Priest Tighe’s narrow shoulders slumped beneath his thick robes. “Unseelie will not be pleased, Your Grace.”
“Which is precisely why I’ve chosen Druid Aric.” Lorcan nodded at the quiet man who stood beside the priest. It had been difficult to rustle up a follower of the Dagda inside the Shadow Court.
Aric was unlike most of the druids that Lorcan had met inside the Air Court. He wore the familiar drab brown robes and went barefoot, to signify a connection with the soil. But he had not shaved his head in keeping with the traditions up north. Instead, his long hair was a curtain around his long face.
“I mean to begin my reign as I mean to go on, and we will not bow before Unseelie in my court.” Lorcan’s strong and commanding voice sounded alien to his own ears. Kingly, almost. “My father made too many mistakes based on his unyielding belief in Unseelie. He sacrificed thousands of our own warriors in the hope of gaining even more power. I will not follow in his footsteps.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Nollaig nodded, the hood of her ever-present cloak rustling around her hidden face. She and Commander Segonax, his two closest advisors, had agreed with his decision, even as undesirable as it might be to the shadow fae nobility. The low fae, the ones who called the city home, were less likely to raise their brows. They were the ones who had suffered most under Bolg Rothach’s cruel reign.
Priest Tighe sighed and pushed up from the floor on shaky legs. He clutched the book tight against his chest, his long hair draping across his forehead. “Your Grace, you know best of course. I just…worry.”
Lorcan frowned. “Worry about what, exactly?”
“Unseelie could retaliate.”
“Well, that is a risk I’m willing to take.” Lorcan turned to Druid Aric. “Are we ready?”
Aric gave a nod. “The Throne Room is packed, Your Grace. It seems the fae of Findius are eager to meet their new king.”
A heavy sense of duty settled onto Lorcan’s shoulders. He had never wanted to be king. He was a bastard, raised in a tiny village in an enemy court’s grasslands where he’d been surrounded by honest, hard-working fae with dirt-caked faces and calloused hands. And yet the black stone throne that once belonged to his father now squatted in the next room, waiting for him. It was hard and cold andwrong.
But it was his.
Druid Aric led the way out of the Meeting Hall where his new court waited for him. The citizens of Findius had packed into the Throne Room, a large and lofty hall with midnight pillars holding up a high, arched ceiling. Frightened eyes peered up at him. Rags hung off the fae’s gaunt frames, their sunken cheeks a reminder of why he’d agreed to this madness.
The shadow fae were dying. Surrounded on all sides by enemies, they had little hope of surviving another month, much less a year. Their High King was gone. No one else had stepped forward to claim the throne, not even the lords from across the mist-enshrouded lands.
Lorcan was all they had. And he could not turn his back on them.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Nollaig murmured from beneath her cloak as Lorcan positioned himself in front of the throne. He cut her a sharp look. This was all her doing. Hers and Commander Segonax’s. They had plotted and schemed like the worst of the courtiers. Just like the fae in the Air Court they were so desperate to overcome. He understood why they’d done it. He could appreciate their need for a leader better than his father, Bolg Rothach.
That did not mean it sat well in his gut. The knowledge of what they’d done hung in the air like the mists. Dark, dreary, and full of menace.
Still, Lorcan gave a nod. Conniving or not, his two friends had succeeded. Lorcan would become the next High King of the Shadow Court. The Seat of Power would bestow its strength upon him, and he would try his damnedest to use that power for good. Whatever it took, he would save the innocents from certain death.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Druid Aric knelt before him, holding the crown of twisting antlers in his hands. Lorcan stared at it. His father’s crown.
“Prince Lorcan Rothach, son of Bolg Rothach. Do you swear to serve this realm until your dying breath?”
“I swear it,” Lorcan said, clenching his hands.
“And do you swear that you will serve no other realm but this?” Druid Aric glanced up at Lorcan, his eyes flickering with intensity. And Lorcan knew why. Would he serve the Shadow Court first and foremost? Or would he turn his back on them to aid the Air Court, as he’d done before?
Through gritted teeth, Lorcan spoke. “I swear it.”
Druid Aric smiled. “And, finally, do you swear to behold the Dagda’s laws, serving him as you serve your realm?”
A few gasps peppered the silent hall at the sound of the Dagda’s name rather than Unseelie’s. Priest Tighe cleared his throat. Nollaig shifted on her feet, even if she had agreed with Lorcan on this.
“I swear it. To the Dagda.”
Druid Aric stood, his face and eyes shining with pride. He gave Lorcan a gentle nod. The sign that it was his time to kneel, the only moment he would ever bow his head before another. Lorcan knelt. The stone beneath his knee was cold and hard.
Druid Aric leaned forward and placed the crown on top of his head. The twisting antlers curved across his forehead, cinching perfectly into place, almost as though it had been made just for him.
Lorcan slowly stood and gazed out at the low fae waiting with bated breath. And then he sat. The throne rumbled beneath him, and the trembling shuddered through the entire hall. Low fae cried out, clutching onto each other’s arms. A strange burning sensation rippled through Lorcan’s body. First, it was nothing more than a spark, but then it grew into a blazing heat that almost made him fall to the ground.
