Chapter 1
Chapter
One
When the fae king comes to court, I’m supposed to disappear. Not spy on him from inside the armoire in the receiving hall and wonder if I’ll have to marry him.
But the moment I peer out through the armoire’s slatted door and glimpse our immortal visitor, that’s what I do.
What if, when my sisters and I are presented to him tonight, he chooses me?
What if he steals me away to his castle beyond the Wildwood?
What if he forces me to spend my life there, cut off from my people, on the far side of a forest no human can cross?
My breath shortens as I mash my eye against the slats. Beyond the door, the fae king strides through our airy receiving hall like he owns the marble he’s walking on.
One glance is all it takes to have dread pooling low in my stomach.
Because Ishanna’s blood, he’s like nothing I’ve ever seen—an imposing tower of muscle and sinew, with long white hair that spills to his waist. His face is both harsh and unfeeling, his cheekbones as sharp as the elongated tips of his ears.
That, coupled with his yellow eyes and the brutal slash of his brows, makes him look like someone’s downfall come to life.
Like sin and corruption and ruin, if sin wore leather armor and had golden, sunbaked skin.
My lungs suck at the armoire’s stale air, but the attempt to steady myself does nothing.
This man, this…fae…is everything people whisper about: wicked, immoral, cruel.
I can tell by the careless roll of his steps, the scornful set of his lips.
That twist to his mouth looks permanent—a message etched in stone, warning all who come near that Amriel of the Fae does what he likes, to whoever he likes, whenever he chooses.
Morals—and consequences—be damned.
I blink furiously, but my cramped hiding place shrinks as the armoire presses in around me. Maybe it’s a fresh wave of fear, or maybe everyone feels this way when they first lay eyes on the fae king. Or any fae at all.
I wouldn’t know, because the last time the fae delegation visited, I was only three.
I wasn’t even allowed downstairs—only royal women who’d come of age in the past quarter-century were.
As the stories go, the fae king perused each one, then turned away and made the same pronouncement he always does.
“Not this time. Maybe in another twenty-five years.”
Now, as I crouch in the darkness, I grab hold of that truth and press it close.
The fae king might visit every quarter-century, and we might let him, because we have no choice—the treaty we signed at the end of the war grants him the right to claim a human bride as a sort of living, breathing peace offering.
But in the two hundred years since that agreement, the fae king hasn’t actually chosen.
He comes to court once in every generation, then sneers at his options and leaves again.
I have no reason to believe that will change tonight.
I’m still bolstering myself with the thought when Amriel’s approach slows, his casual stride giving way to…well, I don’t know, exactly. Something that raises the hair on my neck. The air around him seems to thicken, while at his side, his hands curl into fists.
He draws abreast of my hiding place and stops. So do the half-dozen delegates who flank him. The fae contingent glances around, searching for the source of the delay.
All except for their king, who raises his nose and sniffs. His head swivels, his golden eyes scanning for whatever has caught his attention. And…oh, goddess. He’s looking at the armoire. At me.
Lightning touches down beneath my skin. He can’t actually see me, my mind insists, but the way my heart rattles against my ribcage tells me I don’t believe it. The cabinet might conceal me, but Amriel’s gaze burrows through the slats, drilling beneath my skin, probing toward my core.
An involuntary whimper leaves my lips. I try to muffle it with a trembling hand, but too late—the king’s eyes narrow to slits. He tests the air again, then takes a step toward my hiding place.
My heart slams against the back of my throat. Oh, no. No, no, no. Why did I think this was a good idea? Why didn’t I just stay upstairs, like I was supposed to?
I scramble backward, my spine melding with the wood as I inch as far from him as I can get. I grope blindly for the crescent-moon pendant at my throat. Help me, Ishanna. Protect me from this brute.
But my fevered prayers have no effect. Amriel’s boots clack across the marble, each footfall louder than the last. Clack. Clack. Clack.
I curl into myself, bracing for the door to swing wide, to expose me to his ruthless yellow gaze, but at the last moment, my prayers are answered.
“Amriel.” My father’s voice booms through the hall. “You’ve made it.”
That familiar tenor wraps me in relief. It also halts the fae king’s steps. Cocooned as I am in shadows, I can’t see him anymore, but I assume that’s him clearing his throat, mere inches away.
“Edmond,” he says. “Still alive, I see. And looking far more grown-up than last time.”
A shiver coasts along my skin. The fae king’s voice is deep, resonant in a way the hall’s acoustics can’t claim responsibility for.
A chilly thread of boredom runs throughout, as if this conversation, this entire endeavor, amounts to nothing more than an inconvenience for him.
Just a fleeting annoyance amid the endlessness of his existence.
A new set of footsteps approaches—my father’s, this time. “Welcome,” he says. “It’s good to see you again.”
Despite my predicament, my mouth twists at the lie. My father hates the fae. It doesn’t matter that we only see them once every twenty-five years during the Claiming, or that in the interim, they keep to their kingdom beyond the Wildwood, where no human dares to go.
My father detests our immortal neighbors.
Most humans do, and with good reason—during the war, we suffered at their hands, for a crime no greater than setting foot on their land.
It’s hard to believe something that insignificant prompted such bloodshed, but the history books are clear: two hundred years ago, my great-great-however-many-times grandmother, frustrated by the eternal gulf between humans and fae, took it upon herself to find a way through the Wildwood.
She arrived at Amriel’s castle with her advisors in tow, intent on establishing diplomatic relations.
But the fae king answered her overture with violence. With a war that then raged for a decade.
Needless to say, we humans don’t go into the Wildwood, anymore.
“Come,” my father says, with the weighty intonation of one king speaking to another. “Food and refreshments are this way. And I imagine you’ll want some rest before tonight’s…presentation.”
That last word hitches in his throat. He masks the wobble well, enough that Amriel won’t catch it, but I know the tell: deep rage festers at the thought of this fae brute legally kidnapping one of Aethrolia’s royal daughters.
“Refreshments?” the fae king says. “Very well. Truth be told, I never turn down an offer of wine.”
The offhand remark pulls a gasp up my throat. Did he just insult us on purpose? Or by accident? Because we don’t drink wine in Aethrolia. No follower of Ishanna does.
A heavy silence falls in the hall, which Amriel breaks with a chuckle. “Oh, but that’s right—you don’t partake in that particular pleasure, do you, Edmond? Or any pleasure at all, really.”
Air floods my lungs, a fiery torrent. On purpose. Definitely on purpose.
“I don’t partake in wickedness,” my father grits out. “Which means I can offer you tea. Or juice. Or any number of things that don’t separate a man from his good sense.”
Another chuckle from the fae king, and Ishanna help me, the sound is so arrogant I can practically feel its bite, like frozen metal pressed against my skin. “Good sense?” he says. “And what would I do with a thing like that?”
The casual doubling-down on his blasphemy sends me reeling. Here in Aethrolia, we strive to always remain in control of ourselves. Ishanna teaches us to retain our faculties at all times.
Meanwhile, the fae worship no gods but themselves.
And now, as I huddle in the darkness and clutch at Ishanna’s symbol, every whispered rumor—every tale swapped around our kitchen hearth—comes rushing into my head.
It’s said the fae exist for their own enjoyment: eating to excess, drinking to forgetfulness, doing it all over again the next day.
I’ve heard that sometimes, they even chase each other.
Catch each other. Then they couple in public, or under the open sky, or in any place at all, really. Whatever strikes their fancy.
I shudder.
“Look,” my father says, and I don’t have to witness the clench of his jaw or the throb at his temple to know the reserves of his diplomacy have already been exhausted. “Why don’t we just get this over with?”
Another mocking laugh from the fae king. “Why not? Maybe, if we’re quick, I can get home in time to drink myself into a stupor.”
I slap a hand across my mouth, some brand-new emotion splitting me down the middle. I’ve never heard anyone talk to my father this way. I doubt anyone ever has.
Out in the hall, leather creaks. Boots shuffle. When my father finally responds, he sounds as though he’s pushing words through locked teeth. “Very well. I suppose I can’t pretend I’ll regret seeing you off tonight.”
“No, you can’t.” Amusement drips from Amriel’s tone. “At least, not convincingly. So…lead the way to these refreshments, why don’t you?”
My father grunts his agreement. The fae delegation mobilizes with a chorus of murmurs and shuffling. In the midst of the ruckus, someone raps their knuckles against the armoire door, so lightly it might be an accident.
Instinct sends me scuttling back all over again. But when our visitors’ footsteps trail away, a pent-up breath seeps from my chest. I scoot to the cabinet door and press my eye to the slats. My father strides briskly down the hall, his spine stiff with indignation.
But the fae king…he glances back at my hiding place, a knowing grin stamped across his mouth.