The base layer’s similar to what I’ve worn since arriving here—pants and a tunic—both excessively embroidered with white leafy patterns. On top of that, I’m covered with a wool robe in dark blue, like what I’ve seen King Dryfid wear, but with more embroidery. And despite being comfortably warm by that point, I get a coat of shimmering white fur as well.
Then there’s a stole, matching the blue robe to make up for the fact that you can no longer see it. I estimate the entire ensemble weighs a solid twenty pounds.
It’s been five minutes and I’m already sweating. “Do I really have to wear all this?”
“The coat is for your coronation,” Mother says. Of course she’s here, hovering beside me as I take in my reflection in the massive slab of polished obsidian in front of me. “You won’t have to wear it for the wedding.”
“Can’t we skip that? You’ve already been calling me Prince.”
“You’reaprince, but you are not yet the Crown Prince.”
While I want to get this over with so I can get back to planning an escape, I sense an opening. “Why not? What happens if you die before the coronation?”
She brushes a spot of lint from her sleeve. “The realm would not pass to you.”
“Who would it go to?”
“It wouldn’t go to anyone. Now, if we could stop discussing my future death, there is one more thing for you to try on.” She disappears behind me and returns with a glimmering golden crown.
While fancy, it’s significantly smaller than hers—more of a diadem, really—but made of the same gold antlers. She sets it on my head, its sharp tips digging into my scalp.
My stomach churns at my reflection. It isn’t who I am. I’ve grown accustomed to my fae look; the changes to my ears and eyes, the clothes I’ve been wearing. But this is too much.
I glimpse my mother’s eyes, glowing an eerie green in polished, dark stone. She cared about my feelings once, didn’t she? Back when she’d kiss my nose after bandaging a scraped knee, telling me I was better than the kids who bullied me for not having a father. When she skipped meals for weeks so she could afford a new toy for my birthday.
So I try, turning to face her. The real her, not her reflection.
“I don’t want to be Crown Prince. I don’t want to be King someday.”
She rests her hand on my shoulder the way she always has when trying to comfort me.
“Don’t worry about it,” she whispers in my ear. “You won’t be.”
Chapter 35
Reid
Emlyn and I stand in a forest clearing, weapons drawn, surrounded by five fae. They each wield a pair of white, jagged knives, similar to Emlyn’s.
“They’re from Ystyr,” he whispers.
“Why are they here?”
“I’ll figure that out later.” He glances at the saber in my hand. “Please tell me you’ve actually used that before.”
I’m sweating so much, the handle’s slick against my palm. “Only while practicing forms. And usually incanting fire with it.”
“Well, don’t do that,” Emlyn hisses, then takes a deep breath. “You’ll have the advantage in reach. Just keep them off my back and watch your footing. They’ll likely shift the earth on us.”
“What?!” That does not sound good.
Before he can respond, the ground rolls beneath me. I stumble, my balance thrown. The Ystyr fae closest to me takes the opening, lunging with one of his knives.
Emlyn’s there in an instant, parrying the thrust with one dagger before swiping with his other, missing by inches as our enemy jumps back.
“Watch my back,” he yells, and I scramble behind him, falling into guard stance as two enemies warily approach. Which leaves three for Emlyn.
We’re gonna die.
