We entered the throne room. Guards lined the walls. Nobles crowded the aisles, parting to form a path.
King Emyr sat rigid on his throne, wearing a golden crown with a large ruby at its center. He was cruelty personified, but beneath the enraged mask, he hid his fear. His knuckles were bone-white on the hilt of his broadsword.
“You dare show your face in my kingdom, bastard?” he spat as we approached, his voice dripping with venom.
Rowan gestured for me to stop. He proceeded alone, halting at the traditional challenge distance—seven paces from the throne.
Still, no guard moved to stop him.
My mate’s features were carved from ice and stone, his rage a static charge in the air, yet he held it in control.
“I challenge you for the throne you no longer deserve,” Rowan announced, his voice ringing with power. “Single combat. A royal fae’s right.”
“You have no rights!” the king sneered. “You are not of my blood! You are nothing but your whore mother’s bastard!”
Rage boiled in my veins. I ached to tear his throat out with my claws, but this was my mate’s fight, his right to claim.
“I have every right!” Rowan’s roar shook the windows, forcing nobles to shrink back. “Queen Eleanor, my mother, was a royal princess before she ever married you! That makes me royal, regardless of who sired me. You have always been cruel and petty, willing to let every warrior die just for a chance to kill me. I never wanted your throne. I am not power-hungry like you.But you killed my mother. So today, I invoke the ancient rite. I will take your crown, and you will die by a ‘bastard’s’ blade.”
Gasps rippled through the hall. To refuse a formal challenge from his heir, even a disowned one, was to abdicate. I had made sure to study their ancient laws before we came.
King Emyr’s face went as white as snow, searing with rage. He was trapped, snared by the very traditions he had used to wield his power.
Before the king could rise from his throne, I stepped forward, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with Rowan. My power flowed out, and the entire room seemed to shift on its axis. Every high fae and lesser fae shuddered as my creation power resonated in their bones.
“I endorse Prince Rowan, my true mate,” I declared, my voice clear and carrying. “For I outrank every royal and every power in the Kingdom of Fae.”
“You outrankme, bastard’s whore?” the king sneered, dragging the tip of his blade across the marble dais. I could see the violent fantasy playing out in his eyes—driving that blade through Rowan, then through me.
“Soon, you won’t have breath enough to disrespect my mate,” Rowan snarled.
I turned to address the fae court. “I am what fills your sacred groves. I am what your ancestors awaited.”
My creation power lashed out. The thread of a vine appeared in the center of the room, then burst into full bloom. Leaves unfurled, branches stretched, and roots cracked through stone. In seconds, a massive tree stood where there had been none, its branches heavy with fruits that pulsed with magical, healing energy.
“The Tree of Life!” a voice cried out.
And every soul in the room bowed to me.
“I stand with Prince Rowan, my mate,” I continued, letting each word fall like a judge’s hammer. “Chosen not for blood but for his worth. Stand with us, and the fae kingdom shall prosper again.”
The king’s face turned the color of old bone. “You…you can’t be. It’s a trick! An illusion. The Bride—the One— must be chosen through the Selection, and you are an imposter!” He thrust a trembling finger at my mate. “Just like that bastard!”
“An illusion?” I laughed coldly.
I threw my hand up like a conductor, and the air grew thick with the perfume of magic and the smell of growth. A thread of green erupted from within the king, sprouting from his mouth. Leaves surged beneath his skin, moss crawled over his face, and blossoms burst from his scalp in a grotesque crown.
He gagged, dropping to his knees. His sword clattered to the dais, and his hands were twisted into gnarled wood.
The court stirred in a wave of panic, courtiers scrambling back, trying to flee.
“Stay where you are!” Rowan’s voice boomed, freezing them in place. “My quarrel is with Emyr alone. He murdered Queen Eleanor, my mother. Do not raise a hand against my mate or me, and you will be spared.”
The court fell deathly quiet, every fae holding their breath.
Swords that had been half-drawn slid back into their sheaths. Even the king’s most loyal supporters wavered, caught between duty and the undeniable truth.
“I am the last drop of the old magic made flesh,” I declared boldly, my voice echoing in the stunned silence. “And my sister, Goddess Barbie, tried to sacrifice herself to the God of Ruin to buy this realm more time.” I let the scolding edge in my voice sharpen as I pointed a condemning finger at the king. “While my mate and his warriors bled on the front lines, you cowered behind your throne, sending assassins to kill Prince Rowan,a war hero and the worthiest prince this kingdom has ever known!” My gaze swept over the assembled fae, my question a lash. “When we were defending the very ground you stand on, where were you?”
