11. The point of no tangible return
THE POINT OF NO TANGIBLE RETURN
ENORA
The teachings of my departed father were all I could cling to that night after I sat on the unforgivingly hard floor and cried until my ass ached, then hauled myself to bed to do much the same.
Know when to pause, when to yield, and when to raise hell.
The King of Odessa never raised me to be someone who would roll over in the face of adversity, but he also didn’t raise me to be one to walk willingly to my death. It was time to yield, and I loathed that with every fiber of my exhausted being.
Even though I spent all night curled up in the vast and empty bed, weighed down by everything I’d spent days fighting, I didn’t get a minute of restful sleep. I looked like it too.
Dark circles still painted my puffy, red eyes, and I was certain I was paler than I had been the evening before, despite not feeling as ill. But I was up, and I was dressed, and I’d even tamed my hair back into somewhat presentable Odessan rows.
In the face of a monumental decision, taking everything else one little step at a time was the only thing that kept me together.
And when I was confident in my ability to keep down the breakfast I’d done nothing but pick at since a stoic dark fae man had dropped it off, I grabbed Eilir’s bell.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Stomach acid licked at the back of my throat, and I stared at the bell in my now-sweating palms
Shit.
Could I un-ring it?
I remembered Eilir said six rings for life or death, but what about nine? Or twelve? Was another increment of three a way to let them know I’d made a mistake? I didn’t need them. I needed to think more, plenty more. This was my life after all, my—
“You called for me?”
I let out a startled yelp, and the bell hit the rug with a pissed-off tink.
Eilir was just a few feet behind me, watching with an expression somewhere between concerned and amused.
I glanced between them and the very much closed door. Twice, for good measure.
“How did you…?”
I knew the answer, even if I didn’t want to give it credence.
They were a fucking sprite, after all. If there were ever to be a being blessed with bountiful magic my people were no longer gifted with, it would be the ones born of a dark goddess’s hand. The little fucking twig could probably kill me from a different room.
Eilir grinned and zipped over, picking up the bell. “I stepped from another place to this place, just like that.”
They snapped their tiny fingers for emphasis, plunking onto the dressing table.
Stepped.
Of course.
While Odessans weren’t the most impressive denizens of the continent of Irica with magic practice, seeing as it had been so long since our descent from the original offsprings of man and the gods, it didn’t mean we lacked education in magical practices.
No, my father had an extensive council of mages, many of whom had slivers of fae ancestry, or anomaly Odessans, who could amplify elements in extraordinary ways. Not only did they advise him in multitudes and stand by, ready to serve in our military, they also taught our lessons.
I still remembered learning about plane stepping and how particularly skilled fae wielders could simply step through small folds or tears in our plane of existence, allowing them to traverse sometimes immense distances as quick as a blink.
We’d had no demonstration, of course, in my small classroom, seeing as my father did not have a stepper on his staff, but the old mage who taught us gave such an animated lesson that it stuck with me all these years.
I shouldn’t have been surprised that the tiny, fantastical sprite picking at its fingers in front of me should be capable of such a thing.
“So if you can plane step…” I drew out, and Eilir’s attention bounced back up. “Can you take me right to Maksym? I’d like to speak with him.”
Their black, beady eyes widened, but that bit of interest fell quickly from their face. “I can take you to him, of course, but…you must walk. And I’ll fly with you. I can’t step both of us. You’re too…”
They winced.
I cocked my head. “I’m too what?”
“Big!” they squeaked before waving their hands wildly. “Not…not like that. I don’t mean big, big. But just too big for me, you know? Too tall. Too much mortal meat on your bones. I’d split you in thirds between here, in between, and there. Maybe more than thirds, I don’t know. It’d be such a—”
“It’s fine,” I sighed, even though I was fighting a smile. “Do you know where Maksym is right now, though? I’ll walk. I don’t mind.”
One of Eilir’s eyes twitched as they glanced up at the vaulted ceiling. A long enough moment passed that I was about to ask if they were alright, but they suddenly nodded and said, “I do! He’s occupied, though. Always busy in the morning, that one.”
“Well, that’s unfortunate for him,” I said. “Take me to the king.”
About halfway to wherever Eilir was taking me, I realized occupied could’ve meant the king was fixed square between some beings legs in his bed, getting his morning fill. Hell, he could’ve had an entire squad laid out with him to start his day.
No better way to kick things off, I supposed.
But as we traversed hallway after hallway, and Eilir chittered on about nothing of value, we ended up in a wing that felt far less residential.
The plentiful tapestries with brutal depictions and soft textures gave way to walls that were spans of black stone or framed with arched windows, looking out over a gloomy morning.
Moving bodies built around me, and curious looks increased.
When we finally passed through a set of doors guarded by two dark fae men who looked hesitant to let me in, I felt like I’d stepped into the council hall in Odessa.
The dark stone was a stark contrast to the soft, sandy tones of my home, but the ornamental weaponry adorning every bare inch of wall space was much the same.
Even for my soldier’s tastes, it was gaudy.
The moving bodies in here changed too. Fewer neat, practical tunics and dresses, more uniforms. Conversations were a little more hushed, stares a lot more judgmental.
Eilir didn’t fucking shut up, though.
They kept squabbling away about this Embervale place and the sweet treats that were plentiful there, while I was preoccupied trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone for too long, despite my budding curiosity.
Growing up at the fortress, there’d been a handful of dark fae—Umbrites, I suppose—around.
Mostly trade workers seeking refuge from the Wastes, but they’d been just a splotch of ink amongst a lake of Odessans.
But here, I was the silver pinprick in a tenebrous ocean.
It was hard not to stare at their pointed ears compared to my rounded ones.
The varying blue-gray tones of their skin that made my light-gold tan seem so boring.
Their striking eyes, all vibrant, gemstone colors set in pools of black.
Not all had horns, but the ones I saw came in all shapes and sizes.
It had been one thing to take in Maksym or Gallan’s ethereal beauty alone, but it was an entirely unique thing to see it everywhere.
As we neared the end of the hall, though, after passing a multitude of guarded entryways, I nearly tripped over my own feet. To the side of the next set of imposing doors, a group of men were gathered, talking in hushed tones, and they looked an awful lot like my people.
Golden skin.
Sandy blond and brown hair.
Light eyes.
Their clothing was a little strange—gauzy, draped fabric in creamy colors—but my jaw was slack.
I turned to Eilir, but the sprite was shaking their head, tsking.
“You sure you need to talk to Max right this second?” they asked me, a little pleading. “He’s never in a hospitable mood after Malakai and the tribes come around.”
“The tribes?”
Eilir cocked their head. “The shifter tribes? From the Wilds? They hold seats on his council, and I’m not sure he’s ever regretted something so much.”
“Oh,” I breathed.
I knew, of course, of shifters. Another group lumped under the umbrella of dark fae all those millennia ago. Traditional inhabitants of the Wilds, vast plains nestled between Grimmoria and high fae territory, they could take on the appearance of canids most often, but also various birds, on a whim.
I’d just never known what they looked like in their fae bodies.
But it didn't matter.
I was in this wing, after all, surrounded by all these striking fae, for a rather important reason. If things went according to plan, I’d have plenty of time to ogle later. I shoved my curiosity down somewhere deep and kept on my determined path.
“He’s in there?” I asked Eilir, motioning to the doors with my chin.
The sprite gave me a tight nod.
“Good.” I stalked on ahead, just feet away from the placid-looking guards and the somewhat gaudy doors. “The sooner I can get this over with, the—”
Schwing.
I went ramrod straight and almost lost the tip of my goddess-damned nose as the sentinels each let their glaives fall between them, barring my entrance.
They didn’t even fucking look at me, their cyan and jade eyes aimed straight ahead, framed by half-helmets fashioned like wings that sat neatly around their horns.
“She has permission,” Eilir squeaked from behind me, and a muscle feathered in the jaw of the sentry to my right. “If she needs to speak with Max, she can…just go in. Just like that. Oh, mother.”
As Eilir was rambling, I ducked, sweeping away the glaive from the one who showed that bit of hesitation.
One of them barked a noise of protest, but I splayed my hands against the doors, threw my weight into them, and sent both soaring open.
A cacophony of masculine bickering halted.
Multiple sets of rather agitated attention, all spread around a war table, shifted to me. One hooded, too.
Maksym stepped away from the table quickly as, in a rather tense voice, he said, “Miss Wynn…?”
My mouth was as dry as the fucking Wastes. “I need to speak with you.”