The docks are quiet when we step out of the carriage and onto the cobblestone street, slick with the heavy mist pouring in offthe sea and shining in the starlight. Willa stares out at the multitude of ships rocking gently in the harbor, while I turn my back to them as quickly as I can manage. I don’t need to look to know the shape of the proud masts carved into the skyline, sails long rotted away by the years of disuse, nor to know the sea-rusted bows of the quaint fishing boats anchored beside them.
The sight has been burned eternally into my mind for over two centuries, a floating monument to my hubris.
A light breeze skitters over the calm water and the sharp smell of brine, combined with the sound of the waves lapping against their hulls brings an acute wave of nausea barreling up my throat. In this, my death and I are in agreement—no good comes from looking at the sea. Not anymore.
The ribbons don’t fight as I pull them around my waist, and stomp toward the tavern without bothering to be sure Willa follows.
The Pixie’s Hollow is nothing special from the outside, similar to many of the salt-crusted establishments lining Caelum’s once-bustling harbor. A few, crooked stories tall, its paint chipped away by years of battering by the bitter ocean wind. Despite the apparent disrepair of most of the exterior, the Pixie’s door still shines a vibrant purple in the starlight, the delicately painted sign swinging softly above it meticulously polished. An innocent-looking faerie dressed in large swathes of green leaves and donning a flower crown that brings me a small measure of amusement every time I see it.
Every pixie I’ve ever met is far more likely to steal everything you have and leave you for dead than dance around a field of flowers, but Chrys, the owner of the establishment, has always used the stereotypes of frivolity to her advantage.
When I push through the door, no one bats an eye but Chrys herself, who raises a suspicious brow in greeting, her soft pink hair gleaming in the dim lantern light. It’s exactly this reasonI enjoy the Pixie—no one gives a shit I’m the king, nor that I could kill them with hardly a thought. Most of the patrons are so deep in their cups, they couldn’t care less who walks through the door, and the rest are so accustomed to my presence, it’s lost its novelty.
“Your Majesty,” Chrys greets, her voice high and delicate. Her clever gaze, the same shade of purple as the door to the Pixie, skims past me and narrows in suspicion.
Irritation chafes at the back of my neck as I hear Willa’s small exhale of shock. Turning, I see that she has indeed followed me inside, whether out of obedience or curiosity, I’m not entirely sure. Her eyes have gone round, transfixed on the small, sheer wings that flutter at Chrys’ back.
“Go upstairs and wait for me there,” I bark at Willa before she can ask one of the thousand questions brewing on her face. Or worse, bless us with one of her savage little quips and start a brawl. Pixies like Chrysanthemum appear deceivingly sweet, but they’re notoriously short-tempered, and vicious when provoked.
Willa opens her mouth to argue, but for once, my glare is enough to stifle her tongue. With an equally hateful glower right back, she crosses her arms and charges up the narrow staircase, her curtain of caramel hair swinging behind her.
“And do refrain from pilfering the cutlery, Darling,” I call after her. “I have a reputation to uphold.”
Willa halts for a few long seconds, her entire body vibrating with rage as her fingers graze the hilt of the sword at her hip. Something like disappointment threads through me as she masters herself, and stomps up the remaining stairs, disappearing from sight.
My death unravels from my wrists, and I exhale a relieved sigh as it settles sulkily in the air behind me. It still hurts—italwayshurts—but the pain is less when the ribbons aren't bound around my skin like a vise.
No one spares me a glance as I head to the bar, where Chrys already has a generous measure of rum waiting. I tip it back wordlessly, some of the tension in my muscles ebbing as the liquor pools in my belly. Chrys fills it up again with a cheeky grin, her lips pulled back just enough to reveal small, razor-sharp incisors.
“Rough morning, Niko?”
I consider a biting reply, but instead, tip the glass back once more. I need information, and pissing Chrys off isn’t the quickest way to get it. “Rough seas bring the calmest mornings,” I reply, something my mother used to tell me as a child. I don’t remember much of her, as time and distance have blurred even the features of her face, but for some reason, those words have always been stuck beneath my ribs. “Heard anything of interest lately?”
Chrys taps her long, pink fingernails on the bar top expectantly, and I roll my eyes. “You know the Pixie is always well compensated, my dearest Chrysanthemum.”
“Yeah, well, with the way things are going lately, I’m going to need double my usual price to get involved. The Strayed have ears everywhere, and I’ve no interest in bringing trouble to my establishment.”
I raise an eyebrow, doing a quick scan of the patrons in the room. “Hmm…it seems as if you've already invited trouble in through the front door.” I point to two figures in the corner—one woman missing an ear, the other, a boy hardly older than thirteen who’s short three fingers. “Are those not two escaped Strayed sitting over there? Their kin will burn down your tavern for allowing any of the poor souls lucky enough to escape inside.”
Chrys’ round cheeks flame the same color pink as her cotton-candy hair, evidence of that quick temper, and she glares at me indignantly. Before she can retort, I raise a hand in peace. “Relax, little pixie. You have always been a friend to me, andto Adira. I’ll compensate your loyalty however you wish.” I grin. “It’s just so much fun to piss you off.”
Her wings flap more furiously at her back, the soft whirring audible even over the din of the tavern. “Pissing everyone off is your one true talent, Niko,” she replies, but my compliment assuages her enough to return her cheeks to their usual shade.
She leans her elbows over the bar and tucks her chin on top of her hands. “The sirens have been singing all night that someone fell through the wards, and the winter wind has carried the melody all over the island. Is it true?” Her violet eyes flash to where Willa disappeared up the stairs. “Is that who came in with you?”
Dread curls low in my belly, mingling with the heat of the rum. Sam was right in assuming half the kingdom already knows of Willa’s arrival, if not the entirety. “And the Strayed?” I ask in a dangerously tight voice, ignoring her question. “Have they heard the rumors?”
Chrys’ wings flutter rapidly, a sign of agitation. And I understand it—there is no group more affected by the Strayed’s reign of terror than the pixies. Systematically captured, enslaved, tortured. Drained of every bit of their dust and exiled from their Hollows on the south side of the island, unable to produce any more. Forced to live in a refugee camp on the outskirts of Caelum, isolated from the source of their magic.
The blight plaguing Willa’s world has only made the pixies’ struggle more dire. Borne of a child’s laughter, nurtured by innocence and dreams, they’ve been living on the edge of extinction for more than a century.
“They’ve grown restless this past night, Niko,” Chrys squeaks with a shiver. “They’ve been spotted outside of the Hollows, traveling in larger groups. Just last night a tree nymph was attacked in the mountains with her bark peeled off and burned in a pile beside her body. Something has bolstered theirconfidence if they’re tempting your borders so flagrantly. And I’d be willing to bet it’s the possibility of findinghisheir.”
Anger spikes through me like a glowing dagger as I imagine that piece of shit Dawson, de facto leader of the Strayed, getting his hands on Willa. I may very well be a monster of the night, but the Strayed—they’re something entirely different. Spawned in the pits of depravity, raised in blood and chaos.
Fear shines on Chrys’ face, but her words are confident as she says, “I’ve already assured everyone you won’t let that happen.” She refills my glass and gives me a small smile. “We all know no one can defeat our king, not even the Strayed.”
Her confidence should bolster me, but all it does is send an icy dread careening through my veins. It’s true, I’ve kept the balance of the island for over two centuries, but with every passing day, it becomes harder—harder to work through the pain, to rememberwhyit’s worth it at all. I pluck the full glass into my hands, and rather than replying, down the contents in one gulp.
