The boy, perhaps ten, chuckled as he moved closer. He tilted his head as if he was both shy and curious.
“You’re a human. A woman.”
His wolf seemed docile—he wiggled his tail and handed me his paw, which I gladly accepted. Then he lay at my feet, his tail sweeping left to right against the marbled floor, exposing his belly, demanding rubs. I fulfilled the irresistible request.
“I am.”
The boy took a seat beside me and poked my arm with his finger. Then he looked up at me, and through another titter, said, “But you smell exactly like him. How is that possible?”
I realised then, the meaning of the Fae’s sense of scent. As if they relied more on it than they did on their other senses. I could not look any more different than his uncle, yet he completely ignored all that and relied only on his sense of smell. In less than a minute, he was leaning on me, trusting me, giggling at me, because I overrode his senses. My smell, the smell of him, offered immediate and unquestionable trust. He—he was acting like the godsdamned dog.
Fascinating, sort of.
It reminded me of that moment, when I jumped into the Wrathwater Depths. Perhaps I, too, in that second, relied on that same sense—when I instinctively chose the deadly waters just because its scent reminded me of safety, ofhim.
“Oscar, come here. Leave her be,” Queen Gloriana said as she approached. I noticed that the boy had inherited her full cheeks and her round lips, with a prominent cupid’s bow.
“Bye, Aegir’s lady.”
“Bye, Oscar.”Prince Oscar, I should have called him.
Marshen returned and the queen herself showed us into the throne room.
Two large crimson couches faced each other, and in between them, farther up the dais, was the king’s chair, grand and ornate. And sitting in it was Ryvar Hailin, King of Silch. I didn’t like the two identical pommels peeking above his shoulders. Twin swords were strapped at his back.
Those same green eyes as his looked at me; their irises, I swore, were indistinguishable, yet their faces diverged in expression. King Ryvar’s brows were more angled, giving him a sharper look, and his lips were thinner than Aegir’s, his jaw less defined. His long, dark brown curls were striated with white streaks. I was captivated by how similar yet distinct their awfully beautiful faces looked.
Marshen knelt before his king, and I offered the same courtesy that I had been offering his wife. And even though I was sure Queen Gloriana informed him about my scent situation, King Ryvar still stiffened at my approach.
I was wearing what I was given. A long blue dress that covered me from throat to toes, and a furry, creamy-white cardigan that draped over my shoulders. And tucked away in the right pocket of my cardigan was the green box.
If the king disregarded my…relationship or whatever it was with his brother, I would show him the ring, and I would tell him that he should better respect my word.A lie to preserve life is not a bad lie, Semuel whispered in my ear, just as an image of Emika’s face—one expressing disappointment—appeared in my mind. I didn’t let it linger. I promised myself that I would onlyuse it if the king gave me the cold shoulder, yet the weight of that tiny box felt so heavy, it dragged.
Marshen and I stood a few feet away from the king’s dais.
To my right, was Marshen. To my left, was a broad rocky alcove that led outdoors. The room was surprisingly warm and I suspected that it wasn’t just the burning hearth keeping it snug.
The king’s first words were flat and direct. “Marshen Deucane, you have finally returned for your execution.”
I blinked.Is this how the King of Ice treats his people? Ice-cold—fitting.
“King Ryvar, I am here for you toremovemy execution order. I did as you asked, I found them. Over five hundred people from Nerithia.”
“Andwhereexactly are these alleged people?”
“Alleged? They are very real. Your Majesty, they are trapped on Mistgeil Island.”
“You lie. My avian shifters informed me long ago that Mistgeil Island is a wasteland.”
Marshen’s voice increased in both pitch and volume. “Mistgeil Island is shrouded with a witch’s spell. Had one of your Fae shifters dared to land and not just sweep over it, they would have found that the island is, as a matter of fact, not a forgotten barren wasteland, but a very fertile asylum, invisible and silent from afar.”
“What he says is true. I was there. His execution order should be levied and the people of Ilma must be given refuge.” I extended my hand towards Marshen as I spoke assertively, yet King Ryvar did not even look my way.
Even though it was the king himself agreeing with Aegir to send him on a mission once thought fruitless, something in my gut was telling me that he might not even dare set foot on that godsdamned island. Was this also how Ayla Ikubib—the witch—was treated when she came to tell his parents about the people she had veiled? And where was she now? I swallowed.
The king rose from his chair, smugly, his eyes fixed on Marshen, and took slow, casual steps down the dais, stopping right in front of him.Gods, this combination of Fae and Strongman.Even the colours of his hair showed it—the blend of two formidable species. And the size of him—he was even taller than Aegir. Not as broad, though.
“I believe our bargain was for you to return with an Ilman. You returned with a Rameli.”
