55. PLAYING TO WIN
Every time I had ever attended an event in Vahrenhall, I’d either regretted a decision I made, or woken with no memory of the night before. Tonight, my goal was to not have either of those things happen.
Gods be good.
If I was going to have any luck at achieving either, I needed to distract myself from the witch whose hips were swaying far too enticingly as she walked.
I focused on the torchlights that lit the path to the field where tonight’s festivities were already underway. Vahrish fae didn’t believe in celebrations being held indoors. Even if it was storming, they would howl their inhibitions to the sky and spit the water from their lips while doing so.
Vahrenhall, and those who hailed from it, were still wild and untamed, and that part of my bloodline ran strong within me.
As I aged, the bitterness I’d held in my heart for my own brethren who supported my exile, faded, and the abandonment became less of an open wound in my soul and more like a scar that itched every now and then.
I was familiar to most in this court now, and I’d worked my way into the favor of several of Vanir’s council members and the leaders of his army.
But that didn’t absolve me of a past I had no hand in making.
Perhaps that was why a part of me was still bothered by it.
The fact that my future had basically been stripped from me by those who should have had no say in my life whatsoever was something I would probably always struggle with.
On nights like tonight, though, I had the opportunity to toss those feelings to the wind, forget who I was entirely, and enjoy just being alive and free.
I liked to remind myself, It could always be worse.
I muttered the words under my breath as I tore my eyes away from where they had conveniently wandered again: Nivelle’s backside.
Things really could be worse. If she caught me staring, she might feel inclined to cast some spell on me or use her power to gouge my eyes out.
Somehow, the thought of her even threatening to do something like that stirred up some form of demented excitement I didn’t know I was capable of feeling.
Beside me, Remic matched my pace, his wings gently brushing my shoulder each time he stepped slightly out of line as we passed a flaming torch.
I knew he could probably sense everything that was on my mind—he had a way of doing that.
He’d joined our group shortly after Niall and I had formed an alliance, and the fact that he, too, had been an outcast, helped forge the brotherly bond we shared.
He knew what it was like to be stripped of a future because of someone else’s actions.
The annoying thing was that whenever he sensed something was going on, he would linger nearby, silent as the grave, and use his presence and pure intimidation to loosen one’s lips.
I blew a breath out through my nose, realizing that was exactly what he was doing now. Each nudge with his wing almost seemed intentional.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I muttered.
He gave me a look that called my bluff.
“There’s not really much to say anyway.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
I rolled my shoulders back, forcing my eyes to stay above Nivelle’s head. She’d even done something different to her hair for this occasion. It was wavy instead of straight, and the way it fluttered with every step she took—
Fuck. Stop that.
I grunted in irritation.
“Is she getting under your skin or something?” Remic asked, jerking his chin at the witch.
“Always has.”
“Then you should talk to her. Tell her the issue—”
“It’s not that kind of—” I stopped myself short of the explanation, frustrated with the fact that I didn’t really know what it was that bothered me about her. “She’s just . . . different.”
Remic nodded. “Mmm. You like ‘different.’”
Did I? Or did I hate it so much it seemed like an enticing challenge? Or was it the very challenge she posed that drew me to her in the first place?
Fates, my head began to spin, and I hadn’t even had a second drink yet.
“If you’d like for me to put in a word for you, I can.”
“I’ll shove you into those torches, Remic.”
His low, deep laugh was enough to draw the witch’s attention to us.
She whipped her head around, as if she had already suspected we were talking about her, and the laugh was just enough to confirm it.
Before she could open her mouth to say what I was sure would have been a very targeted threat, Auren grabbed her by the arm and tugged her forward.
Remic was probably right. Talking to her might help.
We hadn’t actually talked much at all. It was more like yelling or snapping at each other every time words came out of our mouths. Maybe after another drink—or twelve—I’d try for a civilized conversation with her.
Maybe.
I hadn’t noticed if music had been playing before, but now the drums were pounding, and the fiddles were rich in rhythm, filling the valley with sound. The song echoed off the tall stones that encompassed the area.
Hundreds of orbs floated above, and multiple pyres were lit. Just like every celebration here, fire was a necessity, and it was no shock to see several entertainers twirling it in their bare hands, dancing in the flames as others watched in awe.
Surprisingly, everyone was dressed in attire far finer than I was used to seeing, like they were attending an event held in Calledan and not one in an open field in the highlands.
My uncle must have had a hand in that. He was a good leader, and an even greater friend—always making the utmost effort for those he cared about.
Hosting a celebration for another court’s High Lord and Lady was a definitive testament to their strong alliance and friendship.
The host himself stepped out of the crowd and made his way toward us. As he walked, he raised both his hands, and the orbs above brightened, drawing everyone’s attention. The music quieted as he announced, “Our guests of honor, the High Lord and Lady of Calledan.”
The crowd clapped as Niall took Auren’s hand and spun her around. The rest of us gave them their space, and Vanir ushered them into a group of fae who were waiting nearby, a few of whom I recognized to be his dignitaries.
Remic slipped away into the shadows, seeking out drinks, while I scanned the crowd, finding other familiar faces—mostly wardens of Vanir’s Dreki legions.
Like Calledan’s army, Vahrenhall had wardens who oversaw the different sections within it and ensured each of them functioned seamlessly with the rest.
Next to me, Silas folded his arms and took in the scene as the music picked back up. “I take it that the Highland Court is fascinated with fire.”
“What led you to that conclusion?” I joked.
He laughed, then paused a moment before asking, “So this is the court you come from?”
“It is . . .” I swung my stare over to him, wondering how he—
“I overheard you and Auren talking.”
“Ahh.” Well, fuck. So much for keeping that story quiet.
“Do you miss it?”
“It’s in my blood, so I take it with me wherever I go regardless.” It wasn’t a real answer, but I didn’t quite have one that made sense.
Silas nodded like he understood. I wasn’t sure if he did, though. I didn’t know that much about him at all, really. Certainly not enough to know if he could truly relate in any way.
His first impression wasn’t a good one, and if I was being honest, part of me had been avoiding any type of confrontation or in-depth conversation with him simply because he’d also elected to call Auren “little one.” I was well aware that it was a petty reason to be at odds with someone, but when he’d swept in like he was about to save the fucking day in Benmoor, I wasn’t having it.
Auren had become one of us, and I’d felt overly inclined to protect not only her but the dynamic we’d all pleasantly fallen into.
Things had settled since then, but I was still stomping around the barrier that was standing between us. I knew I would have to break the ice eventually, seeing as how he was Auren’s true Dionach, and would be a permanent part of our group. But where to start?
Weapons. That was always a good topic of conversation.
“I noticed that you carry twin blades.” I glanced down at the gold scabbard at his hip, which held the matching sword to the one strapped between his wings. “Any particular story behind them?”
He didn’t hesitate to withdraw the sword and hand it to me. “Nothing worthy of embellishment. I simply like having two blades . . . for the intimidation factor.”
I looked up at him, immediately resonating with that statement.
Damn it. One point in his favor.
The weight of the weapon felt good in my hands. Heavy, but well-balanced, the way a proper sword should be. “Who makes the weapons on Neveshir?”
“We do.”
“You? As in . . . the Dionachs?”
“Sometimes the witches, too.”
“You have a forge?”
“Three.”
My hands fell still. How the hell were there three forges on Neveshir?
“Some witches are skilled in alchemy,” Silas explained.
“It’s a trade that is passed down to each generation out of necessity.
Forging our own weapons is crucial, especially with our seclusion.
It’s something all Dionachs learn at a young age as well.
If given the proper resources, I could fashion you a weapon right here, if you wanted me to. ”
“Did your kind always forge weapons? Even on Skotos?”
To my surprise, it was Nivelle that answered from where she stood on the other side of Silas. “No.” She kept her stare on the fire dancers that weaved through the crowd. “We adapted in order to survive.” Before Silas or I could say anything else, she stalked off.
Remic stepped into her place, frowning at the overage of drinks he now carried. “Guess one of you gets two of these.”
I snagged two of the four mugs he carried. “Don’t mind if I do,” I said, downing half of one in a single gulp.
He handed another mug to Silas and reserved the last for himself. After taking a sip, he coughed and shook his head. “Vanir’s finest.”