I had no problem putting my brother’s skull on display, as is customary in the Winter Court, but not Elssandra’s. I simply couldn’t bear it. Because to publicly display her skull… it would be an admission that she betrayed me.
Thankfully, few fae know the full truth. Only Commander Ashvale and several of his most trusted soldiers, faefolk who vowed never to speak of what happened. I also suspect Alaric, my only remaining brother, is aware of the tragedy, though he wisely keeps his mouth shut.
And so, most fae of the Winter Court believe Elssandra was slain by a mangga swarm, which, given the exact circumstances of her death, isn’t an outright lie. An encounter with such creatures isn’t usually fatal for a highborn fae, but Elssandra wasn’t highborn, making the story believable enough. And tragic enough. We were mated for less than a year before her betrayal. Such a brief moment in time when my people typically live for thousands of years, and yet it has defined me. Her betrayal haunts me still.
Darkness gathers in my psyche. My palms tingle with winter magic, a swirl of violence I’m eager to release. Just because I can, I hold my hands out, sending another brutal gust of winddownward to batter Braemar. It’s enough to tear the roofs off several of the older buildings. The snow falls harder.
I am King Theron Frostborne of the Winter Court, I remind myself. The rightful king, regardless of what Elssandra and her accomplices once believed. In the history of the Winter Court, no fae has ever commanded winter magic as I do. No fae has managed to buryentire citiesin snow and ice. Other fae courts would rather retreat than meet the Winter Court army in battle.
Because ofme.
Because they fear my power and wrath.
I surrender to the magic coursing through me.Soon. I’ll order the attack on Braemar very soon.
The collective bloodlust of my army fills me, and I bask in it. Briefly closing my eyes, I let it pervade my senses, allowing it to combine with my own bloodlust.
The result is pure, raw winter power.
Nature and madness.
I am every winter storm that has ever formed in the skies.
When I open my eyes, the snow isn’t falling as hard as it was earlier. But that’s by design. I want the human soldiers to see us coming. I want them to experience that terrible moment of bone-chilling fear. I want them to see death coming to claim them.
“Now!” I raise my fist, and a fae battle horn blows.
Growls reverberate through the sky, as the highborn fae are ravenous to spill the blood of humans, and we take off. We fly toward Braemar at full speed.
On the battlements, most of the human soldiers halt in their tracks and stare foolishly upward, as though they can’t quite believe it’s finally happening.
The human archers scramble to take aim. But the second they release arrows at the regular faefolk in my army, I give a slight nod, and a brutal winter wind sweeps the arrows offcourse. Not a single arrow hits the foot soldiers below. I fly faster, sending another brutal gust of wind at the battlements. Some archers drop their bows. Others flatten themselves against the walkway, trying to avoid being blown off the wall.
The highborn fae reach the city first.
It’s glorious, all this death. Justice in its most beautiful form.
If the soldiers of Braemar hadn’t attacked my people, we wouldn’t be attacking this city. But they killed over twenty faefolk in a large, extended family. For that, they will die. Every last soldier. Many of their family members will suffer as well. The entire city will know pain and grief.
I swoop down and grab a soldier by his ankle, then I soar into the clouds, only to drop him a few seconds later. He lands with a splat on the battlements. I savor the sight of his smashed skull and the spray of blood.
I land just inside the gates, vanish my wings, and withdraw my sword. Human soldiers rush in, and I easily cut them down. A dozen. Then a dozen more. Eventually, I lose count.
Another highborn fae male lands beside me and vanishes his wings in a flash of light. I glance over at the familiar form of my younger brother, my only surviving sibling, and suppress a growl.
Alaric. Fucking Alaric.
He always tries to find me during battle. He thinks if I witness his fighting methods, I’ll elevate him to the rank of commander. He’s a decent fighter, but he lacks discipline, and the regular faefolk don’t respect him. If I were to appoint him to the position of commander and give him a contingent of his own, he would likely flounder and make me look like a fool in the process.
“My king.” He gives me an exaggerated nod. Then he swings a sword at the nearest human soldier, cutting the man’s head clean off.
“Brother,” I say, trying to hold back my exasperation for my younger sibling.
We fight side-by-side for a while, and he kills nearly as many human males as I do; I’ll give him that, but skill in battle doesn’t necessarily equate to an aptitude for leadership. He lacks the patience and wisdom required to lead a contingent of faefolk. Given his hotheadedness and impulsivity, I doubt he’ll ever be ready. Of course, I’ve shared my thoughts on the matter with him many times, but he still tends to find me during battle so he can be…performative.
Well, at least he’s killing humans. Dozens of them.
When there are no more soldiers left on the ground near the gates, we both summon wings and launch into the sky. As I swoop down to grab more soldiers I might drop from above the clouds, I eventually lose sight of Alaric.
