Epilogue II
Sometime after the Battle at the Border
Deep within Highhome, further down than even the dank cells of the Maw, Araxos Anax trudged to his private, secret quarters. All knew he kept such rooms, but none knew where to find them—not even his younger full-brothers.
In the past, he might’ve felt a twinge of shame for not revealing it to Erastus or Tychon, especially now that both served him in official roles within his new court.
But that’d been before the new Fae Queen literally pulled mercury out of his body.
In some regards, it’d been a relief to discover the slippage of his very mind was the work of mercury, not his father’s insidious blood. For the first time in months, Araxos’s mind was blessedly clear.
Someone was indeed poisoning him, but it wasn’t his wayward half-brother Attalus.
Who then?
Unfortunately, with eleven other living siblings, a viciously ambitious stepmother, and an ever-scheming court, the choices were numerous.
Araxos had learned early in life not to trust easily, but now what little there was between him, his siblings, and his court lay shattered. And so, he retreated to the one place he knew was safe, the one place that provided sanctuary.
Down near the water line, with the sea lapping at the windows, Araxos had fashioned something of an oasis for himself. A place where nothing else could enter—or leave.
His mother Xanthe had practiced sorcery here, weaving old spells with forgotten magic. Back when Diometrios had just been sick, not mad, he’d indulged Xanthe’s curious hobbies as she worked to find a cure for what ailed his mind.
In her studies, she found many things. Some of which she taught to her eldest sons, Aristander and Araxos. She’d made them swear to keep her secrets, to only use what she taught them when the need was dire.
He’d kept his word to her—at least inasmuch as he could. Araxos considered the life of his precious, vulnerable mate of utmost importance.
Araxos had chosen this space for his own partially because of its secrecy and partly because it was already steeped in his mother’s magic. Between that and her spells, he’d been able to craft his vision: a secure chamber that muffled and contained his mate’s vast magic.
Running his claws along hidden divots in the tuff rockface, he unlocked the wards guarding his quarters. To a spying eye, it would look as though he walked through solid stone. To Araxos, the moment his claws left the rock, the entryway to his chambers appeared.
He stalked through the short, squat tunnel, back bowing so his horns wouldn’t scrape the ceiling again. Five steps brought him through to the rooms beyond.
His secret chambers consisted of one large room and two ancillary rooms, both of which he’d converted into privy chambers. The main space was cavernous, the soft tuff sculpted by his dragonfire into smooth but irregular walls with whirling patterns and columns of coral.
Bisected into unequal halves by a great dragonfire glass wall, his smaller half contained his mother’s battered worktable, shelves stuffed with rare tomes, some of his own personal items, as well as his Savrakae-style sleeping platform, piled high with furs, silks, and cushions.
A few pieces of art broke up the walls, but really, his claim on material things was small. Especially for a king.
He’d little need for gold and gems. He didn’t even care much about commanding the respect and love of the Droplets. All Araxos needed in the world lay on her bed, on the other side of the glass wall.
Araxos had prepared everything before bringing his beautiful fae mate to these rooms. He’d furnished her half with a bed of luxurious silks and cushions.
Her furniture was of the finest cedar, for its sweet smell and water resistance.
A tall shelf stuffed with books, a desk littered with paints and pastel sticks, and potted plants as tall as the ceiling or strung along the walls as garland added color to her vibrant space.
And, most importantly of all, he’d created the dragonfire glass wall separating their two spaces. Even the two windows that looked out onto the sea just below were covered in glass, spelled to let the breeze in and heat out, but nothing more.
He’d held a small hope that, given his preparation and attention to details, she might forgive him eventually for sealing her inside. Araxos would never forget the look of utter devastation on her face as she watched him close the glass behind her.
But she hadn’t cared about her beautiful things, even if she used them.
For the first several years of her confinement, she hadn’t spoken to him at all. Those had been busy, dangerous years, fighting to usurp his father. He’d rarely been able to stray down here to see her, but every time he had, he found her laid upon her bed, her back to him.
The sight of her unmoving and wretched renewed Araxos’s resolve. He fought harder to overthrow his father—thereby making the Droplets that much safer for her.
While he stood atop the dais now, his work wasn’t complete. He’d hoped the end to her necessary seclusion was nearing, but now that he understood a wider conspiracy against him was afoot, his plans would have to change.
She wouldn’t like it, and he didn’t relish telling her.
After years of confining his mate behind spelled glass, even if it was for her own safety, Araxos understood that for every day she spent in here, it’d take at least two to earn her forgiveness. He stared down the unenviable fate of years of apologizing and wooing, but he would do it.
His Mirene was worth every sacrifice.
Everything—this room, overthrowing his father, taking the dais, changing the very fabric of Savrakae society itself—was for her. One day, Mirene would stand beside him as analeia, his queen and consort. All would bow before her, his fae princess.
Araxos couldn’t help a glance at her through the glass.
He’d learned not to get his hopes up, that she was as likely to ignore him as spit at him upon returning.
While he’d been gone for nearly a fortnight, mopping up Erastus’s fucking mess after the situation with Queen Leita and Attalus, Mirene had professed many a time she didn’t care whether he came back at all.
The words hurt, even if he didn’t truly believe them. He was the only one who could break down the glass containing her, after all.
Still, he couldn’t help a patter in his hearts when her starlight head turned to note his arrival.
She lay in the middle of her neatly made bed, canopied in lilac gossamer, with her ashy puff of a cat, Giorgio curled up on her stomach.
He and Giorgio exchanged malevolent glares—how his court would laugh to know he burned with jealousy of a ten-pound feline.
Araxos wanted to be the one to lay his head upon Mirene’s soft body. He hadn’t enjoyed her softness, let alone her touch, since the day he sealed her up. Yet, even if the glass didn’t separate them, he doubted she’d let him near her for another decade.
His one consolation was that at least she was safe and near. And that he was her azai.
Ugly as his actions might seem to her, he took great pleasure in being her one and only mate.
Araxos stopped in the middle of his side of the chamber, pretending not to notice or care when she sat up straight, her attention on him as he began to undress.
“You look like shit,” Mirene said.
He huffed a laugh. “A king who comes back from battle looking pristine doesn’t deserve the respect of his warriors.”
“Been off fighting, have we?” Her tone was snippy, dismissive, but Araxos knew better by now. One of the few things that earned him her attention was talking politics. Her sharp mind enjoyed playing with problems, and Araxos valued her insights.
“Cleaning up messes. I’d hoped to avoid it, but Erastus forced my hand.”
“That’s what happens when you trust an idiot like him.”
Araxos grunted. She was right, of course. More right than he wished. Mirene had never met Erastus, nor any of his other siblings, yet she could cut each to the core easily. She’d make a formidable analeia.
“What’s he done now?”
Araxos turned to regard her carefully. How much to say?
“Picked the wrong fight, unfortunately. Over an issue not worth the trouble. Attalus was never a serious threat—if the Fae Queen wants to keep him, she’s welcome to him. I almost lost good warriors over it.”
Mirene sniffed, her white brows pinching. “You really would hand over your own brother to Amaranthe? Even if they are fated, don’t condemn him to such a sorry fate.”
“I wish it’d been the old hag,” Araxos sighed. “But a new Fae Queen finally sits the faelands’ throne.”
Mirene went utterly still. Even Giorgio in her lap stopped swishing his tail.
“Who?” The sudden seriousness of her voice startled him. When he failed to answer immediately, she implored, “Tell me, Araxos. You owe me that at least.”
“Leita. Queen Leita. She’s young, younger than you, even. And mated Attalus, gods help her.”
“Leita…” Mirene sat back on her heels, her expression slack with shock.
Uneasiness gathered in Araxos’s gut. Perhaps he shouldn’t have told her.
The only reason Mirene had been so far south for him to discover over ten years ago now had been because she’d long since fled the faelands and the threat of her aunt. Mirene had made her peace with never returning there, with making a home for herself along the sunny southern coasts.
“You know of her?” he asked carefully.
“A cousin,” she answered, her attention not on him anymore. “I didn’t know she’d survived.”
Mirene’s gaze met Araxos, and sparkling there, for the first time in years, was a vulnerable, desperate hope.