quiet apology. “We cannot burn them here. We can’t stay any longer. We’ll take them with us and send them to Elysium ourselves.”

I share a look with Tauron but ultimately nod, signaling to the soldiers to help them lay the bodies in the wagons instead. It takes only a matter of minutes to have them on their way, such a brief amount of time for such trauma, but I can tell they're eager to see the last of us.

One of the soldiers moves to set the pile of witches alight but I shake my head, ordering all of them to guard the area instead. I don't want to be caught unawares while we are busy with this.

The soldiers spread out, and only once I'm sure they're out of earshot do I motion to my cousins over to the pile of bodies.

“I can't believe you're making me do this,” Tauron grumbles as he turns them over, lifting up shirts and tugging fabric away from limbs.

Nothing.

No sign of markings on them.

My stomach clenches, my jaw tightening, but I don’t let it discourage me. I saw the mark on the burned witch yesterday. I’m not crazy—the sigils are real.

I begin to rationalize to myself that we’d found evidence of the sigils on the other witches and nothing will be lost if we don’t find them here too, sure I'm not going insane in my dogged hunt for the truth, until Tyton makes a disgusted sound under his breath and murmurs quietly, “I found it. We're not looking in the right spot.”

I frown at him, because I definitely am looking on their shoulders, the same place I've seen the marks a few times before, but when I glance at him, he’s holding the head of the witch I killed first in his hands. It's blood drips to the ground, making a sizzling sound as it hits the grass and the magic releases back into the land.

Tauron stomps over to his brother, looking ready to argue, but Tyton merely shifts the head in his direction, its lip folded over in his thumb. There, small and hard to see, is the sigil, hidden in the mouth.

My brows furrow and I lean down to pull back the lip on another corpse. There's the sigil again.

Tauron shakes his head. “Why are they hidden on some witches but in plain sight on others?”

I shrug as I move around, checking each of them and, sure enough, I find the sigil on every last one.

Tyton steps away and strips his gloves off before he scratches the back of his neck. “Celestial princes wear our crest in the center of our chests, but the rest of the families wear them to one side. What if it's the same thing? The location of the mark depends on their rank.”

I stare into the lifeless eyes of the corpse at my feet. “So the witch we saw yesterday—you think it was more important?”

Tyton shrugs. “Or less. It was by itself, wasn't it?”

More questions and fewer answers.

When further poking around reveals nothing else, we set the pile alight, making sure it is burning properly before we set off once more.

IT HAS BEEN a long time since I last walked up the steps of the Seer’s mountain, and a lot has changed. The ground around the steps and the wide mouth of the temple’s entrance is scorched. All of the shrubs and low-lying bushes that were once here have now died off, leaving the mountainside a barren wasteland where it was once a lush and bountiful offering to the voice of the Fates.

The entire area now looks deserted.

Rage burns deep in my gut. Its embers have been smoldering there since the very first time I came to the Seer, and my feet stop on the last step. I glance over my shoulder and look out over the lands that surround the Seer’s mountain.

The Ravenswyrd Forest takes up most of my sight line, but there are still entire sections of land that have been destroyed by the war. Blackened, churned-up earth where nothing grows, even after the years that have passed since we last confronted the witches here. The spilled blood of the high fae once replenished the earth and was always offered as a sacrifice to the Fates, but now it is nothing more than poison.

The curse has filled our very veins.

There’s a point in the Lore River where the witches attempted to stop its flow years and many battles ago, a makeshift dam that was unsuccessful, thankfully. Hundreds of villages filled with lower fae and part-bloods would have been without a water source if the dam had held, and I remember keenly the fight to stop them from doing so. The witches believe that anyone who doesn’t side with them deserves to die, and simply living on land held by the high fae was enough for the witches to declare those villagers their enemy.

As my eyes flick back to the trees, my cousin's words still echoing in my mind, I feel the tug once again in my gut. The Fates are speaking to me, but I have no way of knowing what they're saying. No way, but to turn around and walk through the temple to find the Seer.

It galls me to ask her for anything.

My cousins both refused to come up here with me. They made the sign of the Fates—two fingers circling over their hearts—as if warding off any more ill news from the woman, and I can't say that I blame them.

Neither of them had received a kind Fate and, though I don't know the full extent of what she said to them, I know that Tyton walked out of the temple with a newfound recklessness, and Tauron lost the boyish joy he’d once shared with his brother. He exited the temple a changed man, one who was deeply unhappy with the world. I suppose the same could be said of myself.

“No, Prince Soren, it cannot.” I hear the Seer speak to me, her all-knowing voice dry and like nails scraping along the softest parts of my brain.

I turn toward her, giving my back to the mourning forest with its bleak outlook. Thousands of offerings glow on the walls and the ground around me, all of them etched into the stone of the temple by witches. They are a sign of respect, of protection and love, and yet I’m filled with disgust to see them glowing like that.

I don't have the ability to stop myself from reacting, and my lip curls at the mere sight of them.

The Seer sees it all.

Before the Fates chose her, she was nothing more than a witch herself. Her name and her coven were taken from her during her training, the process to become a vessel stripping everything away until she became this—something else entirely. I don’t find any scorn or derision in her, only understanding. It annoys me as much now as it did the first time I came to see her—that way that she looks at me as though she knows everything about me, as though she knows the core of who I am, and understands it all.

How could she know? The Fates may speak to her, they may love her and use her to direct us all, but there is no way that she knows everything there is to know about me.

“The Fates know what we truly need, Prince Soren. It is not up to you or I to question it, only to follow through as obediently as we can on our road to Elysium.”

At this point, anyone else would dip their head to her and offer pleasantries. Fall over themselves to please her in some way, as though the Fates might be kinder to them if they debased themselves at her feet.

I kneel for no man, no Seer, not even the Fates themselves.

“Tell me my fate, Seer.”

If my abruptness and rude tone offend her, she doesn't show it as she rises from the stone she was kneeling on. Her simple white linen dress tumbles down her knees until the hem hits the ground. The witch markings over her face glow the same way that Tyton’s eyes glowed all day long as he stared at the trees, the Fates whispering their whims and demands to her.

She walks to me barefoot, her hands clasped in front of her, her eyes shining with the white light of her magic. I don't know whether she can see anything, but she stops at my side and faces outward, seeming to look over the kingdom.

“Your fate remains unchanged, Prince Soren. The Fates have spoken. You must learn patience.”

Patience.

My fate is to wait almost a thousand years for my fated mate, to know that I cannot save my kingdom from the witches until I am married and take the throne.

It all seems needlessly cruel to me.

“She's out there. I heard her.”

The Seer nods, tilting her head as a wisp of wind works its way through the temple. I already know this is the only entrance in or out of the space, and so where the wind comes from is anyone's guess. The Fates themselves, perhaps.

As if she heard some whisper on the air, she nods again. “She's very special, you know. She's exactly what the Fates require for this kingdom to be restored. You just need to learn patience.”

I glance down at my own hands, and it's as though I can feel the weight of that baby in them again, the weight of our future being murdered over and over again by the witches.

“How much do we have to lose while the Fates teach me patience? I would argue I have been an incredibly patient man.”

She doesn’t answer me.

I don't want to ask her anything more, to lower myself in such a way, but the question slips through my lips regardless. “Is she safe? She hasn't spoken to me in nearly two hundred years. Someone captured her, didn’t they? She's trapped somewhere.”

It galls me to come here and ask this.

I have come to her a few times since I was first given my fate, since I stopped being able to reach my croí. Our searches never found her, or even identified who she is, and so my only connection to her is this Seer. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my mate and, though it kills me to keep coming here and asking, I do it.

Not that it ever helps.

The Seer acts as though she hasn't heard me. I wait one heartbeat, and another, and then another. When I'm ready to turn on my heel and leave this temple for good, leave this woman and the Fates and everything else behind, she turns to me, her eyes wide as they glow.

She speaks in a cold and cutting tone, one I've never heard from her before, “She has become the woman she needed to be. Just as you are becoming the man you need to be. The Fates have blessed her the same as you have been blessed, and that is a heavy burden to carry. Patience, Prince Soren.”

Those words echo through my mind as I walk back down the stairs, the only sounds are my boots on the ground and the rustle of my armor. The kingdom before me is too quiet.

When I reached the bottom, Tauron is glaring at the temple as though envisioning burning it to the ground and finding some way to tear the mountain to pieces with his bare hands, and I leave him to it as I turn to Tyton.

“We’re running out of daylight hours. We’ll head to the fae door now.”

Tyton nods to me, and then glances at his brother. “Any updates we need to know? Has she decided she likes you enough to give you a second chance and a different fate?”

If only that were possible.

Patience.

The word echoes in my mind. I shake my head and heave myself onto Nightspark’s back, then hesitate only for as long as it takes my cousins to mount their horses as well.

“The Fates are still playing a game with us, but it is a game I will win. There's no question of that. Come, let's go back to Yris Castle and deal with the mess that awaits us there.”

Tauron finally snaps out of his daydream, only to grimace and mumble under his breath, “Oh, yay. Exactly the type of fun we want to be having.”

FOUR

The fae door that we're using is one that is highly frequented because of its position in the kingdom. Before this Seer fell out of favor thanks to the fate she passed on to me and the equally disastrous fates that were given to several of my cousins, the fae door had been placed here by the First Fae as a shortcut to the temple on Augur. It’s also less than half a day's ride to the port, the only way to cross the seas and reach the Northern Lands.

In the years before the War of the Witches and the draining of life and magic from the kingdom, we could move entire households through a fae door without any trouble, but now there isn't enough power left in them to move much more than a simple scouting party.

This fae door has been here for as long as my family has ruled the kingdom and is made entirely out of Hawthorne branches. It’s an eerie sight even for the high fae ourselves, a simple doorway standing in the middle of a field with nothing else surrounding it. The first time I went through it, the season was spring and the ground was covered in wildflowers, the colors so bright and vibrant that the sight stole the breath from my chest the way I suppose fae castles do simple villagers.

Now it’s surrounded by nothing but death and decay.

Even though Nightspark is obedient to my every command, the perfect war horse who has ridden into a field raining arrows and magic and fire without hesitation, it still takes a bit of convincing to get him to walk through the fae door. Each time we've crossed over, it’s scared him a little more, and I know that at some point, he's just going to buck me off and make a run for it.

I suppose it's a good thing we use them so sparingly.

I'm not so eager to get back to Yregar Castle, so I take my time convincing him. I’m fooling no one, I'm sure, but then again no one would dare to question me. My reputation as the Savage Prince comes in handy sometimes.

“We need to move. The trees are still speaking, and they're not happy with us,” Tyton says, mumbling a little.

Tauron shoots me a look.

I glance over my shoulder at the forest and, while it looks the same to me, I heed his words.

I move Nightspark forward with my knees, urging him across the threshold. It’s clear that some of the guards are once again going to have to dismount to lead their horses through, but my connection with Nightspark is strong enough that even though he’s clearly resisting, he will obey my command with enough reassurance.

The magic presses against me as though I have plunged into a pool of warm water; it coats me and caresses my skin, pulling and surging at me from a hundred different directions until my mind begins to struggle with the sensations.

I can't take a deep breath to calm my racing heart, a reaction that all who step through a fae door feel no matter how prepared they are, no matter how many times they've done this before. The magic tests you every single time until it finds you worthy, and every time I travel this way, it pushes me right to the edge of what I can handle. Just when I’m about to crack open and scream, Nightspark’s hooves hit the ground in the courtyard of Yregar Castle.

I want to climb off his back and shake myself to clear the feeling, rub my hands over my face just to be sure that the skin is still there and then pat myself down for wounds or holes that might be exposed, because that's how I feel now. But there's still an entire scouting party to come through, and so instead I shift my horse forward and turn him so that I can watch them each step out, ensuring we're all accounted for and that nothing else comes through with them, the attack still hanging over us like another curse.

There are guards here too, waiting with stiff backs as we arrive, but I ignore them until my cousins have stepped through. Tyton arrives first, grimacing and rubbing his temple as he comes into view, but Tauron shows no open discomfort when he appears. The same grimace that is always on his face is present, and his eyes immediately snap to his brother as he checks in with him once again.

The words of the forest have rattled him.

I haven't seen him this way in a long time, so openly displaying his concern, and I should ask him what’s going on in that surly head of his, as futile as that may be.

Once the entire scouting party is through, my cousins and all ten of the soldiers and their horses, I lead us through the small village outside of Yregar Castle. The fae door opens just inside the castle walls, the stones there laid with magic woven into them that has kept my family safe for generations.

The sound of hooves on the cobblestones is loud, the noise echoing through the village and announcing our arrival. Part-bloods and lower fae come out to see who’s riding through, dipping their heads or moving to their knees in respect when they realize it's me.

We’re finally home, and the reception to my presence shows it.

None of them attempt to speak or gossip amongst themselves in my presence, and I suppose it's a good thing to be feared in such a way. It will make ruling them easier.

When we get closer to the top of the hill, the castle comes into sight. It's not hard to see why the village population is overflowing now, why people have moved from rural areas to be close to where the high fae live. No matter how dead the rest of the land is, the grounds here are as perfect and lush as ever, thanks to the household staff working overtime.

We can’t keep up the facade forever. Eventually, the lower fae and part-bloods will figure out we’re running out of food and resources, just like they are. I’ve done my best, but until the regent is willing to open trade routes and start fighting the witches properly, we’re trapped, watching the resources wane.

The walls around Yregar Castle provide enough protection that the entire area is untouched, the glittering white marble of the castle breathtaking to those who have never seen it before, but to me it just looks like home, the one place I find comfort. The one place that should be my own and yet, for tonight, I must share it with the vipers of the Unseelie Court, a fate so distasteful I have to force myself not to take it out on those around me.

“They're only here for the night. They're traveling through to Yris. We'll go to the ball, dance a little, shake some hands, talk to your uncle and keep him satisfied that you’re miserable but not attempting to overthrow him. Then they'll leave, and we can get back to the real work of trying to figure out how the hell we’re feeding all these people come winter,” Tauron murmurs to me, glancing over his shoulder at the soldiers. They’re looking around as though surveilling the area.

“It’s not hard to look miserable when you are, I suppose. At least I won't have to put on a show.”

Tauron nods, glancing at his brother again. Tyton is still mumbling, the magic riding him hard even though we’ve gotten distance from the forest that plagues him.

I pull my horse closer to him. “Do you need us to stop? You can't let any of the royals see you like this—they’ll start some stupid new rumor.”

He startles as though he forgot I was even here with him, and then his gaze darts around. “No, I'm fine. I just needed to get away from there. I was being suffocated by the trees. They want, Soren. We can't keep ignoring them forever.”

I was unaware that we were ignoring the trees in the first place, but there's no reasoning with this sort of madness—we learned that lesson long ago—so I clap a hand on his shoulder and slow Nightspark down just a little, as though I'm merely enjoying the ride and not avoiding the Unseelie Court for a little bit longer.

The closer we get to the castle, the more color seeps back into Tyton’s face, and by the time we reach the stables he’s steady once again, his mind his own. The tension eases from Tauron as well.

It fills me instead, as we leave the horses with the stable hands and I see my uncle's horse standing there. It's a spoilt and lazy thing, good only for carrying its master and not at all prepared to ride into a hailstorm of arrows should that be required, but I suppose that's perfectly okay when the regent has no intention of ever stepping foot outside of a castle or accepting the war that we’re in.

MY ROOMS at Yregar Castle are as extensive as my rooms at Yris. I sleep in the heir’s wing and, though the wing I’ll move into once I take the throne is even larger, I want for nothing in these rooms.

Even in wartime, no expense has been spared for my lodgings, and though a part of me feels a certain way about that, especially having come out of the rural areas where people don’t have enough food, there is still a natural arrogance in me that takes this luxury as my due.

I am the rightful king of this kingdom, and if the Fates would just give me my Fates-blessed mate and stop teaching me this pointless lesson in patience, I would change a lot of things.

The thread count of my sheets is not one of them.

One of the chambermaids is busy making up my room when I arrive and, though she ducks her head and bows to me respectfully, she continues with her work. I have always been selective about who I have within my household, and every last one of my staff know I would rather they finish their jobs than scurry away the second I enter a room.

It took a long time to train them into that.

It’s apparent that my uncle doesn’t feel the same in his own household. I’ve seen dozens of chambermaids, cooks, cleaners, gardeners, and stable hands employed in service to him, and none of them ever look in his direction lest they catch his temper. They’re all based out of Yris Castle, but he drags all of them across the kingdom whenever the Unseelie Court is bored and wants a change of scenery. Wasteful and needlessly indulgent.

A steaming hot bath waits for me in my spacious bathing room, and I strip out of my cloak, armor, and winter clothes before sinking into it.

As the water envelopes me, it takes a moment before my muscles stop screaming and I can lay back to really enjoy the warmth. When I’m finally loose enough to move, I get to scrubbing the dirt and ash from my hair as I let the simple bath oils and tonics do their work.

It's uncommon for the high fae to refuse finery but, while there are many things I’m willing to suffer to keep up the facade of being a proper Prince of the Unseelie Court, walking around smelling like a summer garden is not one of them. I leave that sort of nonsense to my less favored cousins, idiots the lot of them.

I'm clean, dry, and dressed in my royal colors—deep blue trimmed with the silver of the Unseelie Southern Lands—and pinning on the last of my military regalia when the doors to my chambers open and Roan steps in. It’s been a long time since he bothered knocking, but still I raise an eyebrow at his quiet, furious muttering.

He looks tired.

Not the sort of tired that can be fixed by a simple night's rest, but the sort that speaks to the grief that he and his wife are still processing.

His father, a prince of the realm, married a Seelie fae princess, his fated mate whom he traveled a long way to bring home only to find that, even with the Fates demanding their marriage, the Unseelie Court was not a kind place for her nor for the son they shared.

I never gave a second thought to any of that bigoted crap when I chose the people to keep close to my side, and Roan has always been one of my most loyal and valued friends.

He would kill for me as soon as I would for him.

“Your uncle has a bone to pick with us all. You should prepare yourself for whatever games he's planning on playing tonight,” he murmurs to me carefully.

I don't have to check the room to know that we're alone. If anyone was near, my ears would have picked it up, but still I choose my words with that same care. If the alliance I think my uncle is a part of is true, then there’s no end to his ability to spy on me and the members of my household. I’ve already made it clear that my household is well staffed and I’m not looking to fill any more positions, but I have no doubt we’ll acquire a few servants, strategically left behind, until I have a chance to send them on their way.

“How is Airlie? I'm going to see her once all the dancing and mind games are over.”

Roan's mouth pulls in tight. “You won't have to wait. Her mother has demanded that she represent their household tonight. I told her absolutely not, but she’s coming. I think she’s bored.”

His words come out cutting, but I've known him long enough to understand exactly what he's saying.

Airlie is not bored.

She is sick of sitting around with only her own demons to keep her company, and so she's coming out to throw her support behind me, as she always has. Even the act of staying home while in recovery from their son's death would be picked apart by the Unseelie Court.

It would put into question whether they still side with me.

It doesn't matter how sure I am of their loyalty, the gossip mongers will find any sort of a hole to try and push a wedge inside. A united front has always been required, but I won’t have anything upsetting my cousin right now.

I shake my head with a scowl. “There's no need for her to come down. I will speak to her mother myself and make that clear.”

Roan sighs. “She told me she was coming down whether we liked it or not, so we should just accept it rather than making a scene. She's about as stubborn as you are.”

I can't say much to that, so I finish pinning the medals to the front of my jacket. The castles of the high fae all run warm, thanks to their locations above natural hot springs, and I have to force myself not to tug and fuss with my clothing.

Give me a full suit of armor and my sword over this bullshit any day of the week.

Roan steps around me to stare out the window at the gardens below us. There's a full staff of men and women who work to keep them in perfect condition year-round, defying nature itself to make the view here perfect, beautiful, and completely empty in my opinion, but I don’t question such things.

It has always been the high fae way.

Not a thread out of place, not a single weed daring to raise itself out of the soil, not a single thing to disrupt the beauty that the Unseelie desperately cling to.

We are not beautiful creatures on the inside.

That's why they so quickly cultivated my image to that of the Savage Prince.

The rumors began from nothing more than a scar won in a battle to protect my people. No tales of my brutality or crimes or war, nothing to truly attach that word to my name, and yet, they see me as a disfigured atrocity. Proof that the world isn’t just one endless Summer Ball.

I didn’t expect more of them though.

The members of the Unseelie Court in attendance are shallow, but their nature is like a security blanket to me, something I know will cover me no matter how much they dislike the male I’ve grown to be. While I wage a war against the witches so intent on wiping us out and taking it all for themselves, my uncle wages his own war to claim the throne amongst the ashes. He desperately wants to move from being a mere regent, responsible for holding the empire together while the Unseelie Court waits for me to find my Fated mate, marry her, and take the throne. No, my uncle wants to be king himself, with no questions over the legitimacy of his claim, no counsel to answer to, and no questions from his subjects when he decrees every last one of his whims.

It’s a war he wages while he knows I am too busy fighting a real war to counter him.

He's more than happy to leave the war up to me; I know this because, every time I come home, I see the disappointment in his eyes that the witches haven't finally murdered me for his gain.

It might not be so difficult to accept if those eyes of his were not so like my own—so like my father’s. So much so that, sometimes, when I shut my eyes at night, it isn't my uncle who's disappointed in me but my father, seeing the man his son has become, the man built and bred for nothing more than war.

The Savage Prince they all think I am.

I turn to Roan and grimace, the same apprehension reflected back at me in his face. “Let’s get this night over with. With enough elven wine we might even make it through without our swords cutting the party short.”

FIVE

The ballroom at Yregar Castle that opens to the gardens is big enough to fit as many as two thousand high fae, should the need ever arise. Decorated as it is, even the mere three hundred high fae princes and princesses of the realms in attendance tonight make it feel suffocating.

Fresh flowers cover every surface, and silver and navy gauze has been draped over the rafters and hung on the walls, a subtle mockery of the House of Celestial colors.

They're not quite the colors of my father’s rule, the hue of them having been slowly changed over the years as my uncle steps away from his brother's legacy. I didn't think it was possible to enact such petty games of defiance against your own blood, your own house, and yet…there is no mistaking it.

The medallions pinned to my chest prove it’s not some figment of my imagination.

There’s no reason for the ball, no solstice or birthday that we’re celebrating, the Unseelie Court is just here to keep tabs on me. The regent began his tours of the kingdom the same year that my parents died and he took the throne in my stead, an opulent show of his power and a complete waste of time and resources. I’d spoken to him and the court about it before—about how dire our situation has become—but they ignore me.

I take a large silver goblet from one of the servers and down the lot in one go, then hand it back before moving into the room. I need more than that to dull the edges of my temper, but it's a start.

I might even be able to look Prince Meridian in the eyes and listen to the drivel that pours out of him if I manage to knock back a few more.

The man has no spine.

He hasn't gone home to his own lands since the witches burned the crops there over a century ago, leaving the villagers and townsfolk at his castle to fend for themselves. Instead, he follows my uncle around and simpers after him, hiding amongst the skirts of the Unseelie Court. I don't know why that cowardice from him galls me so much when all of them do it, but there's just something about his pathetic face that rubs me the wrong way.

“Fates have mercy, if you're going to stare a hole in the man's head then you should probably walk back out, cool yourself off, and try again, Soren.”

There’s no mistaking that voice.

With a smirk, I turn to face my most beloved cousin and take the goblet of elven wine from her with a murmured, “Thank you.” The burn of this wine is different from my usual drink of choice, and only centuries of drinking hard liquor stops me from coughing and sputtering as the alcohol hits my throat at the wrong angle.

“It’s a bit early to be starting with this elixir isn't it?” I say, and she raises an eyebrow at me, shrugging delicately.

She may be standing here looking like the most refined and regal of all the princesses, dressed entirely in the correct shade of blue with silver trimmings dripping from her, sapphires at her throat and small pearls in her ears that are a favorite gift from Roan she is never without, but she is a warrior in her own right. One who wages war on my behalf with her intellect and sharp tongue.

I would end entire bloodlines for this woman.

I already know she would do the same for me.

“There isn't enough fae elixir in the world to get me through this evening without making a scene, Soren. You should prepare yourself for the shame I'm about to bring our family if Lady Alara doesn’t learn to keep her ignorant mouth shut.”

Our gazes drift to the lady in question, a distant aunt of Airlie’s who we both despise. A gaudy silver gown barely hangs on to Lady Alara’s frame as she bends over in front of her husband, almost falling into the lap of the man he's speaking to. I'm certain the Fates didn’t put these two together, and yet here they are, making fools of themselves in front of the entire court as though they have every right to put us through this spectacle.

“I’ll cut out her tongue if you like. It's been so long since my last scandal, I'm more than happy for that to be the next one.”

Airlie’s smile is genuine, but it doesn't reach her eyes. None of her smiles have reached her eyes in the many weeks since her son's death, and though she no longer bears any signs of her pregnancy, her hand continues to brush her stomach as if she's still patting it proudly the way she did when it was round and full of life. I’m sure it’s a subconscious action, because she’s never been one to show vulnerability, especially to these vultures.

The one time that one of my uncle's guards dared call her stupid in my hearing for trying in the first place, I beat him so severely that the entire realm heard about it. I'm not sure the man will ever make a full recovery, and I do not care. The only reason he's still breathing is that people tend to forget the torture of corpses around here, but a living, breathing man hobbling around with permanent wounds is a bit hard to ignore.

“And what did the Lady Alara dare to say about you?”

She raises one of her tiny and fine hands to her chest in a mocking display of piety, the jewels at her throat catching the candlelight and glittering in a dazzling show of her wealth and fine breeding. “Just that stupid little girls should learn their lessons about the world instead of running to their rooms and crying about it. We all know that she doesn't give two Fate-filled fucks about the curse because her tastes are strictly high fae males and, without it, she’d have to explain to her husband why their children bear zero resemblance to him.”

I flag down another of the servants carrying wine and take a goblet. Before I think better of it, I grab a second one for Airlie as well. She's still sipping from her own goblet of fairy elixir but, with a husband who I'm sure is not far away to walk her back up to her rooms, I think it's better that we get this evening over with for her. She's come, and she's been seen at my side by everyone in attendance—that's all she needed to do.

“I heard she was fucking Prince Duhrin again. She really does have a type, doesn't she?” I don’t bother lowering my voice, happy for the entire ballroom to hear the derision in my tone.

Airlie finishes the last of the elixir and waves her goblet in the air until one of the staff comes to take it from her. It's an arrogant move, but she's never known a life outside of these castles, and I wouldn't expect anything different from her.

She takes the new wine from me and sips it delicately. “I heard she was spotted crawling out of your dearest uncle's chambers only a few nights ago.”

Stupid woman. She really hasn't broadened her tastes at all.

Maybe I will cut out her tongue, if only to spite him so he can no longer make use of it.

I don't need to say it for Airlie to read it on my face, and the tinkling bells of her giggles lighten my mood. Proprietary and good manners be damned, I wrap an arm around her shoulders and bring her gently to my side, then press a chaste kiss to her temple the way I would if she were my sister.

“If you need anything—anything at all—speak, and it's yours.”

She nods delicately and rests her head against my shoulder for just a moment before she steps away, blinking rapidly. “You're not allowed to hug me, Soren. Not here.”

I scoff at her and take another sip of my wine, finally feeling the numbing effects I so desperately need. “The gossiping vipers would have to be truly foolish to assume anything from a hug between the two of us.”

Airlie shakes her head at me. “I’m not talking about that, idiot! You only hug me when things are terrible, and I'd almost convinced myself that everything that's happened over the past few months was merely a fever dream. If you hug me, then it's real, and I certainly can't be thinking about that right now.”

Ah.

That’s not a good at all.

Across the room, I catch Roan’s eye, noting the sour look on his face. I nod discreetly toward Airlie, motioning for him to come and get her, before I say, “Your son was real, Airlie. He was real, he was here, and he meant everything to all of us. Nothing will change that. Not some stupid ball meant to distract and entertain. I will never forget him, and I will never stop until every last witch has been wiped from the face of the earth for his death. Now go back to your rooms and rest. You've already done more than I would ever ask of you, just to appease their sick fascinations.”

She looks at me, her eyes round and bright with unshed tears, before Roan finally reaches us and pulls her into his arms. I clap him on the shoulder, and then the two of them walk out together, the entire court stopping for a moment to observe. Parents together, mourning, a symbol of just how wrong things are in our kingdom, but the moment the doors shut behind them, the party continues as though they were never here. As though their little son had never taken our world and torn it asunder, as though nothing matters but the dancing and the flowing wine.

All of it a beautiful, perfect, stunning lie.

AN HOUR LATER, the only positive thing I can say is that at least Lady Alara’s survival instincts have kicked in and she’s stayed the hell away from me.

I’m inching toward the gardens to feign interest in something out there and escape the oppressive air of the court when I’m stopped by some of the members of my uncle's favored royal bloodlines. They drag me into a conversation about the state of the kingdom, though none of them really want to know what’s happening. They just want reassurance that it's not going to affect them.

It doesn’t matter how many villages have been destroyed by the witches, how many crops have failed, or how many part-bloods have been taken and tortured only for us to find their corpses weeks later in mass burial sites. All that matters to them is that none of that ugliness touches them.

With half a cask of wine now firmly under my belt, my filter for these things is a little skewed.

I watch in wonder as horror begins to mount on their faces. “I suppose you should all enjoy the feast we have here, considering that food isn't going to be available much longer.”

Prince Meridian has long since scurried off, but his brother, Prince Mercer, stares at me as though he's trying to figure out if I'm joking or not.

Princess Alyna, a cousin on my mother's side who I would not trust with even the most idol of gossip but who doesn't have any ill intentions toward me, gasps and holds a hand to her chest. “Surely we could send for aid from the Northern Lands? We have good relations with them still, don't we? You could ask Roan to speak to some of his mother's family. I'm sure they wouldn't want their own blood to suffer.”

Of course.

Nothing describes the high fae way so perfectly as the ability to scorn anyone who might differ from their standards of beauty and grace and yet try to use them for their own gain.

I keep the disgust from my voice as I shrug and answer, “The Northern Lands are too busy dealing with the Fate Wars to worry about what's happening down here.”

Prince Mercer holds up his goblet in my direction, his eyes twinkling as he smirks. “Didn't you hear? The Fate Wars are over.”

I scowl at him. It can't be. For centuries they've been fighting the Ureen, monsters of the Fates who had once been only fables told around the campfire to terrify the small and weak. Then the Sol King had broken his fate and brought them to life, a tear opening up in the sky and bringing forth these beings of consuming darkness.

The Fate Wars wiped out most of the Seelie population. They'd been conscripting our own people, until we put a stop to their calls for aid, needing our soldiers for our own battles against the witches.

Prince Mercer seems to enjoy knowing something I don’t. He glances at the others, all listening intently. “The regent spoke about it last night. He received word from the Sol King himself. The Ureen are gone. The Fate Wars are over. He thought at first that some soldiers would be sent home to us, but it seems that the Unseelie who were tempted over to the Northern Lands have no intention of coming home. I suppose whatever life he offered them there is more appealing than coming back here to labor or fight.”

Most of the population who left were goblin part-bloods or people with witch blood, trying to get away from the war here. Either way, I don't want them back, and our situation isn't so dire that I need to beg for help from the King of the Northern Lands just yet.

“I can't believe they defeated the Ureen! I was sure that when the Fates opened the sky, we would be the last high fae left,” Alyna says dramatically, one hand clutching the diamond hanging around her neck, a gift from her husband on their wedding day.

He almost bankrupted his entire royal line to obtain it, but it had been the only thing she wanted, so he merely raised his taxes to recoup the loss.

I’ve never seen a Ureen, and my only interest in the Fate Wars was my hopes that the Seelie high fae would win and manage to repair the hole in the sky. The stories of the creatures that came out of the tear are enough to turn my blood.

The King of the Northern Lands had forsaken his fate, choosing a different path, and by breaking such a covenant had angered the Fates into tearing the hole in the sky. That inky black slash had made it seem as though night was always present, a reminder to all of what the king had done.

At first, no one worried about it. Who really cares what the sky looks like, so long as the earth continues turning and the seasons keep changing?

Then the creatures came through.

We’d heard reports of them and considered sending aid across the sea, but then my parents were murdered—the first act of war by the witches—and within a few years we were far too busy with our own problems to help the Seelie fae.

Worry had lived in the back of my mind the entire time. What would happen if the Ureen won? What would happen if the hole in the sky got bigger, if the monsters of Fate with no motivations but to consume and destroy had run out of victims over there—what was to stop them from coming here?

The witches have gotten close to wiping out the high fae. The Ureen would have finished the job.

Prince Mercer, his voice slurring a little, says, “Quite heroic, the entire battle, I’ve heard. The Ureen made it all the way to the Golden Palace, killing thousands in the Sol Army in a single sweep. Entire royal families were destroyed—they almost lost everyone. The queen was pregnant with the heir, but the Sol Army saved them both.”

At that point, I turned my back on the conversation, not wanting to hear another word. Certainly not from people who will happily gossip about such things in the same breath that they'd gossip about Airlie and her son.

As I turn, I catch my uncle's eye from where he’s seated on my father's throne.

Years of practice mean that I don't react to the sight, at least not on the outside, but my blood burns hot in my veins at the very idea of this man sitting there. For centuries he has claimed it for his own. I’m counting down the seconds until it is mine.

Patience.

“Nephew. It’s good to see you! Come, tell me of your travels,” he calls, his voice like honey drifting across the room to me, and I straighten my shoulders as I walk over to him.

It galls him that I refuse to bow and that, when I address him, I always do so with his proper title, one that the council deemed so he cannot force me to do otherwise. With the head of each royal household of the Unseelie high fae sitting on the council, there’s far too many people for him to impress, placate, deceive, and threaten to get his way.

He’s never gotten close to the support of the majority he needs to take the throne permanently.

“Regent. It was a quick trip to see how things are progressing across the lands—nothing to discuss in fine company.”

His face stays passive, but his eyes lock with mine as he waits for the smallest of openings, something he can dig into to pull me apart, spread more poison into the ears of the royal families within the Unseelie Court who keep him in power, until he can take the throne for himself for good.

“Come now, there's no reason to address me so formally. We are family, after all.”

It's got nothing to do with family.

He hates the title of regent, the reminder that the throne isn’t actually his and he’s sitting there at the pinnacle of royalty only until I am allowed to ascend. The fact that I can’t do so until I’m married thanks to some stupid archaic law is ridiculous, and I’ll change it the moment I take the throne so that my children will never have to worry about such things.

The children I will have the moment I break the curse.

“I would never be so presumptuous, Regent. There is power in words, and I wouldn't want anyone to think that such casualness is appropriate when addressing a member of the royal family.”

He inclines his head at me, careful never to drop my gaze, as though doing so would prove just how weak he really is. “I heard you discussing the Northern Lands. It's a terrible business, the whole lot of it.”

I swirl the last dregs of the wine in my cup and meet one of the server's eyes as I raise it for another. “It doesn't sound so terrible. The Sol King won after all.”

My uncle clicks his tongue at me. “So much death and destruction. The Golden Palace is missing an entire wing thanks to the Ureen. The Sol King's high commander was forced to lead an army against them in the last stand. He's quite an impressive man by all accounts. Perhaps we should send you across the seas to train under him, see what he can teach you about warfare.”

The casual way that he questions and insults my ability to lead is not uncommon, and I know it goads him when I merely shrug. “I have duties here that are more pressing, but perhaps I shall send a messenger to see what aid they can provide.”

My uncle mirrors my action and shrugs back at me, then splays out a hand. “No need, I already have. That is, after all, the work required of the king and not a prince.”

I want to take a great handful of this man's throat and squeeze until he drops dead at my feet, but I merely take the new wine glass from the serving girl and take another swig, counting down the very seconds until this night is over.

There is more important work to be done.

Instead, I lift the goblet of elven wine in a toast to him and smirk, my tone devoid of the dripping derision I feel as I toast him.

“Thank you, Regent, for undertaking such difficult duties. I know it must be taxing to stand in for the Celestial bloodline during such tumultuous times but we must trust in the Fates and their plan.”

SIX

The party quickly devolves into a night of debauchery. I feel envious of Tauron, who took a guard watch shift on the outer wall to avoid all of this, but I would have never gotten away with such a thing. The princes and princesses of the realm slowly sink further and further into the fairy wine, and then the elixirs begin to flow until it becomes a party like those in the history books, lewd and raucous in all the ways that the high fae are so well known for.

I sit in one corner of the room and watch without partaking, seeing everything and gleaning what information might be useful for me for later. There’s a lot of gossip about the Fate Wars and almost nothing about the war we’re fighting. I'm glad I sent Airlie back to her rooms before it came to this lechery. There's nothing that she hates quite so much as having to watch pointless, hollow revelry.

Her mother, Aura is on the other side of the room, a tall crystal glass in her hand as she speaks to one of her many adulteress admirers, but one of her hands rests on her husband’s arm. As much as I hate the old bitch, she’s kept her integrity, as loyal to Samel as they come.

If only she’d use some of that loyalty to sway the court into helping me, maybe I’d find more tolerance for her meddling ways.

The rest of the room doesn't care quite so much about loyalty, and I have to keep vitriol and contempt from my expression as numerous women circle and fawn over my uncle.

A cloud of honeysuckle and jasmine envelops me as a sickly sweet voice murmurs into my ear, “I suppose I should be glad that they're all high fae and I'm not going to end up with any more bastard half-breed siblings.”

Discreetly, I take a deep breath before I turn to face Sari, yet another of my cousins. The regent’s daughter and only heir, she is the closest to me in bloodline, but his control over her stopped any sort of true familial closeness we might have shared before it began. All of my interactions with her have been guarded and careful, a calculated dance to be sure my uncle isn’t using her for information.

She looks like everything one would expect of a spoiled little princess, desperately emulating the beauty and grace of Airlie but pulling off none of it. Her dress is just a little too much, the jewelry a little bit too big and gaudy, the tiara on her head leaving me with a bad taste in my mouth.

Her father has given her a dozen of them since he took my father's throne, as if attempting to convince everyone around us that she isn't just his heir, but the kingdom’s as well. I try not to hold it against Sari; I’m well aware that it’s not her fault and she's far too naive to understand the games her father is playing. He’s worked diligently to keep her innocent, weakening her, because she could never survive without him.

I pity her.

I swirl my cup nonchalantly, my lip curling at the scenes in front of us. “I thought you would be happy to have more siblings running around. Your household can always use extra help.”

Sari’s eyes flick to mine, but when she finds no scorn or reproach in them, she lowers her gaze, her lashes brushing her cheek. She’s stunning in the way that all high fae are beautiful, but if she tried a little less, she could be a standout beauty like Airlie. She’s spent too long trying to fulfill her father's every ideal for that though, overcompensating for the fact that she was born a girl and not the son he was hoping for.

She's the only child of the regent—the only legitimate one, anyway—and his wife died in her child bed. Since then, he’s had a string of bastard children, all of them daughters and all of them part-bloods of some kind, thanks to the curse. He has no intention of ever legitimizing a part-blood, or acknowledging one in any way, and so—barbarically, in my opinion—his illegitimate daughters all become chambermaids to Sari. They’re nothing more than servants, even with the royal blood that flows through their veins.

However, I know my cousin differs from her father in at least one way by how she treats them behind closed doors.

Softly, lovingly, with such affection her father would kill them if he found out. His obsession with the pure bloodlines of the Unseelie Court might not stop him from bedding lower fae and part-bloods, but it certainly would stop him from letting his daughter show them any kindness.

“Do you think Lady Alara will try to crawl into his bed again? She really is shameless,” Sari murmurs as she sips prettily at her goblet.

She's nowhere near as drunk as anyone else in the room, and I wouldn't be surprised if one of her chambermaids had cut her wine with water to help her keep her head.

“I think he makes very careful decisions about who he spends time with, as we all should.”

Sari scoffs and pulls a fan out of a concealed pocket in her dress. She uses it to shield her face as she fans herself, an elaborate act of shyness even in the warm air of the ballroom. “A very political view, Cousin. It always is such a bore, speaking to you when you won't have a simple conversation with me. I wonder how different things will be once you take the throne. How sharp your tongue might be when it's no longer trapped in a little cage of politeness and appropriateness.”

A naive little bird, she is.

I suppose her father keeps her that way to ensure that she doesn't accidentally let slip his plans of taking the throne for himself. She never did know how to keep a secret.

I give her a very fake and gentle smile. “I suppose we'll find out, won't we?”

This clearly frustrates her, because she snaps the fan open again and waves it with vigor. “Any news on your mate? At this rate you're going to be an old man by the time you take the throne. You won't even be able to enjoy the spoils of running a kingdom.”

The spoils.

She acts as though it’s a prize, as though I’ll climb those steps to sit on that throne and have nothing more to worry about ever again.

The Unseelie Court will eat her alive someday, when her father no longer protects her, when she’s no longer useful to him as a pawn is his games of treason.

“I’m no closer today than I was yesterday. I can be patient.”

I have no choice but to be patient, that word still tasting like acid on my tongue thanks to my visit with the Seer, but Sari grins at me, her entire face lighting up.

“The Fates decided to teach the Savage Prince patience? What a funny thing to have happen! I don't suppose that you hate it as much as you say though, Cousin. If the Court would just agree to give you the throne, I would argue you wouldn't even want to find your mate. I hear that you’ve been gracing the bed of Lady Loreth. I don't suppose she'll be so easy to say goodbye to when you find this princess of yours.”

It has been many years since I’ve seen or spoken to Loreth, but my hand tightens around my goblet at the mere mention of her name. I closed that chapter of my life long ago, and yet…the rumors persist.

The moment I heard my croí it had ruined me for anyone else, not just because my honor demands my loyalty, but because no one else holds the same appeal. It’s her voice I hear when I close my eyes, her life I’m eager to learn more about after only getting the briefest scraps of information, and it’s her face I’m desperate to see.

When I don’t rise to her bait, Sari tries again. “Have you thought of traveling to the Northern Lands? If it isn't one of the princesses here, there's every chance she will be amongst the Seelie Court. Can you imagine the council if she is? They'll have a fit! They were angry enough about Airlie diluting the Unseelie bloodlines—imagine having a Seelie princess sitting on the throne and holding the title of Unseelie High Queen. I can't wait to see it!”

She's throwing out barbs randomly, the way she always does, but she has struck some truth there. I have always assumed that my mate is a Seelie princess, because there is no other reason for me not to have found her.

I’ve made a point of meeting every single member of the royal families throughout the realm, even the most elusive, reclusive families who choose not to partake in my uncle's lascivious ways, and I have felt nothing for any of them—no moment of recognition, no spark of fire as the Fates speak to me.

Nothing.

It doesn't matter to me which family my mate comes from or which land she hails from, what matters to me is that she is safe and by my side, that we’re married to fulfill the requirements for me to take my throne, and that we find a way to break the curse.

I care about being a good king and saving my people, not throwing useless parties and dancing our way to our doom.

I will do anything to keep my people safe, even the unthinkable. No matter how much I loathe the witches and despise touching them, I will check every last corpse for clues as to who is helping them. I need to know if they all wear the sigil, if they all look the same, if the different locations have significance. I need to find out what they mean.

I smile at my cousin and look back at the party, then empty the last mouthful of wine from my glass.

Footsteps in the hallway across the room catch my attention, and they’re loud enough for the more sober partygoers to hear them as well. The room quiets down, a ripple of unease breaking through the frivolity. It shows exactly what a farce this all truly is.

They know the danger we’re in.

They all sense the monsters in the room, invisible but undoubtedly there.

The doors on the far side of the ballroom fling open, and Tauron steps through, a handful of our soldiers behind him. All of them are spattered in mud and blood, a haggard look even for such well-trained men.

Tauron’s gaze darts around the ballroom until it finds mine, and he dips his head respectfully. He speaks in a normal tone but, thanks to my high fae hearing, I don't need anything louder to receive the message clearly.

“There was a raid on the village just outside the castle walls. We've taken prisoners.”

MERRIMENT LEAVES THE ROOM, the intoxication of the high fae of the Unseelie Court melting away at Tauron’s sobering news.

The War of the Witches is the dirty secret of the court, none of them wanting to accept that the ugliness outside the walls is actually happening, and I'm tempted to give in to the merciless laughter that bubbles inside me as I observe the shocked and horrified faces around me.

None of them care about the villagers; it’s only the close proximity of the attack that has them clutching at their chests in horror. None of them have ever seen the aftermath of the raids, the men and women who are murdered, the children left orphaned. I’ve burned a lot of bodies on funeral pyres in my time, and at every one, I vow to the Fates that I’ll avenge them all.

They deserve better than the regent as their king.

I don't know how the members of the court sweep the deaths under the rug so easily, how they just dismiss what is happening in the world around us as not their problem. It’s for someone else to deal with while they dance and drink their lives away.

The room quickly divides into those who are loyal to me and those who have sided with my uncle. Without much effort, I pick out the families that gravitate toward the regent. This isn’t about hiding—right now, they’re not ignoring what’s happening out there.

They’re using it to further their own ambitions.

Every last one of the princes, princesses, lords, and ladies circling the regent have placed their bets and decided that he’s going to end up on the throne. All of them continue to feed the rumors and disgust at the Savage Prince.

I will not be merciful to any of them when I take my throne.

My uncle stands from my father's throne, and the room falls silent as they watch him approach Tauron. My cousin is excellent at playing the games of royalty, and none of the disgust or hatred I know he feels is displayed on his face, no hint of disloyalty that my uncle could use against him.

I’ve made sure to keep my circles small and devoid of idiots.

“Come, let us take this conversation outside. There's no reason to spoil everyone's night with such barbaric news.”

Tauron is careful not to flick his eyes in my direction, something that would undermine my uncle's rule, and instead he bows to show just enough respect to not be called out for insolence before he turns to direct the guards out of the room.

I follow them closely.

“You should enjoy your evening, Soren. There is no reason for you to be forced to leave the party. The Court has been eager to see you and hear about your travels, you know,” my uncle says, and I empty the last of my glass of fairy wine before I hand it off to one of the servers heading back toward the kitchen.

The part-blood startles but takes the glass, bowing so deeply I think her ears touch her knees before she scurries off. I don't like the way the regent watches her, and I move to distract him from this member of my household.

I have my own reasons to follow him down to the dungeons.

“There is nothing more important to me than the safety of the court and our people. I would never place frivolity and fun over that.”

He's good at hiding his reactions, as good as I am, but I’ve always known exactly which words will needle at him.

Our people.

I’m sharing them with him for a short moment in time, because what is a thousand years to immortality? He might hold the throne for now, but I will be the one sitting on it in the end.

“There's no point in you coming with us, Soren. I will see to these prisoners being executed, and then I will be back to finish sampling this year's wine from your estate. It’s not as sweet as I like it, but I suppose you've been busy with other things.”

If he thinks that I ‘ll be insulted by such an observation, he is starting to slip in his ability to hit a target, but my mind is stuck on an entirely different part of his protest.

“You plan to execute them before we question them. Surely there is much to be gained by speaking with them first? I understand it's distasteful—no one wants to exchange words with a witch—but I would guess that with the right motivations, it could prove quite useful.”

The regent stops walking down the hallway, his small flurry of courtiers murmuring amongst themselves at his abrupt halt.

His voice is dripping with saccharine worry, a farcical display for his little audience. “Do you want us to speak with the witches? It is treason to do so, Soren. I hope this is not an admission of guilt.”

Treason.

Questioning prisoners should never be treasonous, especially when the witches seem to be two steps ahead of us at every turn. It has been a humbling experience to fight against creatures that have always been considered lower fae, beneath us in every way, and yet they outsmart us over and over again.

It is just another testament to how compliant my uncle truly is to the war that he decrees it treason to question prisoners.

Two can play at this little game though, and I can dance around the truth just as well as he can. “It’s treason to have a conversation with a witch, or to help them. However, torturing information out of them, for the safety of our kingdom, is not. I’m always happy to inflict pain on those who would take everything from us the moment they find an opening to do so.”

There are more flurries of whispers behind me, but I keep my eyes firmly on the regent himself, watching the cogs turn in his mind as he calculates how far he can take this.

Is this enough for him to decree me treasonous and unworthy of the throne? Does he have enough support from other royal families? Do any of them see what he’s doing here?

My problem is that there are enough royals in the Unseelie Court who wish to sweep the war under the rug and forget its ugliness altogether that they would back him to get rid of the Savage Prince, who has been painted a warmongering brute.

My uncle has been very careful in his campaign against me, ensuring never to make a misstep that would lose him favor. He's very aware that his claim to the throne is only a fraction of my own, and the only way he’s going to keep it is to get rid of me.

If I wasn't so adept in the art of war, my senses keenly honed and sharp, with a large circle of supporters just as capable as I am, my uncle would have made more attempts on my life by now.

Instead, he’s drawn me into playing the political game, one he thinks he’ll be able to win.

Unfortunately for him, I am just as adept at politics as I am with my sword.

“There’s nothing that can be gained from speaking to them, Soren. Maybe I misspoke, calling it treason so quickly, but it doesn't change the fact that it is to our detriment to do such things. I hope you are not wasting your time in such ways. There’s nothing to be gained in dealing with witches. We're better off continuing to eliminate them completely.”

He pauses to look at his supporters before he continues with that same stupid smile on his face, “I’m sure the curse will be lifted the moment the last witch is dead. We'll just have to be more thorough in our work of getting rid of them all. I suppose we will have to start canvassing for part-bloods once again—they are often sympathizers. We have villages full of them throughout the kingdom.”

He always works like this, finding a way around a conflict and feeding enough crumbs to show that he supports the efforts while whispering and building his own case behind my back.

I feel as though, every time I get close to calling him out, he does just enough to placate me and then we're hit by some new horrific act of war from the witches.

“Come then, Nephew. We will go and see these prisoners and deal with them together. It will be a good lesson for you in how to be a king.”

I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how much his words gall me. It would only spur him on more.

SEVEN

The prisoners' chambers lie underneath the castle, and the only access is one long staircase straight down into the depths of the cave. It makes it easy to guard prisoners, but the high fae, even Unseelie as we are, don't like being underground.

The gravity of the descent settles like a prickly blanket over my skin as we cross the threshold of the cavernous dungeons but I have grown accustomed to the feeling, adopting the ability to lean into the wrongness of it until it's nothing more than a slight discomfort. The regent’s mood gets fouler with every step we take, and I find myself hoping that this will be the moment he missteps.

His four most loyal followers join us. Even as they wince and grind their teeth at the sensations, none of them want to look weak. All of them want the regent to think highly of them and their backing of him; they all want to expand their influence and possibly their lands by following this man, and if he doubts them, they know it will harm their chances.

“We could have done this in the upper chambers. Why are you bringing us all the way down here, Tauron? It's not like we're going to keep them!” the regent snaps, and I continue deeper and deeper under the ground, unfaltering as I go.

It’s easy to keep my tone light as I answer him. “Prince Tauron made the choice to secure them away from the court. As we have a lot of royals in attendance tonight, it would be far too risky to leave them in one of the holding rooms upstairs. He thought of nothing but the utmost safety of our people. I would hate to think what could have happened if one of them got out. With my beloved cousin Princess Sari in attendance, I would never think to allow for such things.”

As a child I’d wandered down here a few times, when my family had come to Yregar Castle. The stone is as old as the castle itself, etched out of the earth by the ancestors of the high fae who came many millennia ago, their marks still easily read on the stone itself. Long ago, the castle was considered the place for the court to visit during the summer months, even as mild as they are in the Southern Lands. It’s position near the Lore River and the fields that were once overrun with wildflowers and sprites was a wondrous sight to behold but it’s been many centuries since then.

When I’d laid my hands on the tool marks, it had felt like a connection to those who had come before us, something they had left behind for future generations to look upon. I had felt so much smaller than myself, and when my father came looking for me and found me down here, he told me the stories of those high fae, of how magic flowed freely through their veins and how they had been responsible for the earth here. How we played a role just as important as the witches in safeguarding nature.

Our arrogance and sense of entitlement made us stray from that magic. Somewhere along the generations, the high fae decided that those caretaking tasks were beneath us, that we were too important to humble ourselves to something as supposedly unimportant as the earth and the magic that flows beneath our feet.

We thought that our blood was strong enough to leave the tasks to the lower fae, and that we would not be hurt because of it. The magic has slowly waned, and only select few still feel it, like my cousin Tyton.

When we reach the lower caverns of the dungeons, the lowest point in the castle, I note the ashy hues of the courtiers. Tauron is rock steady as he leads us. Even if he didn't frequent the dungeons as much as I do, he would be this rock steady. He will never allow the Unseelie Court to see him rattled, no matter how badly he hates the feeling of the stifling air. Such weakness will never be on display.

I can hear the witches struggling in the cells.

The rage I cannot help but feel around my blood-sworn enemy begins to bubble under the surface of my skin. The courtiers begin to murmur to themselves until one of them is brave enough to approach the regent, speaking quietly to him as though that will somehow win him favor. “Is it safe to be down here with them in such a way, Your Majesty? Should we not have more guards here so that your life is not at risk?”

None of them mention my life, though it should be the priority here over the regent’s. I am forced to answer to him and witness him sitting on my father's throne, but I am still the heir apparent, the true bloodline that belongs in power.

“Prince Tauron will have ensured that we are quite safe. The mumbling you can hear is thanks to the gags that are in the witches’ mouths. Their magic is strongly tied to their words, which is why I believe that keeping them alive this long will all be for nothing. It is too risky to remove the gags, in case any of them have magic left within their veins after the raid. Rather than have them answer questions, we will have to execute them before they can speak.”

It is as though my uncle thinks I'm an inexperienced and that none of this will have occurred to me.

When we step around the corner, I find three Witches chained to the wall in the largest cell, one that’s set up for questioning of this sort. They all bear the witches’ marks, black ink patterning their faces, and their eyes are wild as they strain against the iron chains around their wrists.

Tauron is still wearing the thick leather gloves with the bloodstones and citrines embroidered on the cuffs, which are required to be able to touch iron without falling sick himself. I have a pair of my own strapped to the belt around my waist, always ready to deal with and confront with these creatures.

As I look at them all, I know exactly what is about to happen here, but I want to see it for myself. I want to know that I'm right in my assumptions about my uncle.

“Look at their eyes. There's still a glow to them—they have access to their magic. None of them are quite drained yet. I suppose you're disappointed, Soren, but we will have to have them killed.”

I step toward the prisoners and act as if I’m looking them over carefully. They all jerk against those chains, their skin rubbing raw as blood begins to drip from the burn wounds, and I stare at them, unaffected. The sounds coming from behind the gags become desperate and vicious.

“That one doesn't look like it has much left. I'm sure I could keep it subdued enough to access some information. Are the villages outside the castle walls not worth an attempt to you, regent?”

There is nothing about my words that my uncle could possibly twist into a vicious story of his own, but the tone is taunting. I'm asking him to come out to play.

He is every inch the high fae prince that the Unseelie Court wants on the throne. He has never marred his hands with acts of war, never drawn a sword in a real fight, only in training, as every man knows is acceptable within the gentile company of the court.

He fights with politics and whispers and gossip, through reputation and his barbed tongue. He fights with a goblet of theory wine in his hand and a smirk across his lips.

He fights in all the ways that I am adept at but find distasteful and pathetic if they are not backed up with the ability to swing a sword.

“Guards, kill them all,” he says, holding my eye, and I let my own smirk stretch across my lips.

I suppose he thinks he's won this round, but even as the choking sounds of the witches drowning in their own blood fills the air, I feel nothing but satisfaction.

My uncle has just proved to me that keeping these witches silent isn't about safety or his people. If it were, he would’ve questioned the prisoners. Why did they attack today? Are they hunting the Unseelie Court? Did they follow them here? A dozen more questions could be asked, and yet he didn’t bother.

Somewhere out there is a witch with something to say about him—something that he does not want me to know.

My uncle is the one committing treason.

AS THE SUN rises the next morning, the entirety of my uncle's court leaves Yregar Castle. Rather than seeing them off, I feign a hangover and stay in my chambers, happy for this maneuver to be in my uncle's favor. He’ll read the action as a failing on my part, a sullen tantrum at not getting my own way last night when it came to the prisoners, but I find myself reclining in the dining area of my chambers without a single regret.

Tyton and Tauron arrive at breakfast to let me know that the court has left without any issues, heading back to Yris Castle to go back to their gluttonous ways. Tyton looks as though he spent the evening chasing the bottom of several bottles of fairy wine, but Tauron is as sharp as ever as he takes a seat and picks out breakfast for himself.

He grumbles to me, “They're not going to come back for at least another year, right? We passed their little test and hosted the stupid party so they could come and snoop, but they're not going to start coming here more often… right?”

I lift to goblet to my lips and sip. “I heard Airlie’s mother speaking to the regent and trying to convince him to return for her birthday as well. Be prepared for another round of this in a few short months.”

He scoffs and spreads conserves over a piece of bread, then shoves it into his mouth and munches unhappily. For such a surly man, he sure does have a sweet tooth.

“I’ll kill the woman myself. She brings nothing but heartache and pain to Airlie and Roan. She's more use to us dead.”

I shake my head at him, and Tyton groans as he rubs his temples.

“I’m pretty sure it’s treasonous to speak of Princess Aura like that. You know she’s still of royal blood, even if you hate her,” Tyton mutters, and Tauron shrugs as he shoves the rest of the piece of toast into his mouth and grabs another piece of bread.

He's going to eat his weight in sugar and sourdough this morning. After a few days of scouting duties and the lackluster fare we ate on the road, he’s shoving it in like he’s afraid it’ll disappear. The one sign of his royal upbringing that is clear for anyone to see is the way that he always gravitates toward the sweetest, most rich and indulgent of foods and the way it hurts his heart so badly when he's forced to live on soldiers’ rations.

I'm not so fussy myself, finding it easy to switch between the two provisions, but Tauron would happily wipe every witch from the kingdom himself just to go back to being fed by the chefs here at Yregar Castle morning and night without interruption.

“Shouldn't we go down there and get this over with? Some of us would like to go back to bed,” Tyton mutters again, as though speaking any louder would be murder to his aching head.

I push a small plate of eggs and sausage in front of him, then another with some of the hearty sourdough smothered with freshly churned butter on the side. Strong and rich foods that might ease the hangover that plagues him.

“There's no need to rush things, especially when the regent could send scouts back easily and quickly. Just eat something to settle your gut, and we'll get to work closer to noon. Roan hasn't even arrived yet.”

Tyson curses under his breath, and Tauron cuts me a look, but I ignore it. I'm not upset or offended by Tyton. He’s deals with the whispers of the Unseelie Court by losing himself in the pleasures of the high fae. This is not an unusual morning scene, and it won’t be the last.

When Roan finally finds us, dressed for war and with a sour expression on his face to match, we’ve finished eating and are ready to go back down to the dungeons. My household knows better than to keep tabs on where we are or to gossip about such things, and as we pass servants, they duck their heads and move around us.

I'm careful to check and ensure that none of my uncle's household has been left behind. Many princes and princesses of the Unseelie Court wouldn't know their servants' faces, let alone their names, but I know every last one of mine. It’s a habit I picked up in the early years of playing the political game with my uncle. I learned very quickly that anyone could be used against me with the right motivation, and I make sure that everyone within my household never has a need for anything, lest my uncle use it to exploit them and thus me.

Without the eyes of the regent and his courtiers on us, Tauron is a little more responsive as we make our way back down the stone staircase, his lip curling and his shoulders rolling back as he settles into the feeling of oppression down here.

“Why does it need to be so far down? The First Fae could have stopped a dozen times by now and just built the dungeons here. I doubt a few extra stairs will make all that much difference if any of the prisoners escape.”

The words he's saying are meaningless. He knows it and we know it; he just wants to complain.

Putting the dungeons so deep underground is an act of torture. It's uncomfortable for me to be down here, but I’ve never spent more than a few hours in this place. The prisoners who spend weeks, months, years here slowly go mad. That’s why it’s so deep.

A fate worse than death.

The corpses of three witches my uncle had executed are still hanging from the walls. Tauron and Roan both pull their gloves on and get to work, unshackling the iron chains from their wrists and watching as the bodies hit the ground. There's a satisfaction to the thunking noise of it, the careless way that we treat these dead, because they do not deserve our respect.

They’ve never given us any.

Tauron touches their faces as though they’re diseased, folding back their bottom lips and nodding as he finds the sigils there. Now that we know where to look, it’s as simple as that to check, and the more of the marks we find, the more I’m sure they point to my uncle’s treason.

“I hate that we have to burn them. Nothing would make me happier than a giant rotting heap of witches,” Tauron mutters, and Tyton wrinkles his nose at his brother.

“That would smell vile. We wouldn't be able to put it far enough away that the stench couldn’t reach us.”

Tauron doesn’t back down. “They don't deserve a funeral pyre.”

Roan shakes his head at both of them. “It's not a funeral pyre. It's the same as burning trash. Stop letting your bad mood bleed out onto everyone else. We get it—you hate the Unseelie Court and loathe when they arrive here.”

“This is my home. I shouldn't have to share it with that lot,” he hisses back, and I shrug.

“Someday, I’ll have learned enough patience and we won't have to.”

I suppose I should try to censor some of my derision against the Fates lest they choose to strike me down, but I feel as though there's nothing else they could do to me at this point. There’s no worse fate they could possibly put upon me than the one I'm already living.

There's a rustling and a murmuring, and I step farther into the dungeon. Now that Tyton has removed the glamor from the fourth witch prisoner, another advantage of the small amount of magic that my cousin still has access to, it's easy to find her in the corner of the room, .

It's hard for him to hold up the glamor, but we needed it to stay true only for as long as my uncle and his courtiers were in the room.

The witch is bound in iron chain, a gag in her mouth and the same black markings across her face as the others. It's a woman, her tangled hair falling over her face, her eyes the same hue as the other prisoners. I don’t fear it. I’ve learned a lot in my time dealing with witches, and I know exactly how to make this thing talk without letting it accessing its magic.

Dealing with my uncle was nothing more than a test—one he failed.

Tauron snaps the gag from the witch's mouth, but only after he has the iron blade of his dagger pressed against her throat, his hand tight as he grips her jaw. He flicks her lip down, but there’s nothing there. He stares at her with cold eyes, the face of death in his fury.

The witch coughs and gags for a moment before she begins to hiss words of magic, but they don’t take effect. She’s not strong enough to cast in such close quarters to the iron, and Tauron’s lips stretch into a cruel grin of satisfaction.

“You really think we would to let you cast against us? I always knew that witches were stupid, nothing more than lower fae trash,” he says.

More nonsense spills from her lips, seething curses that are nothing more than words of hatred, and I step forward to press my boots against the iron touching the witches’ skin, a hissing sound coming from underneath it as the metal contacts her skin and burns, the reaction to iron all magical folk bear.

A hiss of pain tears from her lips, and I press forward, leaning into her space as my fingers curl around the collar of her shirt. I have no intention of touching a witch, the very thought of it curls my gut, but with a rough tug, I tear the neckline enough to expose her shoulder.

The sigil there glows black.

I lean back and she stares at me, unblinking as her breath stays caught in her chest. A cold sweat forms on her forehead, but she’s steady enough as she glares defiance. She’s prepared for whatever we’re planning to do with her.

“Tell me about this mark.”

The question surprises her.

She blinks and then spits on the ground at my feet. “I’m not telling you about the oaths I’ve sworn, you pathetic faeling cunt. You know nothing of the dark magic we wield, and it’ll claim your life soon enough.”

Oaths. Dark magic.

Even as my gut churns, I keep my face unaffected and go back to the line of questioning we always take. “If you have any information for us, I could be persuaded to let you live a little longer, or perhaps give you a kind death, but if all you have for me is curses, then I will cut you to pieces myself. I wonder how many limbs I can sever before the pain finally takes you out?”

The witch stares up at me, her eyes oddly liquid. When she finally grins, black oozing from between her lips. “I have nothing more for you, Savage Prince. The time of the high fae is over.”

I stare at her a moment before I pull out my own iron dagger and do exactly as I said I would, slowly cutting my enemy to pieces, limb by limb, under the watchful eyes of my cousins.

We get no extra information out of this one.

I suppose it’s a higher-ranking soldier, but still just disposable to Kharl and with no useful information for me. One day we will find someone higher up. We’ll find the right one and torture them until they sing a damning story about my uncle, I’m sure.

Now more than ever.

The sigil is nothing more than a few slashes like a fork, small and meaningless to the high fae. Such a thing could be passed off as a scar if it didn’t glow that unnatural black color, but the position it’s placed in on the shoulder makes it easy to hide under the layers of clothing required to survive in the Southern Lands. I’d noticed the first one on a corpse several months ago, and the image of it had itched at my brain for weeks until I remembered the guard in my parents' chamber the day they’d been murdered.

Then I saw it on my uncle by chance.

The battle I’d almost died in, the one that he’d survived with surface wounds—he’d explained away the blackened blood as part of the healing, but I’d seen the shape of the injury. The image of it is burned into my mind. It’s not enough proof to take to the Unseelie Court, but it’s enough for me.

My uncle is committing treason.

He is responsible for my parents’ death.

As I stare down at the dead witch, the blackness of the sigil bleeding out as the magic releases from her skin and back into the land, it solidifies to me that our mission is far from over. Our enemies are closer than just the witches we’re at war with. They’re sleeping in our castles and sharing our bloodlines. But no matter the additional earth-shattering revelations I find, one thing is true.

The only good witch is a dead one.

COMING APRIL 27TH

Table of Contents

Title Page

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Coming April 27th