Given to the Fae King (Fae Overlords #4)

Chapter 1

HELENA

A brutal wind sweeps down from the sky, bringing a sudden burst of snow. I pause in the street and glance upward, allowing the frigid air to kiss my face. I tremble with the cold, but at least I feel something, a flicker of joy, albeit so faint and brief that I almost wonder if I’m imagining it.

Though I’m shivering, and I’ve been outside for several hours, the cold doesn’t quite penetrate my bones.

It never does. I’ve always felt strangely exhilarated by the winter weather.

This far south, it doesn’t snow very often.

As flurries land on my nose and cling to my lashes, I savor the experience.

But the tranquil moment doesn’t last for long.

Suddenly, there’s a panicked shout in the distance.

I open my eyes just as the battle horn sounds, a thunderous echo that blankets the city.

My stomach drops to the icy ground. Yes, icy.

I watch, unnerved yet mesmerized, as a thick layer of frost quickly covers the buildings and the cobblestone street upon which I’m standing.

How very strange. Even in the northernmost mountains, I didn’t think the weather could change so abruptly.

But the battle horn… why is it still blowing?

Why are soldiers rushing down the street?

Stepping out of the way, I flatten myself against a building, not wanting to be trampled.

Once the soldiers finish passing, I open my postbag and peer at the undelivered letters.

I swallow hard. Should I hurry home? Or should I finish my delivery route before seeking refuge in my little room above the bakery?

I rise on my toes, trying to glimpse the gates of Braemar, but I can’t see around the buildings.

My stomach growls, reminding me that if I don’t deliver the letters, I won’t have enough coin to restock the barren cupboards in my kitchen.

I make a meager base salary and rely largely on tips.

So, I continue to the next house, knock, and eagerly exchange a missive for a few copper coins.

I count the remaining letters in my postbag. Just six left, and a small package too. I try to ignore the continued shouts in the distance as I finish my deliveries. The people who answer their doors inquire about the battle horn, but I don’t have any answers.

During my last stop, the young woman who opens the door appears on the verge of tears, making me suspect her husband is a soldier, and my heart goes out to her.

I wish I could tell her everything will be okay, but I don’t want to lie, so I give her a comforting smile and wish her a pleasant day.

Sadly, I know from personal experience that husbands don’t always come home.

On the way back to the bakery, I’m able to buy enough provisions to last for a week, possibly longer if I ration carefully. As I traverse the empty streets—I suppose everyone is hiding—I keep listening for signs of a battle. But I don’t hear anything beyond the howling wind.

It’s possible the battle horn was used to summon the soldiers for a mission outside the stone walls of Braemar. Maybe a contingent of orcs was spotted on the horizon and the brave soldiers of Braemar rode out to vanquish the enemy.

Being so deep in the mountains and near orc lands, it wouldn’t be the first time Braemar has come under attack by the fearsome creatures.

I suppress a shudder, then remind myself that during my lifetime, no enemy has managed to breach the stone walls that protect Braemar. The well-guarded, towering walls are the reason my mother moved to Braemar shortly before I was born, relocating from a smaller, less fortified city farther north.

As always, thoughts of my late mother fill me with sadness and regret. She died far too young and tragically. A skilled seamstress for the wealthier residents of Braemar, she perished during a house fire while visiting a client.

Unfortunately, I failed to inherit her sewing talents. And so, now that my husband is gone too, I earn my living as a mail carrier.

Finally, I reach the bakery, though I don’t go inside just yet.

Instead, I pause and study the thick frost that’s still covering the cobblestone street, as well as the buildings.

Every so often, another cold wind sweeps down from the sky, bringing more snow flurries.

It’s beautiful, though I can’t fight the foreboding that’s been plaguing me since the battle horn first sounded.

How strange that the frost and snow appeared only seconds before the horn was blown. I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself as I savor the cold, crisp air that fills my lungs. Goosebumps prickle my arms, a rare occurrence for me, though I can’t claim it’s an uncomfortable sensation.

Truth be told, it makes me feel… alive.

At last, I head for the bakery. I shake the flurries from my hair and stomp my feet on the rope-woven doormat, not wanting to track dirt or snow inside.

As I step into the establishment, the familiar aroma of fresh-baked muffins, scones, and pastries hits me like a tidal wave. My mouth instantly waters.

I spot Isabel behind the counter, and I flash her a smile. Her father is nowhere to be seen, though that’s not really a surprise. A retired soldier, he probably went to investigate the battle horn.

The small seating area is empty, the usual customers absent.

“Good afternoon, Isabel.” I set my bag of goods down and nudge it against the wall, then I remove my cloak, gloves, and scarf, placing the items on a drying rack near the door. I also leave my empty postbag along the wall, deciding I’ll carry everything upstairs later.

Isabel’s eyes flare wide. “Gods, Helena, you look half frozen to death. Go stand by the fire and warm yourself while I prepare some tea.”

“If you insist,” I say with a chuckle, but I’m already moving toward the crackling fire.

Though the cold doesn’t usually bother me, and I often find it exhilarating, I still enjoy the warmth of the indoors.

I hold my hands over the heat that’s emanating from the hearth, my mind still puzzling over recent events.

The sudden frost… the wind and the snow… the battle horn and the running soldiers.

What could it all mean?

Without warning, my late husband’s face appears in my mind, and my throat abruptly burns.

Harry. I miss him. Terribly so. If he were here, he would pat my back and promise all would be well.

Between the two of us, he was always the optimist, while I tended to see the darker eventualities in life.

Still do. Even though I didn’t always believe him, I used to find comfort in his gentle, steadfast presence and his encouraging words.

I blink quickly to keep the tears from falling.

It’s been almost a year since he died, almost a year since he was murdered, but sometimes it feels like yesterday that he met a grim end.

I’ll never forget how worried I was when he didn’t come home.

I’ll never forget the shock and the sorrow that consumed me when I learned of his death.

His body was discovered in an alley, stabbed over a dozen times, his money bag and wedding ring missing.

Swallowing hard, I blink back more tears.

I must be brave, and I must stop feeling sorry for myself.

I have a roof over my head, and I have a job.

Harry’s old job, to be precise. It took some convincing, but the postmaster eventually took me on as the first female mail carrier in Braemar.

With uncharacteristic optimism, I remind myself that things could always be worse.

I mean, I could be leg-shackled to a man who makes my skin crawl.

Just weeks after Harry’s murder, his younger brother, Peter, tried to pressure me into marriage.

When I refused, he invoked a long-forgotten law about sonless widows not being allowed to inherit their late husband’s property if there was at least one living male relative on the husband’s side.

And so, I was forced to leave the little cottage I’d shared with Harry.

But at least I’m free. At least I didn’t have to marry Peter.

My stomach twists every time I consider the possibility.

By the time I left the cottage, I’d already secured the job as a mail carrier, and I’d had enough money saved to rent a room elsewhere.

As I’d walked down the street struggling to carry the few belongings I’d managed to pack, I’d noticed a ‘room for rent’ sign in the window of Sinclair’s Bakery. Thank the gods for small miracles.

I glance over my shoulder. Isabel is almost finished preparing the tea, and my stomach growls when I notice the plate of scones she’s assembled.

I almost laugh at my earlier worry about affording enough food to fill my cupboards upstairs.

The truth is, Isabel and her father wouldn’t let me starve.

Even if I was late paying rent, I don’t think they would evict me.

But I don’t want to take advantage of their kindness, and I resolve that I’ll do whatever I must to keep earning my own living.

Isabel joins me near the fire. She sets a tray containing two steaming cups of tea, small containers of sugar and milk, and a plate of blueberry scones on the table between us. She sinks into the opposite chair and heaves a weary sigh.

“Thank you,” I say with a nod at the refreshments. “You really are too kind. I daresay you and your father are the most accommodating landlords in all of Braemar.”

Isabel snorts delicately as she reaches for a cup of tea. She adds a dash of milk and a generous helping of sugar, then brings the beverage close to her face and savors a deep inhale.

“You’re a good tenant,” she says after a moment. “And you’re a good friend too, if you don’t mind me saying so. You talk to me even though… even though…” Her voice trails off, but I know what she’s thinking.