The left side of my face throbbed, each pulse of my heartbeat sending fresh waves of searing pain through the wound. I could feel the wetness spreading, warm and sticky, running down my jaw and dripping onto my nightdress.Through my blurring vision, I saw my mother’s mouth open in a silent scream, her eyes locked on me, wide with horror and helplessness.
I tried to call out to her, but no sound came. The pain was everything now, consuming, overwhelming. I curled into myself, my small body trembling, my hands pressed uselessly against the wound that wouldn’t stop bleeding. The orange glow of the burning village swam in my vision, the heat of the flames mixing with the heat of my own blood.
Then the darkness came, merciful and complete, pulling me down into nothing as the last thing I registered was the wet, throbbing agony on my cheek and my mother’s anguished face fading into the shadows.
Chapter Four
Alaya
My eyes fly open, and I lurch up in bed, panting to try and even my breathing. My long curls are plastered with damp to my face, and I can feel the pink lace nightdress clinging to my skin. Yet I am as cold as ice.
By the soft light peeking through a small gap in the heavy curtains at the window, I guess it is early morning. I don’t hear the usual sounds of the castle waking: the clang of swords and shields from the Training Grounds and the deep lowing of the cattle coming in for milking. It must be barely past dawn.
I can’t stay in bed after that nightmare, so I scramble over the vast four-poster bed and swing my legs down to slip my feet into the soft white slippers I had discarded there the night before. I stretch, trying to banish the lingering memories and feelings from my body.
I walk slowly from the bedroom into my bathroom and splash some water to cool my face and fill a glass of water in the white porcelain sink. A toilet, a large claw-footed freestanding bathtub and a small white cabinet take up the rest of the small room, its walls yellow and the floor cold stone.
I go back, through my bedroom, and into a large lounge area decorated in pinks and whites, with a small table and chairs below the high tall window. A soft couch and cushions around a stone fireplace with a coffee table in the centre, and other various side tables and cabinets dotted about. I lean atthe window and look out over the castle grounds, a light fog still clinging low to the ground. The scene before me is almost mystical in its beauty in this light, and I lose myself in it, thinking of my parents.
Would they be proud of the Fae I’ve become?The question tears through me, sharp and merciless. Or would they weep to see what survival has carved from their daughter? Would we all be living here together—still bound beneath King Malaxor’s iron fist, yes—buttogether, our strength woven from shared blood and love?
The ache of it nearly breaks me. It’s been so long since I heard their voices, so long since I felt their arms around me—safe and whole andhome. Now they’re fading. Slipping away like smoke through my desperate fingers. Their faces blur at the edges of memory, their voices grow distant and distorted, and I’m terrified that one day I’ll reach for them and find nothing but empty air. I’m forgetting them. And that loss—that slow, inevitable erasure—is a grief that never stops aching.
After a while, I shake my head and pull away from the window. As I do, there is a light rap on the door, and a member of wait staff comes in with my breakfast tray.
“Good morning, my lady,” she says and bows deeply, everything on the tray rattling.
I really do wish they wouldn’t do that. I’m not royalty yet, and even when I am, I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the bowing and scraping of royal service. Early in my time here I was constantly admonished for speaking too freely and being too friendly with them, and I’ve found it easier over the years to just go with it.
“Thank you, just put it down on the coffee table, please.” I smile. She keeps her head down and scurries from the room as quickly as she can.
Just as I am about to sit down, there is another knock on the door. I wait, but no one enters, so I pad over to the door and open it.
Prince Kiernan is bracing himself on either side of the doorframe with both arms. He swings forwards and I get a whiff of the sweet, sickly smell of Fae Wine. I quickly scan his face; his fringe is stringy and damp, his hair extra messy, and there is a shadow of stubble below his grinning mouth.
“You’re drunk,” I state and attempt to shut the door in his face—but he sweeps into the room, pushing me out of the way. I close it with a sigh. When I turn, he’s already slouching on my sofa; legs wide, his arms spread behind him, lying across the back. He has a wicked, heavy-lidded look on his face.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest, feeling exposed in my flimsy nightdress. “What if someone saw you come into my room?”
“Well, Father thinks we’re fucking already, so I don’t think he’s going to mind so much. I came to let you know how my chat with him went last night.” He winks, reaching down to the tray on the coffee table and grabbing an apple, biting it with a crisp crunch.
“That’s my breakfast,” I say, exhaling a sharp, silent breath as I watch him help himself to the food that was brought for me. His jacket hangs open, the white shirt beneath unbuttoned and untucked from the black trousers below, showing off a strong chest with a light smattering of black hairs. I shake off a tiny unwanted ripple of heat rising to my cheeks at the sight. The whole ensemble looks ruffled and creased. “Have you even been to bed?” I inquire with disbelief.
“After I talked to Father about your disrespectful outburst—all sorted by the way, I’ll think of a way you can thank me later—” He leers at me, licking his lips as his eyes rove down my body, making me shiver with revulsion. “I went down to theGolden Horse for some drinks. I needed to wind down after that disastrous meal. You might not be quite so uptight if you let your hair down a little every now and then, Princess.”
“I don’t have the same luxury of doing as I please as you do. It’s easy for you; he will always find forgiveness for his only son and heir.” I scoff at him, my loathing for him creeping into my voice.
He slowly leans forwards from the sofa, every muscle coiled tight. His jaw clenches, a vein pulsing at his temple. His eyes narrow to slits of green ice, pupils constricted to pinpoints, fixed on me with cold, unblinking focus.
“Easy? You think living in the shadow of the most powerful Earthbound Fae in existence iseasy?” Gone are the cocky barbs, his voice now low and menacing. “Every breath I take is measured against his legacy. Every choice I make is weighed, judged, found wanting. You know nothing about the weight I carry.” He leans closer, eyes blazing. “This—this pathetic, forced marriage—between us? It makes you nothing more than another chain to a crown I don’t fucking want.” He tosses the half-eaten apple onto the tray with a crash, quickly rising from the sofa. I flinch as he stalks past me towards the door and pulls it open.
“And never take that tone with me again, Alaya. I am, after all, my father’s son.” The door slams behind him.
I stand frozen in place, my heart hammering against my ribs. The threat in his final words hangs in the air like smoke, and I realise my hands are trembling.
The irritation of his words hasn’t faded. It follows me across the stones of the outer courtyard hours later, fuelling my stride as I head for the Training Grounds.
I’ve always known since I came to live here, under the intense scrutiny of a powerful King who wanted me dead, and a Prince whom I was forced upon to marry—their hatred of me as visceral as my own—that my life would be a constant fight for survival. The strain of always watching my back, of carefully choosing my words so as not to offend or disrespect, knowing that in the blink of an eye I could be killed without a thought—it’s eroding me from the inside out. Every year, I feel pieces of who I am crumble away—my hopes, my voice, the parts of me that used to burn bright. I’m clinging to fragments now, and they’re slipping through my fingers no matter how desperately I try to hold on.
