“Centuries,centuries!Ryc has waited centuries to find his bride.” The grin on the Sovereign King of Sol’s face is nothing short of impish.
Rowen, Darin, Eve, Lilith—all seated at the table do the same, sans spilled wine, as Fenryn launches himself into a soused soliloquy.
Fenryn… is drunk.
And a sloppy one at that.
A small, wicked smile curls my lips as I listen to the fae yodel high praise of his closest friend. The flush across his cheeks is redder than any rouge in Oraphia’s kit. Yet his ocean blue eyes gleam with warmth.
At least he’s a jolly drunk.
Staring at my own glass upon the table, I turn the stem between my fingers. The deep red appears motionless as the glass spins slowly. As Ryc and the others laugh, my smile remains, but I lose myself in the color of the wine—I’m reminded of the hells.
Of Netharis.
Of everything I’ve ever endured to sit here.
Amongfriends.
People I can trust.
The table erupts with laughter, resulting in Ryc laughing a sigh as he rubs his brow.
Today… has been a whirlwind of a day.
I don’t know how Ryc does it.
I’ve met more Erusian lords and ladies than I can count, listened to thousands more blessings and well-wishes, and danced with Ryc under lingering stares. Somehow, through it all, he’s remained warmth and grace. A stark contrast to the version of himself he presents before the High Council.
Throughout the day, he’s been all smiles and laughter, and stolen glances across the room—though he’s never wandered far for long. I wasn’t left to fend for myself during the onslaught of introductions or ignored in favor of different company.
No.
Again, he’s made me his priority.
Not once was I made to feel like a trophy—athingon display.
Fenryn lowers his empty glass to the table with unintentional force, causing the silverware on his emptied plate to rattle. Another unnoticed mishap, as evidenced by the lopsided grin on his face, and I laugh.
“Your next coronation…” Fenryn says slowly, the trailing pause growing oddly long. “Won’t be as fun as this one.” The words tumble out of him in a slur.
I stare at the fae king, my brows creasing as I grimace.
He lifts his empty glass to his lips, giving it a frown as he realizes but a few drops of wine remain. “The High Council—they… they’ll be there. Tha’s never fun.”
I swear the fae istryingto speak in cursive.
Rowen laughs, a deep joyous sound. It’s an unexpected sound coming from him. I’ve never heard him genuinely laugh.
“Maybe it’ll inspire a few kings to undo a collar button,” he replies, his grasp on spoken word much stronger than Fenryn’s.
“Or two,” Fenryn quips, slinging a hand out, reaching for Rowen’s collar.
Rowen, laughing, smacks his hand away. “You don’t strike me as the type to want to see an old fae undress, Fenryn.”
Fenryn’s smile grows bright enough to challenge the sun, highlighting the rosiness of his cheeks.
“Who needs clothes?” Fenryn roars the question, throwing his hands up and both Rowen and Ryc pull away, avoiding the swinging arms—thankful the glass still in his hand is empty. “O-overrated.”
