He slams a fist into my shoulder, and I grunt darkly to know I hit close to home.
“Really,” he says, serious now, lowering his eyelids as he observes her. “She sees the good in even the vilest creatures. I could never abide that—if she started to see some good inme. Then our little game would be no fun at all.”
I slap him on his back. “Don’t worry, little risk of her finding much good in you any time soon.”
This earns me another punch.
Just then, trumpets blare to announce the start of the procession. The mirth vanishes from my face, and apprehension licks up my spine. I swing by the refreshment table to throw back my own steadying glass of wine.
“King Basten,” Kendan prompts. “They’re ready to begin.”
I choke back another glass for good measure, wincing at the sweetness, then draw myself up to my full height. Squires approach with my cloak, crown, and king’s sword, moving in an efficient dance as they dress me to play the part of the ruler.
When, let’s be real, everyone knows a mortal king is only a figurehead against a fae one.
Still, damn if I’m going to let that show on my face.
Gripping the king’s sword hilt, I stride over the burgundy rug to the front of the Immortal Box, where the announcer bows with his loudspeaker in hand.
The trumpets finish with a flourish, and after a long stretch of applause, the crowd falls silent.
The announcer puffs out his chest, raises his loudspeaker, and cries, “Citizens of Astagnon, those dwelling in Old Coros and arriving from towns far and wide, I present to you on this auspicious day, King Basten Valvere of Astagnon!”
I’m not entirely prepared for the roar that swells from the stadium. Even after all this time, I can’t get used to the fact that I—me, Basten the Bastard—deserve so much as a pauper’s devotion.
But as soon as those thoughts rise, they fall away.
Royal blood flows in my veins. Yeah, that’s never meant much to me, but more so, I have the love of the most powerful woman in the known world.
Andthat? That makes me feel like I could fucking fly.
I draw the king’s sword, thrusting it up toward Vale’s blue sky. “Astagnonians!” I cry. No loudspeaker. No heralds. Just the grit of my voice on the wind. “You welcomed me as your king. You welcomed my bride, Queen Sabine of Bremcote, not only as your queen, but as a symbol of unity between the mortal and immortal worlds. Today, I bid you welcome the Fae Court of Old, King Vale the Immortal, and his Immortal Brethren!”
Trumpets blare, drums beat their triumphant thunder, and the fae enter in a procession.
The first through the gilded arena arch are Samaur and Thracia. God of Day, Goddess of Night. They ride in twin chariots pulled by palomino steeds, hands clasped as they wave to the adoring crowds.
Next to me, Rian sidles up and murmurs, “Thracia’s been awake, what, three days? And already parade-ready?”
“Fae are born parade-ready,” I mutter back.
I have to admit, Thracia isn’t entirely what I expected. All the illustrations of her in the Book of the Immortals vary, based onthe particular edition, but most show her as a hardened woman with thick black braids.ThisThracia has the braids, yes—but she looks like she’s about sixteen years old. Her warm brown skin is spotless, not so much as a wrinkle, plump as a babe’s.
I’d almost feel a soft spot for her, a paternal protectiveness—if I didn’t see that four-thousand-year cunning in her eyes.
And Samaur? That grinning bastard looks like he’s won the fucking lottery, holding such a nubile beauty on his arm.
The trumpet blares again.
Immortal Irye and Immortal Woudix ride in next, on gilded chariots, though they don’t clasp hands. I have to silence a growl at the sight of the God of Death, who dared to prowl around Sabine without my knowledge.
Directly behind them comes Immortal Artain, riding on the back of a sleek bay stallion, shooting cotton-ball-tipped arrows into the crowd with gifts of rose petal pouches affixed to the ends. Women swoon, elbowing one another in the closest rows to catch one of his prize arrows.
I’m far enough from the crowd that I can safely roll my eyes.
In any other Return, Immortal Solene—Sabine—would be riding in a chariot right by his side, hands interlaced just like Samaur and Thracia, fated lovers time and time again.
Today, that motherfucker rides alone.
