Chapter 1 #2
Dean didn’t know her well, and Braddock didn’t spend a lot of time with her either—or at least not that Dean knew of. He forced out a laugh. “Don’t worry. It won’t come to that. I’ll find her.”
I hope.
The door to Dean’s sitting room banged open seconds before his father’s booming voice filled the space. “Dean!”
Braddock and Dean both shot to their feet. They’d been friends long enough to know that anything less than a perfect display of respect would not be tolerated by the king, even in private quarters. “Sir?”
His father surged forward, ignoring Braddock, and grabbed Dean by the arm to drag him toward the hallway. Dean’s already tall, muscular frame easily kept pace—he was used to his father’s theatrics.
“I spoke with General Craven this morning,” his father seethed.
By some miracle, Dean kept the contempt from twisting his face. General Craven, the king’s closest friend, reported every misstep—or anything his father deemed a disgrace. The general either hated Dean, or the king paid him very well.
“Instead of concentrating on your technique, you were standing around with other junior warriors, laughing ,” the king spat. “Training is not the time to stand around being useless.”
Dean and the other junior warriors had taken a water break, and gods forbid he allowed himself to enjoy the conversation as they did so. He kept his mouth shut, having learned long ago that defending himself only worsened his punishment.
“You’re going to make up for the time you wasted. The general is waiting.”
Dean’s blood ran cold as the realization of what his father had in store doused him in panic. Last year, his father rotated punishments: sometimes sparring with General Craven, sometimes isolation in locked rooms, and sometimes he’d surprise him with something new and equally as horrifying.
General Craven was a large man, rock solid, and the king’s favorite instrument of discipline. Even with royal strength and speed, at thirteen, Dean was no match for the most skilled warrior in the kingdom.
Yet . By the time his powers fully manifest, he would be able to bat the general away like a fly. The general didn’t take it easy either. He never injured Dean enough to incapacitate him for longer than a day, but some cuts were deep enough to scar.
“Yes, sir,” Dean conceded with resignation. As he followed his father to the horrors awaiting him, he silently prayed that Fawn laughed hard tonight. He was going to need it.
Dean’s head snapped back from the full force of the general’s hilt slamming against his face. The general brought down his sword in a wide arc and sliced across Dean’s side hard enough to cut through his leather vest and split the skin.
Dean grunted and fell to his knees. If he stayed down, General Craven would berate him, but the lesson would stop. Pain radiated across his cheek and side.
“Pathetic,” his father commented from the side of the sparring circle.
The only saving grace was no other warriors were around. No, his father liked to conceal his disciplinary lessons, claiming it was so no one saw Dean’s weakness. It was more likely he didn’t want anyone to interfere with his barbaric methods.
“Get up,” his father snapped. “You are a royal. Royals do not lose.”
Dean lifted his head. “I can’t.”
The king walked over and squatted in front of his son to inspect his side. “You’re a fucking embarrassment to the Hawthorne line.” He straightened and addressed the general. “Patch him up. We’ll start again once his wounds heal.”
Dean hung his head. Hatred in his heart multiplied, and he wondered what he’d done to deserve this life. He was tired .
Later, as he gingerly laid down in his bed, Fawn’s laughter bloomed in his chest. Her warmth radiated through him. He closed his eyes and savored the sensation.
If not for her, he didn’t know if he could keep going.
A week later, Fawn stared miserably out the carriage window as it bumped along the gravel road of the Mountain Kingdom, trying not to drop the leftover piece of cake balancing on her lap.
She didn’t want to go to the cold mountains; she wanted to return home to the garden region of the Human Kingdom.
After discovering her magic, her parents decided to return to the fae lands where her father had grown up.
The human children at school feared her, and her father said fear made people dangerous.
She didn’t understand how she'd gone nearly a year with magic without realizing it. Her newfound magic was weak at best—almost non-existent by fae standards. She couldn’t glamour half as far as her father, nor was her body strong or fast. She had just enough magic to uproot all of their lives.
Fawn’s mind wandered to the life that awaited her. Her grandparents had once owned a produce stand but sold it years ago to buy a ranch. They now raised fae Shire horses—massive beasts standing at least twenty hands. Far larger than horses in the Human Kingdom.
Her grandparents’ house was big enough to hold two families comfortably, and Fawn and her parents would live there, helping them with the ranch. She hoped the ranch didn’t include mounting the horses. The thought of being atop such a towering, moving creature terrified her.
Something faint tickled her chest, as it had for months, like a whisper of foreign emotion. Her mother said the moodiness stemmed from her turning into a woman. Just something else to add to her growing list of grievances.
Something wet and slimy smacked the side of her face and slid down her cheek, making her jolt. A small piece of cake tumbled down her dress and onto the floor.
“There’s something on your face, squirt,” her father said casually, pointing at her cheek.
Fawn’s eyes dropped to the plate in his lap, where his piece of cake had a noticeable chunk missing.
“You should be more careful when you’re eating,” he continued, lifting his cake for an exaggerated bite.
Her mother let out a sound between a laugh and a snort, and he wiggled frosting -covered fingers at his wife. “Would you like some, dear?”
Fawn picked up her entire piece of cake and chucked it at her father’s chest. Not hard enough to explode everywhere, but enough to splatter across his torso. Her mother clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle her laughter, and her father looked down in shock.
Fawn braced, knowing what came next, and cursed herself for not keeping part of her cake for her arsenal. Her eyes slipped to her mother’s lap, lamenting the empty plate.
Her father’s eyes danced with mischief when they met hers, and she tried not to laugh at the frosting stuck in his mustache.
“You’re laughing at your old man?” he asked, his voice full of mock hurt.
Fawn nodded through her uncontrollable giggles and screeched when a piece of cake splattered against her in the forehead.
“John,” her mother said, trying to scold him.
“I was aiming for her mouth,” he fibbed, winking at Fawn, who tried to keep a straight face.
Anytime Fawn or her mother was sad, her father did what he could to turn their mood around.
Throwing food like a child in a small, enclosed space wasn’t ideal, but it had the intended effect.
Fawn’s chest warmed, grateful that no matter how awful life seemed, she always had her parents to lift her up.
She licked the frosting around her mouth and smiled, then scooped the cake from her forehead and flung it at her father.