Chapter Twenty-Six
“To Sovereign Queen Ves,” Fenryn bellows joyously, hoisting yet another glass of sparkling wine into the air.
Dark wine sloshes over the side, splattering on the table and his lap. Others around him laugh.
Fenryn fails to notice the mess he’s made.
Or he doesn’t care—at least not enough to keep him from his energetic tirade.
“Centuries, centuries! Ryc has waited centuries to find his bride.” The grin on the Sovereign King of Sol’s face is nothing short of impish.
Rowen, Darin, Eve, Lilith—all seated at the table do the same, sans spilled wine, as Fenryn launches himself into a soused soliloquy.
Fenryn… is drunk.
And a sloppy one at that.
A small, wicked smile curls my lips as I listen to the fae yodel high praise of his closest friend. The flush across his cheeks is redder than any rouge in Oraphia’s kit. Yet his ocean blue eyes gleam with warmth.
At least he’s a jolly drunk.
Staring at my own glass upon the table, I turn the stem between my fingers. The deep red appears motionless as the glass spins slowly. As Ryc and the others laugh, my smile remains, but I lose myself in the color of the wine—I’m reminded of the hells.
Of Netharis.
Of everything I’ve ever endured to sit here.
Among friends.
People I can trust.
The table erupts with laughter, resulting in Ryc laughing a sigh as he rubs his brow.
Today… has been a whirlwind of a day.
I don’t know how Ryc does it.
I’ve met more Erusian lords and ladies than I can count, listened to thousands more blessings and well-wishes, and danced with Ryc under lingering stares. Somehow, through it all, he’s remained warmth and grace. A stark contrast to the version of himself he presents before the High Council.
Throughout the day, he’s been all smiles and laughter, and stolen glances across the room—though he’s never wandered far for long. I wasn’t left to fend for myself during the onslaught of introductions or ignored in favor of different company.
No.
Again, he’s made me his priority.
Not once was I made to feel like a trophy—a thing on display.
Fenryn lowers his empty glass to the table with unintentional force, causing the silverware on his emptied plate to rattle. Another unnoticed mishap, as evidenced by the lopsided grin on his face, and I laugh.
“Your next coronation…” Fenryn says slowly, the trailing pause growing oddly long. “Won’t be as fun as this one.” The words tumble out of him in a slur.
I stare at the fae king, my brows creasing as I grimace.
He lifts his empty glass to his lips, giving it a frown as he realizes but a few drops of wine remain. “The High Council—they… they’ll be there. Tha’s never fun.”
I swear the fae is trying to speak in cursive.
Rowen laughs, a deep joyous sound. It’s an unexpected sound coming from him. I’ve never heard him genuinely laugh.
“Maybe it’ll inspire a few kings to undo a collar button,” he replies, his grasp on spoken word much stronger than Fenryn’s.
“Or two,” Fenryn quips, slinging a hand out, reaching for Rowen’s collar.
Rowen, laughing, smacks his hand away. “You don’t strike me as the type to want to see an old fae undress, Fenryn.”
Fenryn’s smile grows bright enough to challenge the sun, highlighting the rosiness of his cheeks.
“Who needs clothes?” Fenryn roars the question, throwing his hands up and both Rowen and Ryc pull away, avoiding the swinging arms—thankful the glass still in his hand is empty. “O-overrated.”
Ryc leans into me, laughing, and as I rest my head upon his shoulder, I find Eve staring daggers and fighting a curling lip aimed at the boisterous fae across the table.
She shifts under my stare, her eyes meeting mine.
There doesn’t need to be a bond between us for me to hear her thoughts, they’re plain upon her face.
I burst into laughter and attempt to stifle it behind a hand. Eyes swing in our direction and ultimately fall upon Eve. She makes no effort to tuck away her face or the dry expression upon it.
“You can join in too, Eve,” Fenryn laughs. “Good times had by all. I provise—premise—promise,” he corrects himself as he makes a sweeping gesture over the table.
Lilith appears beside him and, leaning between him and Rowen, sets a tall glass of water before the mountainous fae. She straightens herself, perching a hand on her hip.
“Drink, Fenryn,” she says, her voice firm but accompanied by a smile. “Castle Erus doesn’t need another streaking incident.”
Fenryn trades his wine glass for water, lifting it in thanks toward Lilith. “Wrong,” he bellows. “It needs more.”
Lilith rolls her eyes, shaking her head as she returns to her seat on my left. Fenryn, with little care for the mess he’s making, downs more than half the glass in a single tilt.
Darin, sitting on the far side of Eve, leans onto the table. “Run rampant through your own home, fae. There are other matters to discuss.” He turns to Ryc, peering down the length of the table to us. “Have you chosen a successor?”
The trailing remnants of laughter evaporate.
Ryc sighs.
“You couldn’t have waited, Darin?” Rowen asks, pulling his empty wine glass to the edge of the table for the staff who’s appeared beside him. Rowen nods his thanks at the male fae before turning back to Darin. “I’m confident Alaryc has deliberated this.”
“Fair enough, but Ashdown is in five weeks,” Darin counters, his tone firm. “The nomination should be presented—waiting sends a message.”
“It will be presented,” Ryc replies. “In due time. There are loose ends I’d like to secure beforehand.”
Loose ends?
What kind of loose ends?
“Ganus is growing suspicious,” Darin says. “And after our last meeting, his attention isn’t going to be benevolent.”
“Ganus is welcome to speculate and dig as much as he would like,” Ryc says with a small laugh. “Though his time would be better spent healing or perhaps attending the needs of Battalia.”
As Rowen smothers his chuckle with a sip of wine, Fenryn looses a long, low whistle.
“Does your nomination know?” Darin presses, despite earning a few pointed glares from around the table. “Have you at least told them?”
“He does,” Ryc answers with a calmer, kinder voice than I would have. “He’s willing and ready.”
I straighten myself. “Who have you chosen?” I ask through our bond.
As Fenryn quips some sexually driven joke, earning a disgruntled groan from Eve, Ryc answers.
“Cyran Stargarden, little love.”
My brows fly high.
That’s why Ryc needs him.
Honestly, it makes sense.
I can’t think of any other fae who would be more dedicated to Erus in the same vein as Ryc.
Eyes racing about the ballroom, I search for the tall, lavender-haired fae. He’s nowhere to be found. In fact, I haven’t seen much of him throughout the evening.
“All that matters is whether the nomination will be supported by the court. The council holds no bearing on your decision,” Rowen says.
Ryc curls a hand over mine, taking a warm, firm hold. “He’s well-known and respected. And he’s earned Ves’ approval.”
“You’re not giving him much time to prepare,” Darin says, leaning back in his seat.
“He’s been preparing for ascension since spring,” Ryc replies with a small smile. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze. “We’ve worked closely for the last couple centuries. He isn’t green.”
Since spring?
Would my escape from the hells have anything to do with that decision?
I’m not sure if I should be impressed or insulted by Ryc’s confidence in earning my attention.
“Mated?” Darin asks and while they’re fair questions, the reason for Ryc’s less than patient past with the Sovereign King grows clearer.
“No,” Ryc answers. “For now.”
My mind races to Gladir, to his demi-fae daughter.
They’re no longer involved because Cyran has been called to duty—and part of that duty is hunting his mate. He’s let go of love—even if fleeting—in favor of expectation. For Erus, his country.
My gaze slips to Lilith.
Something Fenryn doesn’t seem interested in doing.
“He ‘grees?” Fenryn’s slurred question drifts across the table. He lifts a pointed finger, swinging it in a broad circle. “To all this…”
Ryc nods.
“Impressive.” Fenryn lets his hand fall to the table, rattling it once again.
“Since we’re on the topic of the council—”
I rise from my seat, stopping Rowen in his statement.
“You’re welcome to discuss whatever you wish,” I say, offering a practiced smile. “But I find myself exhausted and in want of more comfortable clothes.”
Eve stands, more than eager to escape the table. “Come on,” she says with a wave of her hand. “I know you’re dying to get those shoes off.”
Fenryn lights up, straightening in his seat. “See!” he laughs, pointing at me. “Ves’ taking my—advice! Leave the dress—leave it in the hall. Ryc’ll love that.”
I clamp my jaw shut, flattening my lips as a number of groans mixed with laughter rise from the table. Eve snags me by the arm, pulling me away with much earned haste as she mutters to herself in Malbolge.
“I’ll find you shortly,” Ryc’s voice resonates gently in my mind.
“Of course, my light,” I return, peeking over a shoulder.
Our eyes meet briefly before they’re stolen by passersby between us. The moment the ballroom doors close behind me, I heave a long, relieved sigh.
It’s quieter in the hall.
Yet my ears ring with the day’s worth of loud cheering, laughter, music, and more. Bracing a palm against the wall, I reach and tear off a shoe. The instant release from the pinching pain is damn near euphoric and my head falls back for a moment.
“That bad?” Eve asks and she glances at the shoe. “Gods, Ves. Why in the hells didn’t you say anything?”
Confused, I follow her stare.
There, inside the shoe, black silk lies stained with silver. I admit, the shoes hurt. But not bad enough to warrant this—or so I thought. I huff a small sigh. I’ve neither the inclination nor energy to inspect my foot. Not here.
“It’s fine,” I reply with a shrug. “I’ve endured worse.”