Then I seeit.
A white flag, flapping in the winter wind. It’s being held up by a trembling human soldier. He waves it back and forth. Tears stream down his face. His fallen comrades litter the battlements and the ground below. Another soldier wearing a decorative uniform stands nearby, and I surmise this man must be the human commander who leads the poorly-trained army of Braemar.
I soar downward, intending to take the commander captive, though fully intending to kill him later, after a suitable period of suffering, only to watch him step off the battlements and plunge to his death. A few other soldiers do the same, but the soldier waving the white flag doesn’t take his own life. He remains at his post. As a reward for his bravery, I’ll make his death quick and painless.
A familiar horn reverberates through the skies. A victory horn, afaevictory horn to be precise, signaling the end of the battle.
The end of the battle.
And the beginning of the occupation.
CHAPTER 3
One week later…
HELENA
Keeping my head down,I traverse the streets of Braemar, delivering missives and small packages. Each time I glimpse a group of fae soldiers from my peripheral vision, I have to force myself to remain calm. More than once, I’ve witnessed the fae commit atrocious acts of violence in the streets. I fear that one day it’ll be my turn. I’ll catch the notice of the wrong fae, and then my life will be over.
I wish I didn’t have to keep delivering letters, but I need the money. My pay has decreased significantly since the Winter Court army conquered Braemar, but I must keep working until I can find something that pays more. Thousands of people died during the attack, so naturally there are fewer people around to send letters, but people are also trying to save money. Life has become scary and uncertain.
The fae are occupying Braemar, and if the stories told by the traveling merchants are true, part of the Winter Court army will remain here indefinitely. I shiver at the thought.
When I try to deliver the next letter from my postbag, no one answers. I knock a few times and wait, but I don’t hear movement in the house. A peek through a window shows a half-completed quilt resting on a sofa next to a sewing basket. There are shoes scattered on the floor too.
What happened to the family that used to live here? Did they perish during the battle?
I swallow hard and return the letter to my postbag, sticking it alongside the other letters I haven’t been able to deliver this morning. Too many times, when I knock, no one answers.
My heart races as I near Smithson Lane. I pause in my steps and glance around, but there aren’t many people out on the streets. I also don’t see any fae patrols nearby. I glance at the addresses on the remaining letters in my postbag. If I take a shortcut down Smithson Lane, it’ll save almost half an hour of walking time.
Normally, I don’t mind the extra walking or time spent outdoors. But… there’s no telling how many fae patrols I might encounter during those extra thirty minutes. The smart thing to do would be to take the shortcut.
I walk closer to Smithson Lane, and my hands tremble. I keep my head down, my cloak hiding my face, as I near the house that was once mine. The cottage I’d shared with Harry. And, just five houses down from the cottage, sits the tiny blue house I grew up in, a rental my mother worked hard to afford.
Harry. Mama.
They’re both gone.
A few tears escape my eyes, but it’s so cold that they instantly freeze on my cheeks. Even though the battle is over, since Braemar surrendered unconditionally to the Winter Courtarmy, the weather has remained severely cold. It also snows on occasion, though thankfully it never lasts for long.
As I pass the cottage with its perfect front porch where Harry and I used to sit together in the evenings, I can’t help but glance through the windows.
Is Peter still alive? And if he’s not… does that mean I can take possession of the cottage once again?
I’ve never wished death on anyone, not really, but I wouldn’t be too sad if I learned he’d perished during the fae attack.
Should I knock? I find myself walking closer to the cottage, my steps slow and uncertain.
The door suddenly bangs open, and a gasp bursts from my chest when a familiar man steps outside.
Oh, gods. It’s Peter.
He’s alive.
And I need to make a quick retreat before he sees me.
Unfortunately, his eyes flare with recognition just as I start to turn away. Even with the cloak partly obscuring my face, he still knows who I am. Fear shudders through me, and I clutch my postbag in a tight grip to steady my trembling hands.
