I guess it’s better than being trapped in this room. Still, I nod and follow her through the twisting halls, out past the grand doors, and into the open. The gardens are greener and wilder than any field I’ve ever seen. There are trees with silver bark, and flowers that change color when you look away. And in the middleof it all is a long table set for five, covered in white linen and food so fancy I’m not sure which end to start at.
But the real spectacle is off to the right: a sand-lined practice yard, bordered by rows of hedges. And in that yard, four men with swords. The fae kings.
And they’re shirtless. All of them.
For a second I just stare, mouth open. In my world, men never take their shirts off in public. It’s rude, it’s shameful, it’s… it’s too much skin. Here, no one seems to care.
King Oberon and King Ashton are circling each other with swords, their bodies slick with sweat, chests heaving with effort. King Oberon’s chest is a broad slab of muscle, dusted with scars and a spattering of dark hair. King Ashton is longer, more whipcord than brawn, but the veins in his arms stand out like blue lightning. The men move with lethal precision, swords clacking, sand flying.
King Cassius and King Sylvian are at the far end, sparring quietly. King Sylvian is a brute. He’s taller than the others with a chest like a boulder, but he moves with a strange, slow grace, as though he’s always thinking two steps ahead. King Cassius is paler, but not delicate, his body a map of old cuts and calluses, lean but dangerous. They fight like they’re dancing, even as the swords slam together with bone-rattling force.
“Alette!” King Sylvian calls.
Four sets of eyes snap to me, and the energy shifts in a way I can’t understand.
King Ashton pauses in his fight with King Oberon to grin at me. “Good morning, beautiful!”
King Oberon kicks him in the stomach, and he goes flying.
Ashton lands heavily on the ground, but he jumps up off the dusty field without using his hands, which is impressive to watch. Now, the smile is gone from his face. “Alette, want to watch me kick King Oberon’s ass?”
“You’re all talk,” King Oberon growls.
They begin to circle each other again.
“Pathetic, aren’t they?” Sylvian jokes, then nods at Cassius. “We don’t need to fight like that. We both know I’m the superior warrior.”
King Cassius lifts a brow and strikes out, knocking King Sylvian’s sword from his grip. Instantly, Sylvian rolls across the ground, grabs his sword from where it landed, and points it at King Cassius once more. Neither of them look like they’re kidding around any longer.
The kings keep fighting, but not the way they were fighting when I first walked up. This is more intense. They’re fighting like they actually want to hurt each other, while also, somehow, constantly glancing back to look at me. I want to tell them that, yes, I’m watching. What else is there to do sitting at this table alone?
But why do they care if I’m watching?
I force myself to put some food on my plate and pick at it. Usually, I’m starving, but I don’t seem to have much of an appetite in the fae lands, even though all the food looks amazing.
What’s wrong with me?
As I force myself to eat, King Ashton catches my gaze and winks, then turns back to King Oberon and whips the sword at his face. King Oberon deflects, drops into a roll, and comes up behind King Ashton. The wind fae blocks just in time, but the force of it knocks both men sprawling in the sand.
“Very subtle,” King Cassius calls over, wiping sweat from his face. “Is this what passes for swordplay in the Fire Court?”
“Care to try your luck?” King Oberon barks, climbing to his feet.
“I’d rather not waste my time,” King Cassius says, but there’s a challenge in his eyes.
I can’t help but stare. These men, they’re nothing like the humans I’d see when I visited town. Their bodies are too perfect, their movements too smooth. Even when they’re covered in dirt and sweat, they are inhumanely flawless.
King Sylvian sheaths his sword and comes over, grabbing a pitcher of water from the table and downing it in three swallows. Then he sets it down with a thunk and drops into the chair beside me, his weight making the whole thing creak.
“Morning,” he says, all confidence and easy charm.
“Morning,” I echo, wishing I could sink into the ground and disappear.
“Did you sleep well?” he asks.
I shrug. “It’s strange sleeping in a place with so many windows.”
King Sylvian grins. “If you don’t like windows, you should try the guest quarters on the lower levels. Some are little more than burrows.”
