Progress, my ass.
Shaking my head, I read the letter, which states that Aidon and I are invited to celebrate the Trading Festival in the Palace’s Hanging Gardens.
Grateful for the distraction, I decide to spend the rest of the day searching for the perfect dress.
But who do I truly want to impress?
Chapter 8
In need of a life-changing experience? Is your life meaningless, dull, or downright depressing? All three and then some? Santorili has your back, front, limbs, and every other opening. Well, maybe not the eye sockets. Contrary to popular belief, most Fae are civilised.
I walk through the palace gardens, breathing in incense now and then, savouring the way it fogs my mind. Each sensory detail—smell, sound, and flicker of light—is designed with one purpose: to completely shut down the left side of the brain.
I am all on board. I hate thinking. Nothing excites me more than a reprieve from that gruesome activity. Nothing good comes from it when I am involved.
Large hula hoop earrings dangle from my repulsively rounded ears. I am both satisfied with and self-conscious of my newest purchase. My sister had a natural predisposition to fashion. I, on the other hand, tend to like strange monstrosities.
Once, I hoped to be influential enough to impose new trends. Now, all that’s left for me is to grow enough confidence to rock the strange looks.
I am not there yet. Maybe that’s why I almost finished a bottle while getting ready.
My eyes are painted dark, my hair loose with one side clipped, indigo locks tumbling over my shoulders, and I just love how I look, like a cheap whore in an expensive dress.
Screw being careful.
I am not in the Capital. Stuck-up nobles tend to stay away from Santorili. In this place, formal attire is guaranteed to get you gawked at. Also, I plan to lose it on the dancefloor anyway.
It’s more socially acceptable to screw a tree than to dress unfashionably.
There’s a general consensus among Fae that we can fuck and love whoever we want. Doesn’t matter if it’s one creature or twelve. Maybe except the ghouls, we don’t mingle with them. Everything else is fair game.
The rules are a bit less lenient with queens, but it’s not about decency or bigotry; it’s about the appropriate kind of mate. As long as the Queen’s fuck buddies don’t embarrass her publicly, no one cares what goes on in her bedroom.
My Grandma used to have two mates before one passed away, and she and Grandpa were too heartbroken to ever fill the void he left behind. They told me that once Gorok blesses a union, your heart won’t allow anyone else. Before the mating, there are choices — you can forsake the one architected for you — but if you choose to merge your souls, that’s it. A mating ceremony binds the participants, and no one else…
“I see you have finally accepted your fated profession?” Zulu decides to test my patience.
Fair warning. It’s exceptionally thin today.
I slow my steps and face her.
She looks as if a freaking Queen had a baby with a Goddess. Nothing to criticise. Just my luck to have enemies like that. Even the Fae strolling towards the garden can’t help but turn their heads, drawn to her presence.
I survey her again, from the porcelain shoes on her feet to the tiara on her head, desperately searching for something to insult.
I am partially aware that wine stripped me of my inhibitions, but I don’t want to be civil. She’s been pushing my buttons for ages.
Not today.
I can embrace being a monster for once. I don’t look good as a martyr or a victim, anyway.
“I am getting seriously bored with your spare complex,” I say.
She tilts her chin high. “You made sure to wipe out all your competition.”
Ouch.
That’s a problem with fighting back. It works both ways.
