Her eyebrows rise a little, her gaze shifting to Tyton and then back to me as she takes another half step towards the cell, walking as though she’s drawn by some secret melody.
“I’m the Heir Apparent to the Southern Lands, as I told you, but I've always known that Soren will take the throne someday. It's his birthright. My father only holds the kingdom in safety until Soren completes the Unseelie Court’s requirements. Look me in the eye and tell me that you’re not going to hurt Soren. I’ll believe you, even if the others won’t.”
My own eyes narrow at her. She's impossible to read, more difficult than any of the other princes or princesses who’ve ventured down here to speak to me. There’s admiration for the Savage Prince but loyalty to her father and the Unseelie Court, a joy even in the time of war, though she’s hesitant to speak to a witch. She ignores the maid in her employ even as she radiates love toward the female, and laughs with her guard despite the terror clawing at her perfectly blue eyes every time the male's gaze turns her way. She’s a walking embodiment of contradictions.
I make a guess, and her eyebrows tell me I’m right when I murmur in the old language, “My fate is to marry the prince and end the war. With your cousin on the throne, the lands will flourish once more. If you’re choosing sides, princess, make sure you’re on the right one.”
The princess turns on her heel and steps toward Tyton, flustered, but as she does, I offer her one last parting gift. One small piece of knowledge for speaking to me without any of the vitriol I’ve become accustomed to and for the olive branch she extended.
“You should strap your knee. Try to find some rosemary oil as well—it’ll be hard to come by with the healers gone and the land destroyed, but you might get lucky.”
Tyton scowls at me and crosses his arms, but Sari shifts a little to look back at me, her eyes wide.
I gesture at her leg. “Your injury. Whatever happened, rosemary oil will help speed the healing, and strapping it will ensure it will stay strong if you're not able to rest it.”
Tyton scowls at her. “What happened? You didn't say that you were injured; what the hell are you doing coming down all those stairs if you’re hurt!”
A blush creeps over her cheekbones, and she ruffles her skirt, her voice sharp as she snaps, “I’m not injured. She's lying.”
She leaves without another word, the limp I noticed in her gait more pronounced in her anger, so much so that Tyton sees it as well. He can't chase after her and question her further without leaving me, and his orders to guard me trump all.
When the door at the top of the staircase slams shut, I lean down to slip the nightmarish shoes back on, grimacing at the firm bindings of the laces. I’d prefer to leave them off forever, but I'm sure the consequences of this conversation will result in me being dragged out once more. I'd rather not be caught unaware and barefoot around the Unseelie Court, not when they're so desperate to find my weaknesses and destroy me with them.
Falling asleep with the pain in my feet is difficult, but I manage it, my back pressed against the stone, and my magic carelessly leaking out everywhere.
* * *
When I slowly come back to consciousness, down in the cells of Yregar Castle, I feel a deep, foreboding sense of doom.
At first, I brush it off as nothing more than a delayed reaction to the stories I’d been told last night while being forced to kneel and endure by my Fates-cursed mate. My dreams are usually filled with the sickening nightmare of the Ureen and the horrors of the war I lived through. But last night, I dreamt of witches lost in the madness of Kharl’s war. I saw black markings, manic eyes, and vicious desperation in their limbs as they attacked the vulnerable.
Not all witches were like the Ravenswyrd Coven. There were plenty of covens that sold their skills to the highest bidder, and whose morality was far from my family’s and my own, but all of them cared for the land. All of them wore white markings, and they cared for the earth and the Fates that wove our lives together the way we were created from the land to do.
The blackening of their marks is the result of turning away from our purpose. A grave warning that was drummed into me as I grew up in the forest, the consequences of defying the way of the witches and the purpose of our kind within the kingdom. I thought it was nothing more than a cautionary tale told to scare children until I learned better from the witches of the Sol Army. The blackening of those ancient and once holy symbols shows the unnatural state of the witch and the power within them, the corruption of their magic into something horrifying.
All night, my mind was filled with them.
Letting my head fall back against the stone, I clear my mind once more. Chasing the dreams away doesn’t shift the feeling of doom—if anything, it grows stronger. My skin crawls with it, my magic rejecting the feel of the curse as it hangs low in the air.
I open my eyes and find Prince Tauron standing guard over me, silent and scowling at the stairs as though this is the most boring place he could possibly have found himself in. His loyalty to his cousin and the crown is commendable, even if his attitude and opinions are deplorable.
“I need to speak to the Savage Prince.”
His head snaps in my direction, his shock at my words so evident that he doesn't have a chance to keep the surprise from his face. “What makes you think you can demand anything of me or him?”
I stand up slowly, attempting to wiggle my toes in the cursed shoes, but they pinch too tightly. “It’s important, I need to speak with him now.”
Tauron straightens and stalks toward the iron bars, stopping just before his feet touch them, and he stares at me as though I'm the most grotesque creature he's ever laid eyes on.
“So, Airlie gave you a bath, and suddenly you think you're allowed to make demands down here? I don't do your bidding. The only reason I'm speaking to you now is because I enjoy nothing more than putting a worthless, stinking witch in her place.”
I stare him down, my gaze unrelenting, though unlike the other high fae, he stares back at me without dropping his eyes, hatred and loathing rolling off him in waves.
Whatever my kind has done to him, it was personal.
“The Savage Prince—“
He cuts me off, “Why would I bring you what you ask for when you’re addressing yourFates-blessed mateby that name? As far as the treatment of witches, he has been good to you. He hasn't let any of the soldiers down here torture you. You've been fed, given fresh water and a bath. If anything, this has been a little holiday for you, and yet you still speak of him with such disrespect? No, I think you can sit down here and rot. We'll leave Soren to his work of undoing the damage you’ve done to this kingdom.”
