Chapter 12
Huntyr
We’re shuffled off the ship and into the fortress like livestock, a guard escorting each of us through the winding stone corridors before depositing us into separate rooms.
“You should dress for the welcome ceremony,” the guard instructs brusquely before leaving. “Gowns are provided in the wardrobe. The bathing chamber is through that door.” He’d gestured toward a flimsy wooden panel hanging unevenly in the corner.
He’s gone before I can bite back with a smart-ass comment.
“Well, alright then,” I mutter, casting a critical glance around the room.
The door clicks shut behind him, and the lock turns with a finality that feels suffocating.
The room is cramped, more a cell than a guest chamber, with a narrow mattress covered by a coarse wool blanket, a warped wooden wardrobe leaning against the wall, and a single standing mirror that has seen better days.
I open the creaking wardrobe to find an array of pastel gowns in shades of soft pink, lavender, and pale blue.
Absently, I wonder where they came from.
They hardly seem like the fashions I’d seen the female Fae wearing as we’d walked into the fortress.
My upper lip curls in disgust with every fluttering chiffon sleeve I push aside.
Finally, my fingers land on something black. I pull it free and study it in the dim torchlight. The fabric is sleek and heavy, the kind that clings to the body without weighing it down. The slit runs high up the side of the skirt, catching my attention, and I feel the faintest flicker of approval.
The other gowns, pretty as they are, are gowns for women who expect to be kissed on balconies by dashing princes. This dress, though…
This dress is suited for someone who’s spent more time killing in alleyways than she has being courted.
“I guess you’ll do,” I murmur.
After stripping off my travel clothes, I make my way to the bathing chamber.
The stone basin inside is shallow and unadorned, the water within cold to the touch.
I brace myself before pouring it over my skin, hissing softly as the chill seeps in.
It’s enough to scrub away the salt and sweat from the journey, but not enough to leave me feeling truly clean.
Still, I’ve made do with far less before.
Once dry, I pull on the gown and glance at my reflection in the mirror. The bodice molds to my torso like armor, structured and sharp, emphasizing the narrowness of my frame. The heavy black fabric gleams faintly, catching the flickering torchlight like liquid shadow.
The skirt cascades in smooth, deliberate folds, but it’s the high slit on my left leg that makes me smirk. It gives me freedom to move, even to fight, if necessary. Sliding the matching lace gloves up my arms, I watch the intricate patterns slide over my skin.
Tilting my head, I examine myself in the mirror.
“Yes,” I murmur, running my fingers down the bodice. “You’ll do.”
A guard comes to collect me shortly after I finish dressing, offering no explanation beyond barking that it’s time for dinner before he turns on his heels and marches away.
I follow him through the fortress halls, staying alert as I do, and count the number of paces it takes to get from my room to wherever he’s leading me.
I can’t afford to get lost here.
We stop outside a set of heavy wooden doors, the faint sounds of clinking dishes and muffled laughter filtering through the cracks.
“How should I announce you?” the guard demands, turning to me with a sharp expression.
“Huntyr,” I reply, my tone deliberately flat.
He tilts his head, unimpressed. “Your title, Mortal. What is your title?”
I meet his gaze, my expression hardening. “My name is Huntyr. That’s how I wish to be referred to.”
Whatever he sees in my glare must convince him to drop the matter, or perhaps he simply doesn’t care enough to press further. I’d wager it’s the latter.
Velia might be one of the more tolerant of the Mortal Kingdoms, but our hatred for the Fae still runs deep.
Even though centuries have passed since the war between our peoples and the creations of the Wastelands—the dead areas of land that refuse to grow any crop.
Based on the guard’s attitude, and the glares I’ve felt since setting foot here, it seems the Fae aren’t particularly fond of us either.
Any delusion of a happy coexistence between our kingdoms is laughable. Whatever fragile peace this alliance claims to offer won’t last long.
The guard shoves the doors open and steps aside, his voice booming. “Mistress Huntyr.”
I step into the dining hall, every sense sharpening as I take in the scene before me.
A long stone table stretches down the center of the room, piled high with food—roasted meats, fruits gleaming like polished gems, platters of cheese and bread.
The flicker of torches casts a golden glow over the space, their light catching on the silver goblets and ornate serving dishes.
The women are scattered along the table. Some chat animatedly, their laughter too loud and forced to be genuine. Others sit in stiff silence, their gazes flitting around the room like mine, assessing every detail, every threat.
At the far end of the table, Roland is already tearing into a loaf of bread. Beside him, a copper-haired man built like a lion leans close, whispering something in his ear.
But I hardly notice either of them, because the second I step through the doorway, there’s a shift in the air. My spine stiffens before my mind even catches up, and my instincts pull me to look at him.
Derian has cleaned up since the voyage. As much as I hate to admit it, a bath has done him well.
The shadow lining his jaw is gone, and his dark hair still glistens faintly, damp from water.
Like the other Fae males in the room, he wears leather armor, its dark surface polished to a fine sheen.
But somehow, his fits differently… better.
The way the leather molds to his broad shoulders and muscled frame is almost distracting.
I shove that thought aside before it lingers.
Of course he’s attractive. All the Fae are attractive. That just makes them all the more deadly.
But then his eyes find mine, and it’s as if I can smell that smoky citrus scent as easily as if he were standing right next to me.
Derian’s gaze locks onto mine, dark and unrelenting, as if he senses my presence as easily as I do his. A faint smile tugs at his lips, one that’s more knowing than welcoming, and I resist the urge to bristle under its weight.
He’s a Fae, I remind myself.
A beautiful, incredibly tall Fae with excellent bone structure and a scent that seemingly drives me mad.
But a Fae.
Which makes him the enemy.
“Now,” he says, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. “We can begin.”
I guess that means I’m the last to arrive.
I take a seat in the last remaining spot at the large stone table, between the annoying blonde from the ball—I really should learn her name—and a short Fae woman with tawny skin and a shaved head.
I recognize most of the women from the journey from the Mortal lands, but I’m unpleasantly surprised to see an equal number of Fae women joining us at the table.
The meal proceeds almost immediately after I sit down.
A feast of roasted lamb, herb salad, and crusty bread.
It’s not a particularly elaborate meal, but anything seems like a luxury after days of cheese and nuts aboard the ship.
Shadows flicker across the room from the candlelit torches.
Derian, thankfully, directs his attention to the two men beside him, the three of them chatting quietly with intense expressions.
No one’s attention is on me, at least not in any meaningful way.
Several of the Mortal women already know each other, not surprising since they likely grew up within the same social circles.
The same circles I would’ve grown up in, had my father not been killed by the Fae.
That thought is enough for me to catch my gaze wandering towards Derian. I quickly direct it back to the plate of food in front of me.
The Fae women all seem familiar with each other too, laughing and discussing weapons.
I can hear their conversation from where I sit on the far side of the table.
The Mortal women to my left are being led by the blonde, while the Fae women to my right are talking amongst themselves.
One of them, with fiery orange hair, keeps narrowing her amber eyes in my direction every so often.
Roland clears his throat. “Yes, well, now that we all have food in our bellies, perhaps we should begin.”
“Begin what?” asks the hook-nose Mortal woman three chairs down.
The Fae next to me rolls her eyes. “This is why you shouldn’t let Mortals into the Conclave.”
Roland glances at her with admonishment in his eyes. “I’ll be serving as the overseer of the Conclave. Tonight, I will remind you all of the rules.”
“No need,” the orange-haired girl says with a menacingly sweet smile. “We already know the rules. And the Mortals will be dead long before they even get a chance to break one.”
“Seraphina,” Derian growls, his eyes darkening in warning. “Do let the games start before you put a target on your back.”
She grins at him, fingers twitching slightly. “The games already began when you left our bed to bring back Mortal pets.”
I keep my face carefully neutral, even as a million thoughts run through my head, even as my grip on the knife tightens, even as Derian’s eyes flicker to me for the briefest of moments.
“You didn’t tell us Fae would be competing in the Conclave!” the blonde next to me huffs. “That hardly seems fair.”
Seraphina shrugs, unfazed. “It’s not, Mortal.”
“My name is Alexandria,” the blonde snaps, and I make a mental note of it.
Seraphina leans forward, her fingers curling around her dinner knife before she begins cutting into her meat. Too slowly. “Your name is meaningless. The dead don’t need names.”
Alexandria pushes back her chair, the wood scraping against the stone floor.
There’s fire in her eyes, bravery even, but before she can stand in indignation, Seraphina has already grabbed the carving knife and tossed it across the room.
It lands deep in Alexandria’s shoulder, and the small girl lets out a hiss of pain.
Though, surprisingly, not a scream.
Good for her.
The Mortals around me immediately stand, some crying, others enraged. The Fae women just laugh and make snide remarks to each other.
Derian leans back and watches it unfold, his eyes narrowed and his expression guarded.
I don’t bother intervening either, though. That wound is going to be nasty, but it’s in my best interest to simply let them destroy one another. It only makes my job easier.
“Ladies!” Roland exclaims, his voice sharp.
“Someone get her a healer!” orders the auburn-haired man beside him as Alexandria continues to scream at Seraphina, clutching the blade in her shoulder. Her pink gown stains crimson as she reaches for it.
I frown. “I wouldn’t—”
Too late.
She yanks the knife out, blood splattering onto the table. Rookie mistake. The auburn-haired man sighs and places his face in his hand, while Derian chuckles and gestures for a Fae guard to carry the sobbing Alexandria away.
“Are you just going to let them kill us?” another Mortal screams at Derian, waving her hands at the Fae women.
He doesn’t lift a finger. He doesn’t chastise Seraphina, nor does he comfort the bleeding girl. Derian’s expression shows no mercy, no sympathy.
“Yes,” he answers her, that deep voice positively menacing. “I intend to watch you all kill each other while all the other Fae in the room bet on which of you will die first. You’re not in Velia anymore. You'd better get used to that fact.”
Silence settles over the room.
And Derian watches.
He watches how we react to him.
“As I was saying,” Roland continues. “Welcome to the Conclave. It’s time to go over the rules.”