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I plucked her fingers one by one from my arm and settled her hand at her hip. She wasted but a breath until she took my arm again and was pulling me toward the lounge of the salon where a throng of Fae gathered round.

I needn’t push past them—all of them parted in an orderly manner from a simple, soft clearing of The Oaken Rose’s throat. Each gave a shallow bow or curtsy as we passed through the gaps. It left icy fingers of discomfort down my spine. I had once not even noticed the way the Fae of this court or any manor parted and differed to me when I passed by. Now, centuries later, it was such a distant memory that it was almost disconcerting.

As they cleared, I saw the backs of two Far Darrigs, one notably taller than the other as they stood before a lounging Ard Rí.

Velvet sky eyes lifted from the two flesh mongers and settled on his sister and I, and he inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Come, Raven of the Dawn and The Oaken Rose. Sit beside me as we discuss.”

“What is the topic of conversation, my lord?” I asked passing by the two with my blasted clinger in toe. As I did, I recognized them. Rictus. And the other was Harrower. Two Far Darrig who had survived the war when they had sided with the House of Magic.

I had gone against their ships full of minions and enslaved humans so many times and won that the sneering bloodthirsty glares they both tossed at my feet were no surprise. It was, however, a surprise when Harrower pulled his thick lips back from his cracked teeth and spat upon my boot.

The Oaken Rose turned to mete out justice, and I stayed her hand with a soft touch and a glare before turning back to him. “Admiral Harrower. It’s nice to see that you and your ship still sail the skies. Thank you for the polish for my boots. Sometime during the war I had them lodged in the entrails of some beast or another. The sheen has never been quite right since. Foul creature, whatever it was. Stunk of bog shit and vapors.”

A cruel smile twisted on my betrothed’s beautiful face. It was no secret that the beast I had kicked a hole in was Harrower’s mother. The Far Darrig held their mothers as near saintly matriarchs; to even look upon one was blasphemy in their culture. To touch one? To kill one? It was a crime against the very nature of their civilization. And that crime had twisted their appreciation of my particular prowess in battle even further.

It didn’t matter that I did nothing of the sort, it only mattered that the rumors had twisted the truth. In truth, the Far Darrig’s mother had come barreling out of the ship’s hold, brandishing the sharpest sword she could find and had chosen to attempt to sweep my entire invading battalion from its cloudy decks by cutting one of the lines of the rigging. All she had done was snapped the line back onto herself. She’d been shorn in two by the rope of her own son’s battleship.

Of course, the story of me kicking a hole through her pregnant belly clean through to her spine had been told so many times by drunken soldiers that it didn’t matter what the truth really was. I would never set it right even if I had had the interest to do so.

I was branded, tattooed, and marked with my shame. The rumors only fed my ignominy and justified the revulsion and shame the court heaped upon me.

Harrower lunged for me, and Rictus held him back, casting a wary eye my way before murmuring to him in their lilting language.

“Come now, gentlemen. We have business to attend to. Put your arguments over fashion aside.” Daróg cut in, slicing his eyes up to me with reproach behind their lashes, before directing me to sit the fuck down with a pointed glare.

I smirked, my point made and landed, and took my seat to his right.

“My Raven, these gentlemen and I were just discussing the Grand Market Ball.” He shifted in his seat, leaning near fully on his right hip and forearm in the chair. He was uncomfortable. I could tell in the way the edges of his eyes crinkled with unacknowledged pain, and he put as little weight on his spine as possible. Old wounds are not so old on him.

“As I was saying, Sire. Harrower and I can instruct the new molders, but I fear this first ball will be a disappointment to you, Your Majesty. Perhaps just a small party? For you to see the wonders of the Night Market on your own and sample their offerings. Offer feedback. Perhaps we could even hold a live demonstration of the process so that you might enjoy a fully built bitch for your kennels, modeled after your own whims. They sing the most beautiful songs before we put them in their cages, I’ve been told my lord loves a good aria.”

“That I do Rictus, that I do.” He seemed to make a great show of consideration as I fought off the serpent of The Oaken Rose’s hand creeping into my lap. “What do you think, My Raven? We could fill our hall with more glittering, golden humans, eager to suck a good cock and with a frothing desire to please.”

“Unlike the last one that ran off,” hissed The Oaken Rose as I gripped the bridge of her hand hard enough to break bones.

“I believe you have plenty of daora, Majesty. With the magic storms stampeding across the land and magic becoming thinner, is this the wisest expenditure of it? Should we not instead use it to fortify the palace?” I had to be careful with my answers here. While neither of the Darrig could potentially harm me, even in my slightly weakened state with my wounds still healing and my magic reserves far too low, the greatest threat lay in the Fae around me and not in their bruised egos. Until I could slip away to the store I had in the deep dark, I was vulnerable to attack from all angles.

A roll of laughter tumbled free of the Ard Rí as he slapped the arm of his chair. “Ah! My Raven. Ever the pragmatist. Do you know that when I snapped his hammer in half he tethered it back together with the sinew of some beast he took down with his bare hands? I, of course, had it burned and melted down, but when I asked him about it do you know what he said, Rictus?” His gaze slid from me back to the Far Darrig, cunning glinting in its wine-soaked depths. “He simply said that a soldier without a weapon is as useful as a Far Darrig without his mother.”

Rictus and Harrower stiffened with barely bridled rage as they glared at me. I had said nothing of the sort. I’d told him I was considering a career in carpentry and needed a hammer. Daróg loved to embellish though. He loved to twist and contort the truth; his favorite sport was to further sully my reputation. It was no surprise the way the courtiers looked down their noses at me. I might have once been their peer but the war had stripped that away, and the Ard Rí had ensured that any time he felt my reputation might be scrabbling back from the bottomless pit, he’d find a way to kick it back down.

The snake of his sister’s hand found my knee again, and he leaned close to whisper in my pointed ear. “A sister for a sister. Remember that, my Hope. Her happiness is the happiness the little sparrow will experience.”

I ground my teeth, my jaw cramping with the force I exerted on it. I fought myself, my own muscles and mind to let my arm uncurl and gently let my massive hand rest atop hers, my blunt tipped fingers curling delicately around hers.

A triumphant smile burned on her face as she leaned in her chair, letting her shoulder rest against mine.

“Your proposition is a good one Rictus. I’ve always been fascinated by how you keep them from going into estrus. It’s most convenient. I’d love to watch how you perform that little miracle. I’ve experimented a few times on my own, but I can never get it exactly right.” The Ard Rí leaned back in his carved chair and stared down his perfectly crafted nose at the two Far Darrig.

“That is a bit of magic that is a specialty, Majesty,” Harrower said with a tip of his head.

“Is it now? The one Rictus recently sold to The Raven was especially good, you know. I hear she suffered all the benefits of heat, a dripping needy cunt begging to be filled constantly and the flush of need upon her at all times, and yet not a single drop of unwanted blood. While the ones I bought from you several seasons ago always disappointed. Bleeding when I did not bid them to do so is such an inconvenience, Harrower.” His voice was as bored as if he were recounting a rather dreary day that prevented him from trimming his nails.

“Apologies, Majesty. I do have a satisfaction policy. If the meat did not please you, please do allow me to collect it. I will replace it with two of finer quality.”

“I’ll have their bones dug up from the kennel yards and sent back to you. I’ll expect the replacements to be delivered before the ball.”

The two Far Darrig looked between themselves, talking quietly until Rictus finally spoke up. “You speak of the little sun in the past tense, Sire. Will you be delivering her bones back to me as well?”