Chapter 5
Derian
Roland bursts through the door with enough force to rattle the antique portraits. His face flashes purple with irritation as he takes in my lounging form on the oversized bed.
“You’re late!” Roland snaps.
I glance up over the top of the book I’m skimming. “It’s not like they can start the party without me.”
I was supposed to join the ball at sunset, but the sun stopped shining over an hour ago, and I still haven’t bothered to change out of the loose silk pants I’d slept in.
I’ve been indulging in the capital’s nightly distractions since we docked in Velia a few days ago and have spent most of my days in this bed as a result.
Mortals have their faults, but their gambling dens come with enough women and booze to almost make up for it.
Almost.
“I knocked two hours ago to remind you of the schedule,” Roland continues, hands on his hips.
I shrug, flipping the page of the book.
My brother may be able to force me into this wretched kingdom and demand I marry some vapid Mortal princess, but he can’t make me care about impressing her.
I keep reading, and Roland releases a frustrated huff as he begins navigating through the mess of my discarded clothes.
Piece by piece, he tosses garments in my direction: trousers, a cotton shirt, a black jacket.
His muttered curses fill the air between us, and I suppress a smile.
Fifty years ago, my brother named Roland the Delegate to the Mortal Kingdoms, and I haven’t seen much of him since.
The years apart haven’t softened him. He was a friend of my father’s, so I’ve known him since I was a boy, which means he’ll always view me as the reckless prince who drags mud through the palace.
“Impressions are everything, Derian! This is no way to endear yourself to your future in-laws.”
I stand, slowly and begrudgingly changing into the formal clothes he’s thrown at me. The mask I’m supposed to wear lies face-up on the hand-carved desk.
I hate that fucking desk.
The whole room is far too ostentatious for my liking, with towering stone walls and arched windows framing the star-dappled night sky.
The high, vaulted ceiling makes the room feel too much like a cavern.
Near the empty hearth, the two maroon-upholstered chairs are too stiff, as if they’re hardly ever used.
I also hate this mask. Who thought a masquerade ball was an appropriate way to introduce me to my future wife? Surely she’d want to see my face.
Not that it matters.
Whether she finds me pleasing or not is irrelevant.
“Help me with this,” I say, holding up the mask to Roland.
He ties it behind my head, making sure to conceal the tips of my ears.
“She’ll see them soon enough, you know,” I remark dryly. “Their King asked for this alliance with us. I don’t see why I should go out of my way to hide the fact I’m Fae.”
Roland tuts, straightening my jacket. “You know how Mortals are. Their memories are short. They believe only what they’re told.”
“They’re told the Fae are evil monsters who steal their children in the night,” I scratch at my chin contemplatively. “Perhaps I should just act the part they’ve assigned me?”
Roland’s glare could wilt the most vibrant flowers. “Your King wants this alliance, Derian. Do not disappoint him.”
Ah, yes. My brother’s wishes are all that matter.
I should know that by now.
I’m sure Roland’s not the only one waiting for me to fuck this up.
I’m the impetuous, spoiled prince who will never be king. The brother of a great leader who never lives up to his own potential.
Truthfully, I’m not sure why I’m even bothering to go through with all this circumstance. You can’t let down a kingdom that already expects you to be nothing more than a brute.
“She’s quite attractive,” Roland adds after a pause, as if her beauty might console me. He gives me one final once-over before beckoning me to follow. “And well-spoken. You’ll be very happy with her.”
I doubt that very much.
As we step out of the room, the five Fae warriors tasked with my protection greet us with their usual stony silence. Towering men with thick arms and even thicker expressions, they follow me everywhere like oversized shadows.
As unnecessary as the lavish furnishings of my room.
“Boys,” I greet them with a wink.
The warriors, clad in their typical leather armor, stare ahead silently. It’s tradition for the royal guard not to speak in the presence of sovereigns, and despite my repeated insistence that I don’t care about such formalities, they haven’t budged.
They were lovely company on the long boat ride over.
“How come they don’t have to wear masks?” I mutter to Roland, jabbing a thumb at the silent guards.
He only sighs and pushes me forward, guiding me through the winding halls toward the ballroom.
They’d better at least serve wine at this party. I desperately need a drink.
“It is my greatest pleasure to make your acquaintance, Prince Silverthorn.”
The girl who is to be my bride remains in a low curtsy, waiting for my permission to rise. I glance at Roland beside me, who gives a small, encouraging nod, then clear my throat.
“The pleasure is mine, Alaya.”
Roland jabs his elbow into my rib, and I return the gesture with a glare over my shoulder.
“Princess Claristen, I mean,” I correct. Why exactly are these kinds of formalities necessary if we’re to be married in a week’s time?
The princess straightens, daring a glance at me, and I take the opportunity to do the same.
She looks exactly how I’d expected. Too young, too innocent, too perfect.
Golden hair falls in waves over her shoulders.
Her hazel eyes, wide and clear under her ivory mask, are empty and unthinking.
They hold none of the sharpness or wit I might have hoped for, the kind of intellect I might have actually respected.
The gown she wears, with its delicate embroidery and shining pearls, is just as immaculate as she is. It clings to her pale skin. Gods. With the light dress, the pale skin, and the golden hair, she looks like a fucking doll. A doll, dressed up and thrown to the visiting prince like a prize.
A few seconds spent in her presence tell me everything I need to know. She’s been sheltered in this castle her entire life. She’s never seen true darkness, not like the kind I’ve walked through on more days than I’d like to admit.
There’s absolutely no hope for any sort of camaraderie or understanding between us.
Her father, King Eryndor, stands beside her, cheeks flushed from nervous drinking as he grins at me.
The King of Velia bears the marks of a man who has grown his borders in battle and maintained them in peace, with deep-set lines and age spots.
His thick silver beard frames his jawline as he beams at his daughter and then at me.
“What a pair you two make!” the King exclaims, clapping his hands together.
The princess keeps her eyes fixed on my shoes, but a soft blush creeps up her neck. She’s barely said a single word to me or met my gaze at all. I wonder if that will change without her father at her side or if that’s simply what I have to look forward to for the next sixty years.
I suppose that is the small silver lining in this arrangement. A Mortal bride will grow old long before I do.
Still, she probably holds the same resentment towards the Fae that all Mortals do. Sixty years can feel like an eternity when you’re spending them shackled to someone who loathes you.
“How have you been enjoying your time in our kingdom, Prince Silverthorn?” Eryndor presses a hand to my shoulder, guiding me toward the banquet table set for us. “I was saddened to hear your brother couldn’t join us.”
“Yes, well, as you know, running a kingdom is busy work.” I force a smile.
He chuckles, the sound somewhat hollow. “Of course. Send him my regards and let him know how honored we are to begin this new age of alliance. I am hopeful this will be the first step in easing the tensions between our people.”
Even Roland stiffens behind me, and I smirk slightly as I slip away from Eryndor’s touch.
No one in this room believes that the King is marrying his youngest daughter to a Fae prince in an attempt to ease the relations between our peoples.
Velia is simply running out of space.
The King has spent much of his reign expanding his territory, but after years of brutal war with Purithia, he’s reached his limits. His kingdom is overcrowded, with no room left to grow. After decades of conflict, the other Mortal Kingdoms have refused to take in his people, so he’s turned to us.
The Fae kingdom is vast and abundant, perfect for his needs. That’s the only reason I'm here right now. He obviously isn’t happy that we’re his only option. It’s clear in the way his jaw flexes and the way his nobles glance toward my ears every so often, even while they’re hidden under my mask.
“I’m afraid dinner was served some time ago,” Eryndor apologizes, though frustration creeps into his voice. “But I can send for the kitchen to bring you something warm if you’d like.”
I glance at the remnants of roast duck scattered on the plates around the table, resisting the urge to sigh.
“No need,” I reply, shooting him another empty smile. “Let’s not alter the night’s plans for me. I’m sure the dancing is about to begin.”
As if on cue, the strings swell with soft, melodic chords, and laughing couples begin to fill the marbled dance floor. Eryndor looks pointedly at his daughter, who, after a moment, peers up at me through thick dark lashes.
“Prince Silverthorn, would you like to dance with me?” Her bell-like voice makes my skin crawl.
An entire song spent pressed against her, while she stares at me with those empty, doe eyes, sounds somehow less appealing than sitting through a cold dinner with her father.
“Actually, princess,” I grab Roland’s elbow and shove him forward, perhaps a little harder than necessary. “Our dear delegate is a far better dancer than I. Why don’t you allow him to take you for a spin while I find myself something to drink?”
Her wide eyes dart between us. “Oh… I suppose.”
“Wonderful!” I praise, practically pushing him on top of her.
Roland leads her toward the dance floor, sending me a glare over his shoulder that promises I’ll be hearing about this later.
I’ll survive.
I spot the spirits laid out on a wooden table along the wall and waste no time making my way over. The ballroom is a swirling mess of light and sound, the chandeliers overhead casting a golden glow across the room.
Figures in shimmering gowns twirl across the gleaming floor, masks hiding their faces. The music alternates between hurried and slow, as if it can’t decide what kind of night this is supposed to be. Above it all, laughter and conversation buzz.
I pour a generous amount of amber liquid into my glass and lean heavily against the wooden table, watching the scene unfold from the sidelines, as far removed as I can get without actually leaving the room.
And that’s when I see her.
She steps through the curtains like a ghost from another world, her graceful, deliberate movements entirely out of place among the other Mortals in the room.
Her gown catches the light with every movement—an elaborate silver creation that gleams like polished moonlight.
The fabric seems alive, clinging to her frame before pooling onto the floor and trailing behind her with each deliberate step.
The waiter’s voice echoes through the ballroom, the words hitting me like an arrow.
“The Lady Huntyr Lachlan of Vastile.”
Every head in the ballroom turns, eyes narrowing with both suspicion and curiosity, as she makes her way forward, scanning her surroundings with what seems to be a practiced awareness.
The name means little to me, but there’s something about that controlled grace of hers that has my fingers tightening around the glass in my hand.
Her midnight-black hair is twisted elegantly away from her face, a few loose tendrils falling forward and brushing over her shining silver mask. That mask, though it conceals half her face, only sharpens the rest of her features, making her icy blue eyes stand out even more sharply.
I watch those eyes flick over the room like she’s marking each and every person, assessing them carefully.
She meets my gaze only briefly, before two suitors rush forward, eager to claim her attention, bowing like fools.
All at once, her keen evaluation of the room fades away, leaving a coquettish smile behind.
She grins at the two men, takes the elbow that’s extended to her, and lets them lead her off.
“Well, that’s surprising,” a voice says beside me. I turn to find a young man pouring himself a drink.
“Lady Lachlan?” I ask.
“The last time I met Lady Lachlan, she had gray hair and a cane.”
I frown, glancing back at her curiously. “Her daughter, then?”
He shrugs. “No heirs, last I heard. Her late husband had a child from a previous marriage that they sent away after her father’s death. Guess she’s back now. Seems like she’ll shake up the marriage season, though.”
His gaze drifts to the men practically falling over themselves to get her attention. “Who’d have thought the long-lost Lachlan heir would be so… eye-catching?”
He’s right. She is beautiful. Undoubtedly one of the more stunning women I’ve seen in this kingdom.
And yet, as I watch her catch a glass one-handed that a hopeful suitor stumbles and drops, I can’t help but feel intrigued by her for more than her features.
She doesn’t even flinch, simply smiles and hands the glass back to the poor boy.
The night drags on. The music swells as the couples move across the dance floor.
But I don’t care about any of them. I watch Lady Huntyr Lachlan.