The longer I tend to my horse, the further my thoughts stray. Maybe the Fates don't intend for me to break the curse; maybe the next Celestial in line to take the throne is supposed to be part-blood.
The time of the high fae is over.
The words were spat at me by a witch years ago, a snarling and raving creature of madness we dragged down to the dungeon in an effort to uncover my uncle’s true motivations, but they take on new life now. The prejudices of the Unseelie Court will be a nightmare to navigate but, if the curse holds and no high-fae children are born in our kingdom ever again, Airlie and Roan will never have the child they long for. None of the royal families already married by the Fates will continue their bloodlines, the fabric of our society will be inevitably torn, and who knows what will come of it.
“You’d think the boy would be happy you’ve groomed him—your horse keeps kicking the poor lad, and without a healer, he's been forced to endure the bruises healing the slow way,” Stablemaster Ingor says, interrupting my somber thoughts. I smirk, watching as he grumbles at the boys under his command and sends them off to their duties.
The stablemaster is older and wiser than most, and I've watched him give lip to every prince and princess who ever stabled a horse here, confident in his ability to get out of trouble should he ever find himself in it. He’s the best at what he does and loyal to his core, barely able to mask his contempt for my uncle whenever the regent comes to Yregar. Ignor will always have a place in my household, no matter which royal family he makes an enemy of.
The village is always lively and loud, but as I work my way there on foot, I hear conflict ahead, and my pace quickens. It’s not a friendly place for high-fae princes and princesses, and there’s no one to blame for that but ourselves. Yregar was once a small, seasonal castle that the high fae moved in and out of at their whim. The village was once quiet and unassuming but, thanks to the war, it’s overflowing with refugees, and my soldiers' presence is constant to mitigate any altercations centered around food.
I round the corner of one of the new sharehouses to the small square in front of the temple and find the crates the maids were carrying smashed to pieces on the cobblestones, dozens of bodies scrambling desperately to collect the spilled bread and soldiers barking orders as they wade into the fray.
Two steps forward, and I’m pulling people out of the crowd, shoving them behind me as I snap, “Get back to your homes and lock the doors!”
As I grab and move more of the onlooking crowd, more people notice my arrival. Some take one look at me and flee, but others hesitate, even in their fear of my presence. It takes me a second to realize they have no homes to return to, my command an impossible task for them to follow. I’m forced to change tactics.
I raise my voice, calling out to get more of them moving. “Return to your lodgings if you have them. If you’re waiting on a bed, then step back now! Do not join the fight—we’ll feed you without this madness.”
I can’t see the maids, females under my employ and protection, and if any harm has come to them there’ll be grave consequences. Desperation is understandable, excusable even, but not at the expense of good, hard-working women who were sent here with aid.
There’s wailing at my feet, and I look down at a small, filthy child huddled over a scrap of bread. There’s a flash of movement at my side, and I step over the boy instinctively, my shoulder bearing the brunt of two grappling males as they fling themselves at each other without regard for who they might crush. They bounce off me and spill to the ground, shouting curses at me only to realize who it is they’re calling the son of a pixie-whore.
The boy glances up, his eyes red with tears but his body safely sheltered beneath my stance, and a hush falls over the crowd. I shuffle backwards, far enough to scoop him into my arms, his bones digging into my hands and the weight of him barely registering as he tucks into my shoulder. He can’t be more than two or three, starvation skewing my guess, and he’s already wading into conflicts for the chance of a meal.
Soldiers step through the mess on the cobblestones to grab the two men, heaving them to their feet and yanking them toward me. Both bow deeply to me, blood running down their faces and spattered over their clothes. Terror thickens the air around us, the acrid stink of it clinging to me, and I have to focus to unclench my teeth, my jaw aching.
Alwyn, one of the soldiers, meets my gaze with grave eyes. “Your command, Your Highness?”
His words are firm and low, but they ricochet around the now-silent temple square. When I shift the boy in my arms around, I find him chewing on the bread, the layer of dirt it’s covered in disregarded entirely as he consumes his prize in three bites. There’s envy in the eyes of the villagers around us, none of them bothering to conceal it, and I turn back to Alwyn.
“Where are the maids? Are they injured?”
The solider shakes his head. “They’re in the temple. We moved them soon after the fight broke out.”
I nod and look around once more, but no one is looking at the boy with concern or familiarity. There’s no sign of parents or relatives that I can see. “Escort the males to the gate to cool down. If no one else was seriously injured, they’ll be let go with a warning.”
Alwyn’s brows inch up before he catches himself, nodding and moving at my command.
Still carrying the boy, I move past them and let the maids out of the temple, the crowd still watching. There’s nowhere for them to go, nothing else they should be doing right now but waiting for food and hoping they’ll get enough for their families.
I hand off the boy to Tyra to sort out and, once I’ve seen her and the other maids on their way back to the castle with a soldier escort, I address the crowd again. “There will be provisions for every person at Yregar, provided here at the temple each day. There’s no need for fighting or stealing. We’re handing out what we can, and you’ll each get something. We’ll have more provisions soon, but we’re all going to have to make do with smaller rations until then. Any further fighting will result in far greater consequences. Now go, and come back tomorrow for food,withoutthe fighting.”
The crowd eases away, some moving back to their homes and others huddling against the buildings they're sleeping against for the time being. Irritation scratches along my shoulders. This is the best I can do for now. Hollow offerings, especially when I’m still not sure how we’re going to make it through the winter, but I’ll figure something out. I have no choice.
As I continue to the outer wall, the few remaining villagers flinch and bow so as not to draw my attention or ire. Hundreds of years ago, even the whisper of my temper wouldn't have changed the villagers' perception of me, but with all of the refugees and survivors who now live here as well, even after providing them food and assistance for decades, they fear me.
My uncle's sabotage is working.
The orphanage at the edge of town is overflowing, and the fight was far enough away that the children are playing outside without interruption. When she sees me coming, the female who lives there and cares for them shoos them out of the front yard and back into the building. I have no intention of stopping in or bothering any of them, and her action frustrates me further, the black cloud hanging over my head growing heavier.
To be given the opportunity to have children and to leave them behind is incomprehensible to me.
Many of them are the bastard children of high-fae nobles and have been left here as an embarrassing secret, which seems an even more shameful act. The obsession with fated bloodlines is ridiculous and harmful to our people and our kingdom. It’s behavior that the regent supports, and something I intend on stamping out when I take the throne.
IfI take the throne.
I curse viciously under my breath, startling a female carrying a large basket under her arm who then flees from me as though I’m a monster, blood dripping from my teeth as I eye her neck. I’m too preoccupied to worry about it.
