Chapter Two
Alaya
As the huge doors are pushed inward by two blank-faced members of the Royal Household, the ancient wood groans in protest. I feel Prince Kiernan’s arm tense beneath my hand as the atmosphere within the Great Hall assaults us.
The space is cavernous, easily large enough to accommodate hundreds of Fae, though no more than fifty are here tonight.
The ceiling soars high above, supported by stone pillars that disappear into the shadows, and golden chandeliers sway slightly, their Faelight casting a warm ethereal glow across the vast room.
Below, a long, rough-hewn table draped with a black-and-golden runner stretches towards a raised platform where a smaller table dominates the space.
Golden plates and cutlery are lined with precision at each setting, and tall glittering vases of golden roses line the centre.
The air is thick with the rich scent of roasted meat, fresh-baked bread, and the sweet tang of Fae Wine.
The conversations are low-pitched and hushed, almost whispers, lacking the expected vibrancy.
Those in attendance are higher members of the Thorn Court, the King’s most trusted and powerful Fae Nobility, joined by their wives and husbands.
A noble laughs too loudly at something, then cuts himself off abruptly.
Something catches my eye in the shadowy corners not touched by Faelight and I realise with a jolt why the atmosphere seems so thick and cloying.
In every corner shrouded in gloom stands the silent and imposing form of a Thorn Guard—the King’s elite army—their hulking frames impossibly still and blank stares making them look like statues.
I look up at Prince Kiernan’s face—his jaw is clenched so tight his cheek twitches, green eyes boring intently ahead.
He’s seen them too. They are not the typical guests at a mundane evening meal.
I involuntarily squeeze his arm where my hand rests, and he dips his gaze.
His hand comes up to touch mine, gentle and protective.
I watch as his features rearrange themselves as if transformed, his usual indifference and arrogant confidence slipping into place.
He slips my hand from his arm and drops his hand down to the base of my back, sending a flutter of tingles up my spine where his fingers catch my bare skin.
He pushes me to step into the hall at his side, and we make our way towards the raised platform at the end.
The crowd turns and parts, murmuring greetings to the Prince as we pass, though I am wholly ignored.
He throws out a quick smile or a curt nod, but he is determinedly focused on getting us where we are going as quickly as possible.
As we reach and step up onto the raised platform, King Malaxor fixes us with his steely gaze, his brow furrowed, eyes narrowed and piercing, his lips pressed together in a thin, tight line.
“You are late,” he seethes.
Prince Kiernan pulls out my chair and motions me to sit.
As I try to manoeuvre myself in the tight-fitting dress, an irritated hiss sounds at my ear.
The chair squeaks against the stone floor and rams against the back of my legs, making me sit abruptly.
I nearly tip off the side before righting myself as he pulls out the chair between mine and King Malaxor’s and seats himself.
King Malaxor sits to my right, his presence suffocating even in silence.
His mid-length, straight black hair frames his face and flows over his shoulders; his features are pale, sharp, and severe, contributing to a cruel and cold expression.
His eyes are an intense dark brown, almost black.
A striking black crown of thorns, with long, sharp spikes that rise menacingly from the circlet, sits rigidly upon his head.
The power that radiates from him at this distance chokes the air like a thick fog.
The King motions to the gathered Fae with a lazy flick of his hand towards the main table, and the Great Hall fills with the sound of wood scraping against stone, the rustling of fabric, the clinking of cutlery and glasses and a soft murmur of conversation as they sit and start their meals.
“What are the Thorn Guards doing in the Great Hall?” Prince Kiernan asks his father as he grabs a golden-rimmed glass goblet of sweet Fae Wine and takes a long gulp.
The wait staff start dishing up food onto our plates: steaming vegetables, beans in a thick sauce and thin slivers of meat.
Meat sources are now a rarity in Kaladia, so although the portions are small, even as part of the Thorn Court, it is a rare treat.
“I will discuss their necessity here at a later time.” King Malaxor dismisses him with a quick, sharp glance in my direction before turning back to his son.
“As the future King and Queen, being late, you both undermine my authority in front of the highest Nobles of the Court for what? A quick fuck in the halls like dogs in heat, no doubt? They see their heir who does not respect their time or their fealty. You were due here ten minutes ago and kept your King and your Court waiting. That is ten minutes of doubt you’ve sown in their minds.
Fix it, Kiernan. And do not let it happen again. ”
We eat in silence; only the high rasp of cutlery against plates and the low background chatter of the Court enjoying their meals break the tension.
Prince Kiernan glowers down at his food as he shovels it to his mouth, his hands trembling.
Heat rises to my cheeks at the King’s embarrassing and wildly inaccurate comment, then it simmers down into my belly as resentment, leaving an acidic taste in my throat.
Despite my earlier hunger, the food feels like ash in my mouth, and I eat very little.
When Prince Kiernan finishes, he rises, adjusts and smooths his jacket, and swaggers down towards the main table where people have started breaking off into groups for intense chats, his charming smile plastered to his face.
He approaches Drayden Fipps, a very powerful Growth Fae who manages the farming operations, accompanied by his tall and willowy pink-haired wife.
They shake hands, and he leans in to kiss the wife’s cheek, the Prince no doubt using his considerable charm to ease the tension.
I’m so caught up watching him—my jaw tight, my fingers gripping the stem of my goblet until my knuckles pale—that when the King speaks to me, I almost leap out of my seat and my heart races.
“You’re quite beautiful tonight, Alaya,” he drawls, eyes fixed on my cleavage.
His scrutiny sends shivers throughout my body, his words like shards of ice to my skin.
I am a fortress. I will not fall.
I shoot him the most demure and respectful smile I can muster.
“Thank you, Your Majesty,” I reply sweetly, the smile barely tipping the corners of my mouth.
“Come now! It’s not often we are left alone to talk, Little Princess. I’m told you are quite the firecracker on the quiet. I do enjoy a fighter,” the King muses, taking a slow, deliberate sip of Fae Wine, those fathomless dark eyes piercing me over the rim of his glass.
“I’m sure whatever you have heard was vastly exaggerated, Your Majesty. I am not well liked or rarely acknowledged within your Court,” I reply, trying to keep my tone even and tempered despite the panic building in my chest.
It’s true, I have avoided—and for the most part—succeeded in staying out of the King’s way during my time here.
It helps that, despite being his ward and betrothed to his son, he has always seemed quite indifferent to my presence.
Like I’m just a blurry background image to the main focus.
I have carefully cultivated the illusion of the dutiful pawn while trying to hold on to that one sliver of my true self.
Though it’s also true that around Prince Kiernan, with his self-important arrogance and obvious disgust of me, that illusion blurs a little.
“They tell me you’re a creature of few words, and I suppose tonight is proof of that. A shame, really. I was hoping for a bit of a spark. Perhaps a flash of defiance, a sliver of hatred in those eyes of yours? Something to light a fire of interest.”
He looks almost bored, which doesn’t bother me as it should. The less interesting I am, the more I stay out of his line of fire.
As he looks away, out over his Court, with a self-satisfied tip to his lips, we are interrupted by various Nobles who approach the table and exchange a few fawning pleasantries with him. They all barely acknowledge my existence; some even brazenly sneer in my direction.
Alone again, King Malaxor lets out a low rumbling snicker and glances over to me, his brows lowered.
“Ah yes! She who was found unworthy by the Goddess herself. You know, you are quite unique despite their disgust with you, quite exquisite in your lack of any real power. They believe they see your shame branded on your face, and they silently question my choice for their future Queen. Do you feel the same, my Desolate?”
Desolate.
The word lands like a stone in my gut. It’s what they call those of us born without magic in a kingdom where power is everything—where the Goddess herself marks the worthy with Gifts at birth and leaves the rest of us empty.
Hollow.
Less than.
I am Fae in blood and bone, but without the spark that makes me whole in their eyes.
The reason my own kind shun me, forever a step behind, a ghost within a crowd.
Despite their torment and malice, despite the all-consuming wrath I harbour for their part in changing my life irrevocably, despite the isolation that often consumes me—even the Royals’ darkest words are better than none at all.
There is an instantaneous, sharp jolt within me, a flash of heat and a tightening in my chest. My usual composure crumbles beneath the weight of my searing shame at his cruel words as my hand rises absentmindedly to the black, veiny scar over my eye.