Chapter 2
MERAK
I fly toward Ellonnar, one of the larger fae settlements beyond the borders of the fading Winter Court, certain I’ll find suitable accommodations for my mate there.
My mate.
I can scarcely believe it.
The tiny human woman cradled against my chest is my fated mate.
I sensed the bond between us the moment I laid eyes on her.
First came a sudden, overpowering warmth, followed by a hum of magic that tingled through my body.
I also thought I heard distant tower bells pealing across the mountains.
Then came something even stranger, an emotion I’m not certain I’ve ever experienced. Until now.
Tenderness.
A fierce, aching tenderness unlike anything I’ve ever known swelled within my chest, along with a sharp wave of possessiveness.
Mine.
She is mine.
The Lord of Nothing has finally found his mate.
I nearly scoff at the cruel nickname my own people bestowed upon me long ago. Few have ever dared speak it to my face. Those who have are long dead, their throats opened by the sharp tips of my wings.
And yet… there is truth in the title.
I have no lands. No people. No wealth worthy of my status as a highborn male.
On the morning I was born in Vaelnor, the province that is my birthright, a strange black frost swept across the wintry landscape. The ussha-blessed vegetation withered within hours, heralding a blight that poisoned the land.
The faefolk of Vaelnor quickly came to believe my birth was a bad omen, especially after sickness spread among them in the days that followed. Within a month, the province stood abandoned, save for my family manor and the few servants too fearful to flee.
The land never recovered. Eventually, my parents built a manor high in the mountains overlooking the barren remains of Vaelnor, and that is where I spent my childhood. Always within sight of the birthright I would never truly inherit.
When I later joined the Winter Court army as an aerial scout, I became aware of the whispers.
The Lord of Nothing.
That is what the soldiers called me behind my back, particularly those who once hailed from Vaelnor.
But in recent years, the whispers have faded.
Vaelnor is no longer considered unusual.
As ussha continues spreading outward from the four fae courts and into human and orc territories, more and more provinces within the ancient fae lands are dying.
Ussha sustains our magic, and so my people have little choice but to follow its spread, abandoning the lands of our ancestors to establish new settlements beyond the old borders of the courts.
I am no longer the only highborn lord who has watched his people scatter across distant lands while his birthright withers into ruin.
As I continue flying toward Ellonnar, icy wind rushing past my wings, my thoughts return to the fragile human female in my arms.
How will I provide for her?
My wages as an aerial scout are respectable. I can feed her, clothe her, and keep her warm. But where will she live? Surely not in a war camp.
The manor in the mountains overlooking Vaelnor isn’t an option. My parents are long dead, the manor is crumbling to dust, and the vegetation is starting to wither just as it did in Vaelnor when I was born.
Soon, there will be nowhere left within the old fae territories untouched by the boundless deterioration that occurs after ussha leaves.
That is why we fight.
As faefolk migrate into human and orc lands, our armies, and especially the highborn, have been tasked with protecting them.
And when humans and orcs resist the spread of our settlements, conflict inevitably follows.
Their villages are taken, their cities brought under fae rule, and wardens are appointed to govern them in the name of the courts.
More recently, our priestesses have claimed that an era of total fae rule over the realm is upon us. The four courts are crumbling, yes, but a new age is rising.
As Gwen shifts in my arms, I become aware of her body heat. She feels too hot. Feverish. Panic hits me. I draw in a deep breath and bite back a curse when the putrid scent of a festering wound reaches me.
My mate is injured.
A growl tears from my throat. I should’ve tortured the cowardly fae soldiers who stole her away from Braemar Castle, rather than giving them a quick death after they confessed her whereabouts.
Of course, at the time I didn’t know she was my mate.
I just thought she was a random human slave who’d gone missing from Braemar, a slave who happened to be an acquaintance of King Theron’s human mate.
And so, as a skilled aerial scout, I’d been tasked with tracking Gwen down, having no idea what we are to one another.
Anxious to tend her injuries, I head for the forest below. The frost-covered grass crunches beneath my boots as I land in a small clearing.
As I stare down at my mate, I struggle to take my next breath. Her dark brown eyes are so achingly soulful that I cannot look away. I can scarcely breathe.
Mine. My female.
She is mine to keep and protect.
Until the end of my days.
“You’re hurt, my dearest,” I finally say, uncertain where the endearment is coming from.
It’s the second time I’ve called her that.
But it feels right. Natural. Though she’s a stranger, she is also the other half of my soul.
Because the gods have deemed it so, and I cannot resist the pull of the bond.
She swallows hard and lowers her gaze. She blinks fast as tears fill her eyes, and she remains silent. She also trembles more fervently in my arms. I don’t like it. I don’t like seeing her so frightened, especially of me.
Doesn’t she realize what we are to one another?
Doesn’t she feel the bond too?
Her trembling hand drifts up, and she fumbles for the pendant that hangs from her necklace, an old, tarnished key that looks utterly worthless. Yet she clutches it as though it’s the most precious thing in the realm to her. Perhaps it brings her comfort. I can’t help but wonder who gave it to her.
“Tell me where you’re hurt, Gwen, and I will heal you. And if your injury is beyond my abilities, I will take you to a skilled fae healer as fast as my wings will carry us.” As I speak, I try to infuse my voice with warmth. I want her to trust me. I want her to feel safe with me.
She glances up with wide eyes. “How do you know my name?” she whispers, still clutching the necklace.
“King Theron asked me to track you down.”
“King Theron? The Winter King?” She gives her head a small shake. “I-I don’t understand. I don’t know him. I saw him once… on Tribute Day. He was seated on the throne in the receiving hall of Braemar Castle, but he didn’t speak to me, nor I to him.”
“He is mated to a human female named Helena Gray. I believe you know one another. She saw you standing in line on Tribute Day with your family, and she later asked the king to ascertain your wellbeing. She feared you’d been taken as a slave, and it would seem she was right.
What we didn’t anticipate was a group of deserters stealing you away from Braemar before you could be put into service in our war camp.
And so, since I am the Winter Court army’s most skilled tracker and aerial scout, I was sent to find you. ”
Her eyes widen further. “Helena is truly mated to King Theron… and you were truly sent to track me down? Now that I think about it, I saw Helena on Tribute Day. Very briefly. I glanced up at the castle just before we stepped inside, and I saw her standing on a balcony. We went to school together…” Gwen’s voice trails off, and she looks utterly bewildered.
She finally lets go of the necklace and buries her hand beneath her cloak
I decide we can finish this conversation later.
I want to heal her wounds. The thought of her in any pain prompts a rush of murderous impulses. It makes me want to return to the mountain village so I can slaughter every male who dared to bid on her.
“Yes, my dearest, Helena is truly mated to King Theron, and I was truly sent to track you down,” I eventually say, striving for a calm tone.
I kneel on the frost-covered grass and shift Gwen into one arm.
Then I reach into my rucksack and withdraw a large, woolen blanket.
I spread the blanket over the frozen ground, creating a softer, warmer place for my mate to rest. Slowly, I lower her to the ground.
Rather than vanish my wings as I usually do upon landing, I drape them over her, shielding her from the wind and the snow flurries.
“Tell me where you are injured. Please. I can smell a festering wound, and it’s clear to me that you have a fever.”
“I’m fine,” she says, drawing back, only to brush against my wings. Gently, I use my wings to nudge her forward, closer to me.
But as she tries to resist, her cloak opens further and the sleeves of her dress slide back, revealing the source of the foul smell. I nearly gasp at the sight of her chafed wrists, covered in pockets of oozing yellow pus.
I grasp her left hand, pulling her wrist close. When she tries to yank her hand away, I growl and give her a stern look.
Doesn’t she realize I’m trying to help her?
For a moment, I consider glamouring her into a state of calm. Then I quickly decide against it. Placing an enchantment of any kind on my fated mate doesn’t feel right. It would be too easy to grow accustomed to using such glamours on her, just to keep her compliant and calm in my presence.
If she were constantly under an enchantment, how would she ever truly get to know me? How would she ever truly learn to trust me?
No, I decide. I cannot take the easy way out. I must strive for patience and do whatever I can to earn her trust.
“I am sorry I growled at you just now, my dearest,” I say, and the apology feels strange on my tongue. “Please don’t be frightened. I swear to you that I will never hurt you.”