Chapter 6
The Mist Thief
On Natthaven,the shadow elven had grown to fear me.
Declarations of the power held by the adopted heir of the king were shoved down the throats of my own people so deep they could hardly speak to me.
I was feared, viewed as different and dangerous, but it was a trepidation in which I’d grown accustomed.
When the sloop docked on the dark shoreline of the isle the morning of the vows, I hadn’t realized how fiercely I’d missed the familiarity of my homeland.
I would only get to revel in it for one more night before being shipped away to a distant kingdom.
In the prince’s land, did rivers line stone cottages with quaint black moss and golden clay? Were houses made of dry wood and brittle foundations? Did roads weave through endless forests and meadows and swamps, or were lands flat and dull?
Scents of boiled red pheasant would not permeate the corridors of his palace with rosemary and savory juices.
The squalls on his shorelines would not taste of the sweet salt and spice from the far seas. Night market chimes and chatter would bereplaced with foreign words, ale, and strange, rounded ears of the patrons.
I closed my eyes, drawing in a sharp breath, once, twice, again and again until the ache in my lungs retreated beneath an unreadable expression.
Shouts from the sloop’s crew shook me from my thoughts. Two thick-armed men dropped an anchor. Ships and skiffs nearby did the same. Crewmen shuffled about, directing the small row boats to be lowered into the tides for the passengers to load.
Elven folk had returned to Natthaven with my grandfather, even Cara had gone ahead to prepare for the ceremony.
I was left to be surrounded by the strange, feral guards of alvers.
I had not seen the prince since our interaction after the alliance. Part of me wished to see him again, to read his eyes as though they might reveal his cruel intent. Another part of me was uneasy around the scrutiny of his people and would prefer if the prince escorted me himself.
I was a traitor to my own dignity for such a thought, but like the fear of me in my own lands, the cunning, annoying presence of the prince was becoming familiar.
“My elven.” Knee deep in the vibrant blue of Natthaven’s shores, one of the alver guards held out a hand. Tall and lithe with cropped dark hair. Older than me by turns, but there was still an innocence to his features.
“Your elven?”
“What should I say?” he asked. “I was told most royal folk prefer titles. Never was terribly skilled with them, I’m afraid.”
Not skilled with titles? “What do you call your prince then?”
His mouth quirked. “Depends which one we’re discussing here. Sander is normally pest, thinker, or little ass. Jonas, well, he’s always just little ass.”
I looked over my shoulder, half expecting some sort of horrid reprimand to fall down on the man for speaking so informally—sodisrespectful—about his royals.
Noone took notice.
I leaned closer, whispering, “What do you call your king and queen?”
“Mal, mostly for the queen. For Kase, he’s simply Kase, but if I want to especially irritate him, I’ll call him King.” The guard laughed. “What title should I be saying for you?”
Grandfather would be livid if I did not insist on something regal. “Skadi will do.”
“Simple enough.” He cleared his throat, straightened his shoulders toward the shore and wiggled his fingers. “Let us go, then, Skadi.”
I took his hand and hopped down into the tides. The guard kept hold on me while elven warriors and the sailors built a line to pass supplies from the boats to the shore.
“What title should I know you by?” I inspected his informal attire. Brutal, lined in knives, but like alver guards last night, he bore no emblems or formal uniform.
“Ash,” he said. “Just Ash.”
