Chapter 2
THERON
Bloodlust hums in my veins. I savor the moment, the moment just before battle, as I hover in the sky, staring down at the human city of Braemar.
A fortnight ago, soldiers from Braemar decimated an entire family compound of faefolk in the nearby mountains.
It’s a crime that must be punished. Severely.
All the soldiers in Braemar will be slaughtered, and many others in the city will perish during the battle too.
Justice will be as swift and brutal as the winter winds that are currently battering the human city, the winter winds that always obey my commands.
Magic swirls through me, cold and tingling.
Dark and merciless. I could use my powers to cause the winds to become too cold for human survival, thereby killing all the residents of Braemar quickly and efficiently.
I’ve performed such feats before, though only when the Winter Court army was needed elsewhere and there wasn’t time for a proper battle.
Thank the gods, there is time for a proper battle today.
I take dark delight in the sight of the human soldiers rushing around on the battlements below. Even from this distance, I can sense their panic. It’s invigorating. I can’t wait to smell their blood. I can’t wait to smell their fear up close.
The steady flapping of wings reaches me, and I glance to my left. My most trusted comrade, Commander Ashvale, is treading air beside me. Lord Blackthorne, a skilled aerial scout, is with him.
“King Theron,” they say in unison.
“Commander Ashvale. Lord Blackthorne. So nice of you to join me on this most joyous occasion.”
I allow my gaze to wander through the sky.
Over four hundred winged highborn fae are treading air, staring down at Braemar, poised for attack.
Below us, nearly thirty thousand soldiers, regular faefolk but still quite skilled in battle, stand at attention, ready for war. Ready to spill the blood of humans.
“Numbers?” I ask with a glance at Lord Blackthorne.
“I counted slightly over two thousand soldiers on the battlements and near the castle.” As Lord Blackthorne speaks, his long black hair billows behind him. “Given the size of the city and the number of homes and buildings, I estimate the total population of Braemar is around twenty-six thousand.”
“I almost feel sorry for the humans.” Commander Ashvale chuckles. “Poor innocent things. I doubt the regular citizens of Braemar even know their soldiers attacked a homestead of faefolk.”
My lips twist with mirth. I doubt the commander feels an ounce of compassion for the citizens of Braemar.
It’s why he’s my most trusted comrade. He’s as cold and brutal as I am.
During the thousand years he’s served at my side, we’ve rarely lost a battle.
We’ve certainly never lost a battle against humans.
Rather than immediately attack Braemar, we hold position for a while and keep watching.
The longer we wait, the more terrible it will be for the humans when we finally strike.
By the time we attack, I imagine they’ll be drenched in fear, drowning in the terror that comes from knowing all hope is lost.
Surely the more sensible human soldiers know they will die today. It’s rather humorous to watch them scurry about the battlements, trying in vain to gather enough weapons and take the most opportune positions.
Archers line the walls of Braemar, and I make a note to take them out first. Though arrows rarely cause more than an inconvenient injury to a highborn fae such as myself, they often pose a threat to the regular faefolk in my army who aren’t as skilled in battle or as quick to heal as those of us positioned in the sky.
Unlike highborn fae, regular faefolk can’t summon wings, nor do they possess very much magic, particularly healing magic. But they are more formidable in battle than humans and orcs, as long as they aren’t significantly outnumbered.
Truly, Braemar doesn’t stand a chance. Thousands will perish by violence today. And those who are left living? They will remain in subjugation to my people until the end of their days.
They will remain at the mercy of the Winter Court.
“Look.” Commander Ashvale gestures at the mountains behind Braemar.
I follow his gaze and then I see it. The telltale glimmer on the vegetation that’s covering the mountains. It’s not covering the entire mountain range, but it’s just enough to verify that ussha, the lifeforce of fae magic, has finally spread this far south.
Soon, all the trees and plants will glimmer and glow with ussha, and vegetation native to fae lands will start growing too. Fae creatures will soon roam these parts as well.
“Praise be to the gods.” I ruffle my black, feathered wings, then continue treading air.
Ussha. It’s already here. Not that I had any doubt. The faefolk slaughtered by the human soldiers wouldn’t have built a family compound nearby if they hadn’t been drawn to this area. Drawn by the power of ussha.
Though once solely confined to the four fae courts, ussha recently started spreading beyond the Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn courts into the human and orc lands.
As ussha continues to spread, my people are compelled to follow it, as it fuels our magic, and the population of each once-bustling court has already dwindled by half.
Sometimes I dream that I’m seated on a throne in a vast, empty banquet hall, and the throne crumbles to dust beneath me.
Our priestesses claim we’re on the verge of a new age, an age of total fae rule over the entire realm.
They claim the four fae courts will eventually cease to exist. I can’t help but wonder if the courts will fade away gradually as more of my people leave, or if there will one day be a great calamity that finally destroys them.
The two original fae courts, Seelie and Unseelie, are buried under volcanic ash.
The idea of the Winter Court, a glittering and expansive territory in the northernmost mountains, not only falling into ruin, but also ceasing to exist entirely, causes a feeling of desperation inside me.
My father died in battle when I was nine hundred and twenty, and I’ve sat on the Winter Court throne for over a thousand years.
What will happen to me and other fae royals when the Winter, Spring, Summer, and Autumn courts are no more?
Will a new type of court, or courts, form in the recently ussha-blessed lands we’ve migrated to?
I stare at the panicked human soldiers on the battlements, in the midst of an existential crisis of my own.
But I maintain a fierce, calculated expression as I gaze down at Braemar.
I don’t allow a flicker of doubt to cross my visage.
One outward moment of weakness is sometimes all it takes for a royal to be challenged.
I would know. One of my younger brothers once challenged me for the throne.
I killed him. His skull is on display in the Winter Court’s main banquet hall, along with the skulls of many other enemies I’ve vanquished since ascending to the throne.
But not the skulls of every enemy I’ve vanquished…
A growl builds in my throat, but I swallow it back.
There is one skull I couldn’t bear to put on display. A skull I keep wrapped in silk, hidden in a trunk in my bedchamber back at the Winter Court palace.
Elssandra. My fated mate.
The mate who betrayed me.
I had no problem putting my brother’s skull on display, as is customary in the Winter Court, but not Elssandra’s. I simply couldn’t bear it. Because to publicly display her skull… it would be an admission that she betrayed me.
Thankfully, few fae know the full truth. Only Commander Ashvale and several of his most trusted soldiers, faefolk who vowed never to speak of what happened. I also suspect Alaric, my only remaining brother, is aware of the tragedy, though he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
And so, most fae of the Winter Court believe Elssandra was slain by a mangga swarm, which, given the exact circumstances of her death, isn’t an outright lie.
An encounter with such creatures isn’t usually fatal for a highborn fae, but Elssandra wasn’t highborn, making the story believable enough.
And tragic enough. We were mated for less than a year before her betrayal.
Such a brief moment in time when my people typically live for thousands of years, and yet it has defined me. Her betrayal haunts me still.
Darkness gathers in my psyche. My palms tingle with winter magic, a swirl of violence I’m eager to release.
Just because I can, I hold my hands out, sending another brutal gust of wind downward to batter Braemar.
It’s enough to tear the roofs off several of the older buildings. The snow falls harder.
I am King Theron Frostborne of the Winter Court, I remind myself.
The rightful king, regardless of what Elssandra and her accomplices once believed.
In the history of the Winter Court, no fae has ever commanded winter magic as I do.
No fae has managed to bury entire cities in snow and ice.
Other fae courts would rather retreat than meet the Winter Court army in battle.
Because of me.
Because they fear my power and wrath.
I surrender to the magic coursing through me. Soon. I’ll order the attack on Braemar very soon.
The collective bloodlust of my army fills me, and I bask in it. Briefly closing my eyes, I let it pervade my senses, allowing it to combine with my own bloodlust.
The result is pure, raw winter power.
Nature and madness.
I am every winter storm that has ever formed in the skies.
When I open my eyes, the snow isn’t falling as hard as it was earlier. But that’s by design. I want the human soldiers to see us coming. I want them to experience that terrible moment of bone-chilling fear. I want them to see death coming to claim them.
“Now!” I raise my fist, and a fae battle horn blows.
Growls reverberate through the sky, as the highborn fae are ravenous to spill the blood of humans, and we take off. We fly toward Braemar at full speed.
On the battlements, most of the human soldiers halt in their tracks and stare foolishly upward, as though they can’t quite believe it’s finally happening.
The human archers scramble to take aim. But the second they release arrows at the regular faefolk in my army, I give a slight nod, and a brutal winter wind sweeps the arrows off course.
Not a single arrow hits the foot soldiers below.
I fly faster, sending another brutal gust of wind at the battlements.
Some archers drop their bows. Others flatten themselves against the walkway, trying to avoid being blown off the wall.
The highborn fae reach the city first.
It’s glorious, all this death. Justice in its most beautiful form.
If the soldiers of Braemar hadn’t attacked my people, we wouldn’t be attacking this city. But they killed over twenty faefolk in a large, extended family. For that, they will die. Every last soldier. Many of their family members will suffer as well. The entire city will know pain and grief.
I swoop down and grab a soldier by his ankle, then I soar into the clouds, only to drop him a few seconds later. He lands with a splat on the battlements. I savor the sight of his smashed skull and the spray of blood.
I land just inside the gates, vanish my wings, and withdraw my sword. Human soldiers rush in, and I easily cut them down. A dozen. Then a dozen more. Eventually, I lose count.
Another highborn fae male lands beside me and vanishes his wings in a flash of light. I glance over at the familiar form of my younger brother, my only surviving sibling, and suppress a growl.
Alaric. Fucking Alaric.
He always tries to find me during battle.
He thinks if I witness his fighting methods, I’ll elevate him to the rank of commander.
He’s a decent fighter, but he lacks discipline, and the regular faefolk don’t respect him.
If I were to appoint him to the position of commander and give him a contingent of his own, he would likely flounder and make me look like a fool in the process.
“My king.” He gives me an exaggerated nod. Then he swings a sword at the nearest human soldier, cutting the man’s head clean off.
“Brother,” I say, trying to hold back my exasperation for my younger sibling.
We fight side-by-side for a while, and he kills nearly as many human males as I do; I’ll give him that, but skill in battle doesn’t necessarily equate to an aptitude for leadership.
He lacks the patience and wisdom required to lead a contingent of faefolk.
Given his hotheadedness and impulsivity, I doubt he’ll ever be ready.
Of course, I’ve shared my thoughts on the matter with him many times, but he still tends to find me during battle so he can be… performative.
Well, at least he’s killing humans. Dozens of them.
When there are no more soldiers left on the ground near the gates, we both summon wings and launch into the sky. As I swoop down to grab more soldiers I might drop from above the clouds, I eventually lose sight of Alaric.
Then I see it.
A white flag, flapping in the winter wind.
It’s being held up by a trembling human soldier.
He waves it back and forth. Tears stream down his face.
His fallen comrades litter the battlements and the ground below.
Another soldier wearing a decorative uniform stands nearby, and I surmise this man must be the human commander who leads the poorly-trained army of Braemar.
I soar downward, intending to take the commander captive, though fully intending to kill him later, after a suitable period of suffering, only to watch him step off the battlements and plunge to his death.
A few other soldiers do the same, but the soldier waving the white flag doesn’t take his own life.
He remains at his post. As a reward for his bravery, I’ll make his death quick and painless.
A familiar horn reverberates through the skies. A victory horn, a fae victory horn to be precise, signaling the end of the battle.
The end of the battle.
And the beginning of the occupation.