I lift my dress above my shoes and march past Arax, my mood sour and my thoughts dark as I spit curses under my breath. Never have I regretted my gift of healing until now.
What fleeting madness made me forget that all Mordorin are cruel?
None deserve mercy or pity, for they would offer neither in return. I should have let Arax succumb to the Stormwyrm’s poison or perish on the edge of his kinsmen’s swords. If only I could take it back—I would do so in a heartbeat and be happier for it.
I storm into the torch lit hall and take in the long, empty passages either side of me. It all looks the same, dark and miserable, with an endless chorus of rain falling upon rock. Araxcloses the bedchamber doors and turns to me, then nods his head to the left.
“Follow me. This way.”
He walks ahead, and I reluctantly follow, conveying my anger in every one of my thundering steps. My anger masks the fear twisting in my belly like a barrel of slippery eels. I knew this moment would come. The conditions of the bargain between The Mordorin and The Tenders were very clear. A union forged in marriage between our people. I’m not sure how I imagined it would happen, but not once did I predict a midnight wedding dressed in a blood red gown as lightning tore apart the black sky above.
I can hear my heart pounding in my ears as Arax guides me deeper into the castle, away from the vast balconies and terraces that only those with wings can reach. We come to an abrupt stop in a massive, empty antechamber bathed in dim candlelight, the flickering flames casting dancing shadows along the intricately carved stone walls.
I recognize the banners and the two giant doors before us and remember the breathtaking stained glass window that lies behind them. My stomach twists at the thought of what lies beyond those doors—my wedding. The very idea sends a fresh wave of anxiety coursing through me.
Arax looks at me over his shoulder. “Are you ready?”
I tighten my fists at my sides. “Does it matter?”
Arax turns his face forward and pulls on his helm. His armor scrapes against the door handles when he grasps them, and when the doors open, the weight of my dread crashes down upon me like a landslide.
A sharp silence cuts through the thrum of voices as the room of hundreds takes me in with their gaze. The last time I was here, only the king and queen stood before me. Now, strangers gawk without the decency to hide their sneers—some in armor, somein crisp linens, and others in gowns as dark and suffocating as mine. Fae are so different from The Tenders: pale and splendid, more beautiful than any creature has a right to be. But there is not an ounce of warmth or joy among them.
They are just empty, lovely shells.
The crowd parts, creating a narrow aisle that stretches ominously between where I stand and the thrones at the opposite end of the room. The king and queen sit regally, their expressions unreadable, while before them stands a figure cloaked in black.
Even from this distance, his towering height and broad shoulders command attention, the casual clasp of his hands hinting at a confidence that borders on arrogance. As I take a step forward, the moonlight streaming through the window slices across his face, but the shadows cling to him like a veil, concealing his features from my view. A chill dances down my spine, an unsettling premonition creeping in—the knowledge that whatever lies behind those shadows will change me forever.
Arax steps aside, and without him to shield me, I am laid bare for the Mordorin court to ogle, and they do. I can barely breath beneath the weight of their stares and whispers slither through the heavy silence. It all feels like hands around my throat, starving me for air and the ground turns unsteady beneath me.
“Human weakling,” someone mutters from the assembly. “She is far too fragile to be a Mordorin bride. Look. She can barely stand. She is not worthy.”
I swallow hard as the words stab like daggers into my back. Here I stand, outnumbered by the remnants of a dwindled house, and they dare to call me weak and fragile? Unworthy?
Old gods be damned. I refuse to let anyone—man, monster, or faerie—cast judgment upon me.
I take a deep breath, pull back my shoulders, and fix my gaze down this forsaken aisle, focusing on the man in black who awaits me at the other end.
With each renewed step, my shoes clap rhythmically against the stone, echoing the tension that crackles in the air. The wicked prince of Baev’kalath grows closer. I hate him, I truly do, yet a part of me is curious about what he hides in the shadows. Surely, he must be beautiful—after all, all Fae are. But then I remember the malice that seeps from him, the ugliness that overshadows any beauty he might possess.
The Fae I witnessed him murder lingers in my mind, a reminder of the monster he truly is.
Before I know it, I have reached the end of the aisle and find myself under the gaze of King Kaelus and Queen Lanneth. The queen smiles, and the memory of her undressing me fills me with disgust, a wave of nausea rising in my stomach.
The prince stands silent beside me, towering above, my head barely reaching his shoulder. His thick, muscled arms strain against the seams of his black coat. Shadows conceal his face as he stares straight ahead, but between my stolen glances, I catch glimpses of his smooth, razor-sharp jawline framed by loose black waves that curtain his eyes. My gaze follows the hard contours of his rugged features, and when I finally find his mouth—a perfectly sculpted, sensuous bow—I momentarily forget where I am.
Queen Lanneth stands. “Forgive the suddenness of all this,” she says. “But this union is most urgent. For both our people.”
I am too preoccupied to speak, my eyes constantly darting back and forth at my silent groom who seems to refuse to acknowledge me.
An elder Fae with slicked-back silver hair and a wiry gray beard approaches, his ebony robes adorned with a large solitary eye stitched in shimmering silver thread. As the queen takes herseat upon the throne, the elder addresses the prince and me, his empty white eyes reflecting the queen’s unsettling gaze. I fight the urge to stare at those disconcerting eyes, but whenever I look away, that familiar ripple in the air pulls me back to him—just as it had enveloped the queen when we first met.
I don’t know what it is or what causes it to happen, but I know it’s something unnatural, something I’ve never seen before now. Frustrated, I shift my gaze to the prince, who stands like a statue, his indifference only fueling my anger. Why do I care if he acknowledges me?
The elder speaks. “Behold House Mordorin. Disciples of the Ebon Blade. High Fae of the Storm and the Sea. On this night, beneath the Pale Eye, our favored prince takes a bride.”
The court cheer and the armored warriors among them pound their fists once against their chests in unison.
