Chapter Thirty Eight
Daphne
“Istill don’t understand the logic of the word ‘floof,’” Stan, the bossy unicorn, says.
“There are many other words for it,” I tell him.
Gwyneth groans. “Find another way to entertain yourself.”
“I’m educating. Be respectful.”
Everyone chuckles.
“So there are many a word,” I continue, settling more comfortably like I’ve just been invited to deliver a lecture nobody asked for but are absolutely getting anyway. “And each one carries a vibe. A tone. A personality.”
Stan blinks his soulful brown eyes at me. I take that as encouragement.
“You’ve got your formal ones,” I say, ticking them off on my fingers. “Very proper. Very ‘we’re discussing anatomy in a well-lit room with zero fun involved.’ Then you’ve got the aggressive ones, which I personally think say more about the speaker than the floof in question.”
Hart coughs into his fist. Nash outright laughs. Theo presses his lips to my temple like he’s trying to behave and failing spectacularly. Malachi shakes his head, but he wears a smile.
Gwyneth pinches the bridge of her nose. “I cannot believe this is how we’re spending our time before a rebellion.”
“It’s morale boosting.”
“It’s not.”
“It absolutely is. Knowledge is power.”
Stan tilts his head, silver mane shimmering as he studies me like I’m a confusing puzzle. “And this floof is the preferred word of your people?”
“It is,” I confirm with a nod.
“No, it’s your preferred word,” Charming adds, making me scowl at him.
“As queen, my first action will be to abolish all other words and make floof the language of the common tongue.”
“Maybe just replace one word with floof,” Hart advises. “Not all the words.”
I beam. “That makes more sense.”
“We’re doomed,” Charming decides.
Likely, but not over the word floof. What a dramatic mellow. I focus back on the majestic unicorn keeping pace to my right.
“Floof is soft. It’s inviting. It suggests comfort and excellent decision making.”
“It suggests fluff,” Stan says.
“That’s the point. It removes the intimidation factor.”
“Why would it need to be intimidating?” he asks.
There’s a long pause. Every single male, Genie included, suddenly finds something fascinating about the ground or the clear blue sky.
I fold my arms. “It is my observation that the majority of the male species is concerned with their own pleasure and not that of the floof granting them access. Really, they don’t tend to the very thing that makes them lose their breath and cross their eyes.
They need help navigating our parts and calling it a word which is interchangeably used as a slur to our enemies is not going to invite exploration. ”
There’s a rumble of laughter and agreement around us. Stan considers this, then nods slowly as if something profound has just clicked into place. “Ah. So this is a defensive naming strategy.”
“Exactly,” I say, delighted. “Because a happy floof is a productive floof, and being satiated and happy is a better starting position for negotiations.”
Gwyneth drops her hand from her face and looks at me like she’s reconsidering our entire shared existence. “You’ve just turned your anatomy into a battle tactic.”
“I’m a strategist,” I reply.
“You’re a menace.”
“Also true. I am a strategic menace.”
Stan shifts his weight, still watching me with that same intense curiosity. “And the other words? In what manner are they used?”
“Some are used for intimidation, some for seduction, some for arguments, some for poetry—”
“Poetry?” Hart echoes.
“Very niche market,” I admit. “Not always successful.”
Malachi exhales a laugh he tries to hide behind a cough. Theo presses his forehead against my shoulder. “Only you could turn this into a lesson.”
“I contain multitudes,” I say with dignity.
“You contain chaos,” Gwyneth corrects.
“Semantics.”
Stan hums, clearly still processing. “And you prefer floof.”
“I do.”
He nods once. “I will adopt this term.”
There is a beat.
“No,” everyone says.
I beam. “You’re welcome.”
Note to self: develop floof-friendly saddles once the revolution is off my to-do list, because it feels like my thighs are on fire and I am very concerned about getting down given the last toilet break involved a shout which made the local wildfire hide in fear.
“You good?” Nash asks.
The knights passed me around as we rode, with Nash being the final one to be subjected to my constant grumblings about the lack of feminine involvement in equine tackle.
I shift, trying and failing to find relief. “My thighs are either on fire or numb, and I feel like someone is punching my floof each tempo. It’s bruised and is a victim of this war before the battle has even begun. Starting me out with a handicap doesn’t make this a fair fight.”
He kisses my neck, sending pleasant little tingles down my spine and causing heat to swirl in my stomach. “I can’t fix it, but I can distract,” he offers.
I turn my head and smile. “Thank you, but if you make me orgasm on the back of this horse, I’m going to have to tap out. You’ll just need to pick me up on your return from bringing in a new era.”
“Not far now,” Genie says.
“You said that far, far ago,” I point out.
“This time I mean it,” he says, pointing into the distance.
We crest the ridge of a hill, and there before us is an imposing temple rising from the earth in tiers of dark stone.
Each level is carved with symbols that shift when you look at them too long, as if the stories etched into their surfaces refuse to stay still.
Worn columns stretch high and unyielding, their bases wrapped in creeping vines that have long since given up trying to claim them.
Flapping in the breeze are several terrifyingly familiar banners.
A black one with a gold crown split in two.
A green serpent eating its own tail. A tower crumbling in a storm.
And the sky? Decorated with violent veins burning gold.
“We’re just missing the bodies,” I whisper as we come to a long staircase which cuts straight through the center, leading to towering doors that are ajar.
Stan stamps his hoof beside me. “This is not a place built by Idols,” he murmurs. “This is older. This is from the before—before the Idols, before the Grimms, before any being laid claim to the land.”
He’s right. I can feel the weight of it in my bones.
Genie stares at the temple with equal parts reverence and fear. But underneath that is recognition.
Gwyneth’s gaze tracks every inch of it, already dissecting its purpose, its weaknesses, its secrets. “It’s waiting,” she says.
“For what?” Hart asks.
Her eyes flick to me. “For us.”
I swallow hard. We dismount, and the fear masks the pain of too many turns of riding.
We don’t linger, because if I stare at it any longer, I might decide to turn around, go back to the unicorns, and live out my days discussing vocabulary and advocating for floof rights.
A quiet tension settles over us all, thick and unrelenting.
Sir Sweeps-A-Lot stays close, his usual chaos dimmed into something watchful.
The doors creep open with each step, my heart thudding in my chest. We pause just outside, and I clasp Gwyneth’s hand in mine and catch her gaze. “Sisters forever,” I whisper, reminding her of the most important thing we’ve ever said and known in this world.
She winds her fingers in mine and squeezes. “Sisters forever. Now let’s go fuck up the future and deliver fate.”