“Come now! It’s not often we are left alone to talk, Little Princess. I’m told you are quite the firecracker on the quiet. Ido enjoy a fighter,” the King muses, taking a slow, deliberate sip of Fae Wine, those fathomless dark eyes piercing me over the rim of his glass.
“I’m sure whatever you have heard was vastly exaggerated, Your Majesty. I am not well liked or rarely acknowledged within your Court,” I reply, trying to keep my tone even and tempered despite the panic building in my chest.
It’s true, I have avoided—and for the most part—succeeded in staying out of the King’s way during my time here. It helps that, despite being his ward and betrothed to his son, he has always seemed quite indifferent to my presence. Like I’m just a blurry background image to the main focus. I have carefully cultivated the illusion of the dutiful pawn while trying to hold on to that one sliver of my true self.
Though it’s also true that around Prince Kiernan, with his self-important arrogance and obvious disgust of me, that illusion blurs a little.
“They tell me you’re a creature of few words, and I suppose tonight is proof of that. A shame, really. I was hoping for a bit of a spark. Perhaps a flash of defiance, a sliver of hatred in those eyes of yours? Something to light a fire of interest.”
He looks almost bored, which doesn’t bother me as it should. The less interesting I am, the more I stay out of his line of fire.
As he looks away, out over his Court, with a self-satisfied tip to his lips, we are interrupted by various Nobles who approach the table and exchange a few fawning pleasantries with him. They all barely acknowledge my existence; some even brazenly sneer in my direction.
Alone again, King Malaxor lets out a low rumbling snicker and glances over to me, his brows lowered.
“Ah yes! She who was found unworthy by the Goddess herself. You know, you are quite unique despite their disgust with you, quite exquisite in your lack of any real power. Theybelieve they see your shame branded on your face, and they silently question my choice for their future Queen. Do you feel the same, my Desolate?”
Desolate.
The word lands like a stone in my gut. It’s what they call those of us born without magic in a kingdom where power is everything—where the Goddess herself marks the worthy with Gifts at birth and leaves the rest of us empty.
Hollow.
Less than.
I am Fae in blood and bone, but without the spark that makes me whole in their eyes. The reason my own kind shun me, forever a step behind, a ghost within a crowd. Despite their torment and malice, despite the all-consuming wrath I harbour for their part in changing my life irrevocably, despite the isolation that often consumes me—even the Royals’ darkest words are better than none at all.
There is an instantaneous, sharp jolt within me, a flash of heat and a tightening in my chest. My usual composure crumbles beneath the weight of my searing shame at his cruel words as my hand rises absentmindedly to the black, veiny scar over my eye.
“You speak the truth to hurt me, to remind me of my status as an outcast, yet ask me if I think I am worthy of your son and your Court? It wasyouthat brought me here; it wasyouthat made that damn Oath that binds us all to our misery. And it wasyouthat branded me like a possession for all to see.”
I’m shocked at my outburst, and another wave of panic crashes over me.
“Ah, there she is!” he roars, his fist coming down with a crack on the wooden table, cutlery and plates rattling. “There is the feisty woman I was promised. I do like this version muchbetter than all that obedience and meekness crap. So much like that bitch of a mother of yours.”
“W-what …” I stammer, my lower lip trembling violently for a fraction of a second, but then I clamp down my jaw with painful force, the muscles locking tight.
“She was always game for a good sparring, vicious yet sensual. I liked her before she met that weak arse father of yours. What a waste!” he continues with a slow, controlled curve to his mouth that reveals only the very tip of a canine tooth. The expression settles on his face, fixed and cruel, a silent proclamation that he was utterly unconcerned with the ensuing consequences.
I am losing control.
A white-hot fury, melting through my thick stone barriers. A tremor shudders from head to toe, my fists clenched so tight in my lap under the table I feel the painful dig of my nails into the palms.
I’m getting too hot, rivulets of moisture rolling down the bare skin at my back.
I need air.
I need to get away from him.
Through the hazy fog of heat, I suddenly feel a cold, strong hand on my shoulder, breaking my terror like shattering ice.
“Looks like an interesting conversation over here,” Prince Kiernan says, his other arm lying across the high back of my chair, looming above me.
“Experiencing your future wife’s riveting conversational skills for myself. A real eye-opener.” He raises one dark brow towards me and then looks back to his son. “Did you manage to smooth things over with the Court?”
“Yes, Father, everyone has calmed down, although I do believe the Fae Wine did a far better job at that than I did. Old Gafin Lark downed so much he invited the General’s wife to siton his lap and talk about what pops up first,” my chair jerking with his amusement as he laughs behind me.
“That is all well then. Though you both must make more effort to cultivate advantageous relationships and alliances with these Fae, your successful reign may one day depend on them. True rule and power rely on a loyal and compliant stage on which to stand.” King Malaxor folds himself up from the chair the way a feline might after a long afternoon basking in the sun. He motions for me to stand with a wave and clears his throat loudly enough to make everyone in the hall turn and go instantly silent. When King Malaxor needs your attention, it is given without hesitation.
