yves serpent

That damnable smell has returned. The cloying scent that lingers in the halls of the palace, clinging like a perfumed fog in clouds of sour spice. It’s distinct, easily identified as it wafts through each room that accursed witch graces with her coquettish presence. Bergamot and lemon as if she’s doused herself in citrus, enough to leave traces of that horridly saccharine scent sewn into the fibers of every velvet curtain and silk rug that she passes. The whole palace smells like the ripest orchard at the height of spring covering any other aroma that might’ve lingered in the halls before her arrival made the halls nearly inhospitable with the strength of her presence. 

All the windows of my chamber were tossed open to relieve a bit of the maddening smell that’s begun to seep past the doors of my apartment, the light breeze bringing in a bounty of fresh air and the peals of bells as the kingdom praises the return of their Emperor. He and his wretched whore. 

There’s meant to be a feast beginning at nightfall to celebrate his victory at the northern border, organized in all the splendor befitting a crowned warrior and yet my heart has not been moved to elation upon hearing of my husband’s safe return. Instead it’s shriveled and gone bitter as a rotten fruit. He’s yet to grace my rooms with his presence, not even a squire sent to the drawing room to be fawned over by my ladies in waiting. Since his return they’ve been lacking in entertainment, simply loitering about my quarters as visitors have dwindled in favor of visiting that new mistress of his. It’s an insult unto itself. 

Missing for the first year and a half of our marriage and returning without so much as a personal announcement. His neglect is bold indeed. The eyes of the court follow their rulers and one has been shut up in her quarters, ignored while the other flaunts his new bedmate throughout the palace. A simple visit would be a reminder of where his loyalties lie and yet Nathaniel can’t even do me that small honor to remind my personal court that I haven’t been abandoned as the rumors say. He scorns me at every step, not even sparing the basic courtesy of discretion. 

He’s brought back many war prizes. Horses, servants, foreign riches to fill the treasury, and a bountiful addition to his personal household. Because among the thralls and cooks, masters of horses and seamstresses is a sorceress. A court priestess is hardly something to bat an eye at. An addition to the church to help them read the heavens and interpret the will of the gods in each comet and eclipse. But she’s been paraded into the palace with a child on her hip and another quickening in her womb. Nathaniel had been gone for only so long and this is what he returned with to reward my loyalty. In these long months I’ve been an exemplary wife and beloved empress, sitting on his throne each day to rule his empire in his stead. And all I have to show for my toiling is a lemon-scented mistress and her bastard children. 

“Two!” My voice echoes over the courtyard beneath the window as I sit on the tufted seat, nose pointed to the wind as I breathe in the reprieveful scent of a lavender sachet. Despite my best efforts the orchard smell carries, nearly overwhelming any incense that burn in braziers throughout my chambers. Even without seeing her, her presence mocks me. 

“He expects me to accept this insult as if it is I who is the hidden woman. I am the mother of his empire and yet he can’t afford me the basic respect a farmer could give his wife. A mistress is insulting enough but to fill her with child? Twice! He must’ve laid with her the first night he reached the borderlands and thought her precious enough to keep by his side through the war.” I imagine her being groomed and waited on by the women serving at the war camp, sparing moments between battles to be sure the emperor’s chosen paramour is presentable for his return from the frontlines. In my nightmares he’s wild with bloodlust, the wanton spirit of a warrior possessing him to take her roughly. The idea plagues me even in waking moments. The thought of my husband’s public betrayal of our vows. 

“Blue cunt.” I swear.

Her title worsens the blow. A daughter of the moon as they’re called in the south. Sorceress, priestess. The accounts differ from source to source but all agree she is a daughter of the pale-faced moon god. Llamor as he’s called in my mother tongue. His children are known to favor blue and silver in their dress. But I was raised in a castle touched by the sun, in Creztesina by the Sea. The sun goddess Ymilia is exalted in the home of my girlhood, halls dripping in gold and yellow. It’s spun into the threads of every gown I own and hangs in delicate chains over my body. There is no animosity between the moon and the sun, united in the heavens as husband and wife. Their disciplines must be balanced to ensure harmony between the lady sun and her moon husband. 

The north knows no such parity. They keep different gods. I know the moon as Llamor but the Snow Lords call him their All Father. The moon is his great shield as the sun is the golden shield of his enemy. They fight in the heavens with every passing day. When the sun rises the moon is defeated and when the sun disappears the moon claims his victory. There are more lesser gods in the stars whose names I never learned. All of them are as cold as the people who offer them worship. There is no balance in them. They are severe and dark. There is no balance between the light and shadows. Perhaps if Nathaniel were known to be more pious his taking of a northwoman could be seen as cultivating harmony over his newly united lands but the emperor has never been interested in devotion to the gods. 

“If he names her consort it is within your right to return home and be done with this farce of a marriage.” Letizia says, cooling herself with an enamel fan dipped in rose water. The Lady Frosa speaks with a lack of decorum, sharing in my impolite tone as we trade gossip across the window seat. Letizia is the only woman at court I can speak with so freely, a friend since childhood that followed me north when I was married into the Midlands. We’re both children of the south where palace rules are lax and the hills roll with dunes of jewel-colored sand. It was only my marriage to Emperor Nathaniel that brought Creztesina into the Midland fold of five petty kings and this is how my father’s strides towards peace have been rewarded. An abandoned daughter living in the shadow of a publicly acknowledged mistress. 

“She's a consort in all but name. Rob tells me they pay tribute to her now that her rooms have been settled. Lady Rosamund brought her a pair of fertility dolls to ‘further her blessings’. They’ve forgotten who sits the throne. It certainly isn’t that northron bitch. I expect she’ll be seated beside the emperor tonight. I should take ill and avoid the humiliation.” 

Letizia clicks her tongue. “Rosamund is a beggar lady at best.” 

“Lettuce!” It’s hard to keep the mirth from my voice. Gossiping is below an Empress’s station but trading jabs seems to be the only thing lightening the burden of betrayal. 

“It’s the truth! She’s a fortune hunter through and through. She jumps from one wizzen prick to the next, draining their coffers as she goes. If you ask me she’s a succubus killing off the lords that run half of the damn empire. First it was Sir Kennedy Yarrow, do you remember? Then the Duke of Shallowport. Wasn’t it just a few years ago she was married into the Hydes of Red River? She has no loyalty! She is the realm’s most successful tart.” The breath runs from my lungs as Lettuce raves on about Rosamund’s reputation as a cursed bride, laughter pinching my chest as I try to catch my breath. 

Her impropriety makes me laugh in a way I haven’t in the months since my husband’s return journey was announced. It took him three months to bring his armies home from the subjugated borderlands and if the stories are to be believed he sent the ravens and then retired to bed his whore to celebrate his victory. The child inside her is three months grown from what the whispers say, though I’ve been spared a close look at the swell of her belly. The scant few glimpses of her have been in passing, usually the train of her dress disappearing around a corner in a burst of citrusy wind as the mistress runs from the lawful wife’s approach. At least she knows to keep hidden though I’ve heard accounts of her appearance. Rob is an adept spymaster, bringing forward any morsel of information he and his underlings hear throughout the palace and the empire at large. 

“Rob says she’s lacking in power.” It’s a small comfort to know that her title as a priestess or perhaps a sorceress is contested among the court. It’s a small thread of hope that Nathaniel might put his paramour aside and remember his true empress. If only he’d spare the time to look upon my face and remember the power I hold before he makes a rash decision that shames us both. I’ve been learning the disciplines of a priestess long before my father sought to marry me off to the most promising of the squabbling kings threatening his border. My marriage was decided in truth when Nathaniel reigned victorious over the war to unite the Midlands under one rule, and by then I’d grown quite skilled in my craft. Nathaniel could have a god-queen in his lap if he hadn’t gone off and fell between the legs of some subpar witch. 

“You could curse her,” Lettuce whispers behind her fan, green eyes squinting conspiratorially. I could. It’s well within the reaches of my power, but it would bring harm to an innocent life. The blue witch forwent the moon tea that would’ve cleaned up my husband’s indiscretions. That isn’t the fault of the child growing inside her. The babe will be her shield until it is birthed regardless of my disdain for its mother. I’ll simply have to bear the humiliation for at least a few months longer, because I won’t let that woman take one step beyond the palace walls with my husband’s children. The bastards are still of his blood and I need no fodder for future rebellions with half blood princes bringing their swords to my door. Bastards or not they’ll be raised within the palace, as far from their mother’s influence as they can bear. Shrewd as I may be in planning for the bleakest future I am not cruel enough to deny them contact with their birth mother. Still she can’t be allowed to sway them towards any cause she may have because no one enters the palace with no ambitions. 

A sudden knock quiets the thought as a maid announces a visitor. 

“What news?” Lettuce asks when Rob arrives through the door. He looks disheveled, hair coming loose from the ribbon meant to keep his dark curls at bay. His face is pale, stricken as if something dire has happened. 

“Lettuce, the door.” I say quickly, already moving to close the window lest our voices carry beyond these walls. Letizia sends the maid away to find cheese and wine, bolting the bedchamber door when the sound of retreating footsteps fades to silence. 

“Come sit.” Rob’s skin is damp with sweat as I lead him to a chair, the white linen of his shirt darkening where it clings to his skin. “Robert, what is it?”

“Dead,” he murmurs, lips hardly parting around the word. “The emperor is dead.” 

There’s a tradition in the Midlands, a superstition as it were, that certain words cannot be said in close relation to titled nobility for fear of cursing their name. “Death” in all its forms is one such word and it’s said in many ways in the Central Tongue. Rob mumbles the word over and over, eyes staring without focus, but it isn’t the grand death of nobility he’s speaking of. His tongue stumbles over the informal form meant for the lord of less precious lives. A death meant for commoners. This isn’t a true announcement of death and that only further sinks my heart into roiling anxiety. If not a true death then what? Rob takes the water when I offer it, drinking so deeply that it dribbles into his beard before he’s finished. When it’s gone he holds the cup in his lap, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles go white. 

“What do you mean he died?” 

“No one has seen the Emperor without his armor since he returned. He’s worn his helm even at court, else he’s shut away in his quarters refusing visitors. But I saw it. It was an urgent message from the northern border. The settlements are still unstable and rebellion looms closely over the horizon with the defeated Snow Lords wanting to retake their small pieces of land.”

“So you’ve mentioned,” Lettuce goads him to continue beyond the finer details of the matter. 

“He’d recently bathed when I was given leave to enter and I saw him. He was dressed in usual attire, not armor, and his shirt was slightly undone when he bid me enter. His chest–gods be good, his skin. I had no words. I handed him the message and nearly ran from the room when he dismissed me.” 

“His chest? What was wrong with his skin?” Things happen when men are at war and Nathaniel has been a warlord since childhood, raised on the battlefield as his father fought to expand his meager territory, attacking the small earldoms at his borders until only four foes remained when he was finally defeated. He died a warrior’s death and went to the Pale Palace of the moon riddled with the scars of his storied life. Nathaniel is much the same. For Rob to be so shaken I can only imagine what has happened. 

“His chest was cleaved open. There’s a scar,” Rob runs his shaking fingers down the center of his chest. “It spelled death and yet he lives. He was healed. It looked like the work of an ax. It must’ve struck his chest like a tree and yet I saw his chest moving with his breath. He lives.”

“He’s changed.” It isn’t a question. “His eyes, what color are they?” 

“Brown.” Rob says in an instant and then looks pensively into his empty cup. “They’ve always been brown.”

“And now?” Lettuce presses. She is always with me, if only a half step behind. She knows the worry that plagues me now as Rob tries to piece together what he saw in the emperor’s bedchamber. 

“They were white. Everything was white. He had the curtains drawn and candles lit, and he seemed to glow. His hair, his eyes. They’ve gone white as snow.” The sentiment is lost on me. Snow is only a vague idea in my mind as a woman of the south. Even the Midlands hardly see more than a few flurries in the cold seasons but they never blanket the ground in the way northerners speak of it. White to me is pearlescent sand dunes after midnight when the moon is highest in the sky. 

“Forsaken.” The word is like poison on my tongue. Rob raises his head, eyes searching my face for an answer. Heat begins to well in my chest, anger rising at the thought of the truth being kept from me as if I am someone to be overlooked. 

“You heard nothing of this? Truly?” 

Rob swallows thickly. “There was one message. A raven came from one of the physicians about a wound His Majesty had sustained. It caved in his armor so deeply his wound was held open by the warped metal, blood pooling in the gash torn through his chest. He’d been alive when he was brought into the healing tent if only barely, but died as they were working over him. He was meant to be left overnight while plans were made to decide how best to proceed with the news but when night fell the emperor emerged from the tent, alive despite the damage still plain to see in his armor. The physician had tried to bend the metal away from his wound so it wasn’t cutting into his skin when he rose but there was a scar where the gash had been. The message was written in two different inks. Half written when the Emperor died and the rest when he walked out of the tent unharmed but changed. He wasn’t seen publicly without his armor beyond that day.” 

“And you didn’t think to tell me?” Upset doesn’t begin to encompass the roar of emotions crashing like towering waves in my chest. Rob has never neglected to tell me anything of note and this is hardly something that can be pushed aside and deemed unimportant. 

“I thought it was a lie,” he rushes. “The rest of my correspondences after that day were written in a different hand and that physician that wrote the original message never returned to the palace. I looked into it. He died, gorged himself on his elixirs and tonics in the dead of night. They found him in the morning, eyes bleeding and mouth foaming. They said there was blood beneath his nails from where he tried to claw at his throat.” Lettuce turns away, hands tight over her ears. She’s never had the stomach for gruesome things and she was nearly in tears already hearing what had happened to Nathaniel. 

“Quiet!” She hisses, sniffling as she begins to pace. Her feet wear tracks into the rug until she nearly jumps from her skin when the maid knocks to announce her return with the requested refreshments. Lettuces dabs her eyes dry on her sleeve before going to the door, sending the girl away to find something else of little consequence. The girl lingers for a moment, looking past Lettuce to see what is so important that she can’t linger and hear a few words through the door. Her expectations seem to be disappointed when she finds me standing with my hands clasped, a respectable distance away from Rob who has straightened his posture to look presentable before the door shuts once more. 

“Nosy thing.” Lettuce tuts, setting aside the platter of cheese and goblets of wine with little intention to indulge. “Now enough with the carnage. We need no more of it poisoning our ears. I’ll have nightmares.”

“Someone killed the physician.” Lettuce makes a disbelieving noise as I ignore her appeal for a lighter topic, going back to her pacing as she picks anxiously at her nails. 

“That was my thinking as well once I saw His Majesty. When the message came and I heard of his death so soon after I assumed it was the ravings of a madman, but it seems it was written in truth. And that truth was meant to stay hidden. I know of one other dubious death. Sir Oddingsel. He was an esteemed knight, very skilled. You may have known his face if you saw his colors at a tourney, Your Majesty. He was killed by retreating forces. An unlikely death. He was skilled and brutal–forgive my vulgarity Lady Frosa. The last to leave the battlefield. He couldn’t have been killed by crippled forces.”

“What importance does his death have in this?”

“He was one of the few people the physician consulted about the Emperor’s supposed death. His second in command at the frontlines.”

“Then someone wants all the witnesses dead.” 

“I fear so, Your Majesty. I will look into it. But if I may speak freely for a moment?” I nod my acquiescence. “The emperor frightened me, Your Majesty. Truly. He’s been touched by something beyond my comprehension.”

“He is Forsaken,” Lettuce says. When Rob doesn’t seem to understand she grumbles in our mother tongue about the Midlands being godless. 

“To be Forsaken is to be shut out of the halls of Llamor. The sun is the goddess of life and the moon the master of death. He takes everyone into his cold arms when their time comes. Those are the stories told in our temples to the south.” I begin. 

“There is a saying in Creztesina: the soul for he and the rot for she. Your body is left to nourish the earth and your soul is taken to the moon’s midnight halls. Cold and dark, but peaceful. To be denied a seat at the night lord’s table is to be Forsaken, your soul sent back into a dead body to walk the earth forever. It’s a cruel fate. One that can only be done and undone by a child of the moon, someone who favors the night god.”

Lettuce’s anger flares. “By your reports his sorceress companion isn’t capable of such feats!”

“And she isn’t, I swear it! She does small tricks to entertain those that pay her visits, turning cups of water to half-melted snow and chilling fruits the servants bring. Someone–I believe it was that Lady Rosamund–asked her to fill her drawing room with snow and she was only able to make a few flurries and then took sick for the rest of the day. Her power is very little as if it was learned with recent haste. It couldn’t have been her that raised him from the dead. In any case, I doubt he’d let himself be tied to the whims of a strumpet like her.”

“That strumpet,” I sigh, “has given him a son. And perhaps another is growing inside her at this very moment. He’s already tied to her. But if it wasn’t her, then who?”

“This has become a true conspiracy,” Rob says mournfully. “A knot has been tied around the empire. I will do my best to unravel it.”

“Good. Dismissed. Thank you, Robin.” Rob sets the cup down at last before leaving past the prying handmaiden. 

“What does this mean? For the court? For us?” Lettuce frets when the door is shut once more. 

“Nothing good will come of this to be sure. It’s likely that blue bitch isn’t the only woman I’ll have to worry about in this lifetime.”

Nathaniel has been made immortal. Any death beyond his first will roll off like water on a duck’s back. I’m mortal, my life is finite. And he is a man. He’s already proven he’s no stronger than any other when it comes to indulging in desire. He’ll be bedding my replacement before I’m dead and buried. 

“The moment a gray hair is found on my head I’ll be tossed aside, or perhaps even before that. That fool must think it was that sorceress that brought him back to life. She’s no better than Rosamund, preying on men who know no better. He wasn’t raised to understand the gods across any practice. No matter their face he wouldn’t recognize a god if they took out his soul and showed it to him. No one of Midland descent understands what has happened. I’m sure he’ll believe the first person that flashes a crumb of magic at him.” 

My fingers press against the painful pressure building in my temples as I try to soothe away the ache of being the most qualified ruler between Nathaniel and I. He leans heavily on the word of his advisors when he is not off battling some lower lords and earls. In my time as sole ruler I’ve done the work to prune the incompetent weeds from his court. It had taken nearly as long as his war. Each sir and duke and lord was more egocentric than the last, using their voice to sway me towards a choice benefiting their own family and treasuries before the whole of the empire. Blundering fools that they were, thinking me inferior. Women do not rule in the Midlands but I was raised from birth as my father’s one true heir. I’m sure Nathaniel has hardly noticed court sessions now run more smoothly without the underhanded power grabs that he seemed so ignorant to. 

“And yet he’s the father of the empire.” Lettuce says bitterly. 

“He was born into this. If the world since birth has told you that day is night you’ll sleep when the sun rises. His ignorance is an inconvenience but he’s hardly to blame for it.” 

Lettuce flusters, “Damn the stars, there’s truly nothing we can do. Not without knowing the sorcerer that did this.”

“For now, there is no rush. Nathaniel might be changed but how many in his court will recognize the mark of a Forsaken? It’s best to leave their minds to imagining while we work quietly to untangle this mess. Let them make up their own stories, they seem to do it so well.”

“They’ll hail that whore of his as a powerful sorceress.”

“Let them. They’ve yet to see what I am truly capable of. Let them say that he is so enamored by her and her magic that it clings to him wherever he goes. Anything is better than the empire knowing their ruler will never die and pass on his crown. He’ll be emperor for a thousand years and no one will be able to unseat his power. That is my true worry. Let him whore and drink and battle as much as his heart desires, as long as the smallfolk aren’t forced to show fealty to a man gone mad with his own power.”  

“Their ignorance is of help to us yet,” Lettuce says, temper cooling. “Yes, let them dote on that harlot and think she holds the world in the palm of her hand. To them a drop of water is the same as a flood. They know not of true power.” We were both raised in the sunswept temple of the Golden Mother. We’ve seen true power. Even my own capabilities pale in comparison to that of a high priestess. What’s been said of the blue cunt is hardly more than a child’s practice. 

“Gods be good!” Lettuce curses, but quickly corrects herself when another knock comes. A timid voice announces the emperor’s personal servant Dorian. He enters balancing a box in his arms. There are rules in the Midland courts about the status of servants, dizzying checks and balances to remind them of their lower class. I hardly paid attention to the lessons upon arrival at the palace and still reach to accept the box myself only for Dorian to shrink back, leaning purposefully towards Lettuce. She accepts the box but he still lingers in wait. 

“Thank you, Your Majesty, for your favor.” It’s a practiced line learned from the governess that attended me in the first months of my enthronement. Anything sent by the emperor is to be treated as if it is his own presence. I curtsy and Lettuce follows suit, dipping lower than I had as is expected of our separation in court ranking. It’s swift and flippant, but Dorian accepts the courtesy and quickly scampers out of my bedchamber. I wonder if he knows what’s happened to his master. 

“I still don’t understand why I can’t accept things for myself.” I grouse as Lettuce sets the box on a table. It’s wide and flat and made of handsomely polished wood. Inside a dress made of sunlight spills over the velvet lined edges. The sumptuous fabric is smooth as water between my fingers and as lustrous as candlelight. 

“Oh!” Lettuce coos, caressing the fabric with gentle hands. “There’s a note.” She hands over the small roll of parchment hidden between the swathes of gold fabric. I recognize my husband’s own hand if only from the few letters I received during our short courtship. He hadn’t thought it necessary to send letters from the warfront and it only took a few weeks for Rob to find out why. That witch had kept him thoroughly occupied during his campaign but it’s harder to conceal his neglect now that we’re in the same vicinity once more. 

Empress–

It has been very long since I last saw you. Allow this gift to be an atonement for time lost between us. Wear it to the feast tonight and let the banquet hall be filled with your light. 

It’s unsigned and void of the attempt at affection he used to lace into his letters. My sundew, darling sunrise. He couldn’t even spare a dearest or sweet before my title. Now it is only Empress. It’s what I am but it feels as though his previous kindness was only meant to lull me into a false sense of companionship. If you want to catch flies you set out a plate of honey and I fell for the trick of his sweet words as he played at being kind and chivalrous to goad me into marriage so he could continue his quest of uniting the realm. Because Creztesina would not have fallen to siege. He needed to endear himself to the heir and Father and I had foolishly allowed it. Though I hardly swooned at his old letters, it was a welcomed attempt at niceties if we were meant to spend the rest of our lives together. Now it’s plain to see it had all been artifice. The note crumples in my hand before I toss it aside. 

“I’m expected to wear this tonight.”

“It’s a beautiful gown.” Lettuce says, trying to rouse my spirits. 

“Of course it is. Anything less and it would be an insult. But I have no doubt his mistress has received a similar gift.” 

“Tonight will show where the courts’ allegiances lie. We will see who is truly allied with their empress as the true mother of the nation. Allow me to be the first to restate my support.” In most things Lettuce disregards proper etiquette, but when she cares, when things truly matter to her, she expends the effort. She kneels before me in the way of our homeland, bowing low enough for her forehead to nearly touch my feet. 

“Lettuce!” She is like a sister, raised alongside me, the daughter of my father’s closest advisor. To see Lettuce prostrate herself to reaffirm her lifelong loyalty is almost jarring. She accepts my help to her feet and dips in a proper curtsy befitting the Midland customs. 

“I’m borrowing one of your dresses.” She says as she stands, already walking towards my wardrobe and the short moment of formality passes. Lettuce leafs through the hanging gowns until she settles on a few to pull out. They’re laid across the bed for my appraisal. Each is made of gold fabric that catches in the light of the setting sun streaming through the window. Soon someone will arrive to light candles and primp me for tonight’s festivities. 

“Won’t it be seen as impolite to wear the same color as the Empress?” In Creztesina it hardly matters. Fabric is fabric and every body is worthy of wearing it, from the lowliest peasant to the highest of nobility. A fishmaid is fit to sit beside the queen, both in emerald green dresses if they’d like. No one bats an eye. But here it is seen as an offense if a servant wears too many ornaments in their hair or a bright pattern on their clothes. They must be plain and uniformed. They’re meant to look dull, humble, in their appearance. Lettuce wearing gold will show her allegiance but some might question why she’d dare try to upstage the empress at a feast held in her husband’s honor. It hardly matters. He won’t be looking at me anyway. It’s doubtless he’ll only have eyes for his lusty little mistress. Lettuce leaves with the dress folded over her arm, saying something about recruiting a few other ladies in waiting to spread some gossip when the celebration begins. About what you can’t be sure but it’s your hope she won’t overindulge and damage her reputation as an upstanding lady. 

The feast has already begun when the maids deem me suitable to attend. My olive skin is brushed with gold dust and gilded paint; my dark curls tied away in a multitude of sinuous braids, and laced with gold ribbon; my earrings are sparkling with yellow topaz. The dress the emperor gifted is pure gold, the neckline dotted with yellow pearls and embroidered with golden flowers. The clincher about my waist is delicate, made of gold and affixed with bronze blossoms. The same metal flowers that bloom across the crown atop my head. 

No one can deny what court I hail from as the arrival of the empress is announced over the din of music. The room seems to quiet as the doors swing open, bated breaths awaiting my reveal. 

The lords tasked with planning have outdone themselves. The banquet hall has been made over to look like the northern border. Pillars are hung in spirals of white silk, strings of pearls and diamonds hang like snow flurries from the vaulted ceilings, the tables are dressed in shades of ivory and periwinkle, and the floors are dusted in little white feathers meant to stir like snow underfoot. Everything seems to glow in the candlelight, myself included. The flickering light is kind, sparkling off the finery draped over me, making my gold-dusted skin seem to shimmer. The hushed crowd parts to allow a path towards the high table sitting on the dais at the head of the room. Among the usual arrangements is an unmatched chair beside the seat of the emperor, smaller by comparison and hardly as ornate as the rest. It’s empty as is Nathaniel’s seat and I try to keep the sour look from my face as I sit in my respective place. 

A serving girl wearing thick furs despite the heat of the room comes rushing to fill my cup, her cheeks and nose brushed with a thick tint of rouge. It’s likely meant to imitate the nipping of the cold as is her thick clothing but it looks as though she’s been standing in the sun as sweat glistens off her skin from the heat of her themed costume. She’s purposeful with her actions, pulling back the fur cuff of her sleeve to reveal a thin copper bangle. She curtsies deep as she straightens to leave; a sign of her fealty. 

The ballroom is filled with a wash of colors that stand out against the white decor. Some have kept to the colors of their coat of arms. Lady Tresmont is in her family’s typical purple, and Duchess Gadsborough wears her husband’s quartered green and gray. A few ladies with blue in their banners have taken on my style of dress, bared shoulders and lighter skirts to mimic my continued fondness of Creztesina fashions. But there are many ladies in gowns of blue that don’t look similar to my own. Pale as a freshwater pond and deep as the night. Others are gilded in shades of blossoming yellow and warm orange. Their stones have been cast. 

Among the swaying bodies, I find my husband, given ample space to dance with the woman on his arm. He’s wearing all white with an antlered headdress in place of his crown, the diamond studded mantle tosses beams of light over his partner’s face as they twirl to the music. Even from a distance his changes are evident. 

Robin hadn’t been so forthcoming with the details aside from his scar and I work to keep my face void of emotion as I see him without his armor for the first time since his return. His hair has gone from midnight black to silvery white, and his brown skin has lost its warmth. He’s taken on a sickly pallor that has tinged him a strange shade of blue where there used to be a golden glow beneath his skin. The two of them are dancing close, far more intimately than what I’d been taught is customary of Midland celebrations. Nathaniel’s hands, now clawed and tipped in stark white as if he’s wearing gloves, are placed properly but his partner lacks such decorum. She leans up close to his face as she laughs at something he’s said, red painted lips stretching into a pleased grin. 

His face looks starkly different next to her round cheeks, having lost the fullness of life. Nathaniel has always had prominent cheeks and a defined jaw, but now he looks gaunt as his blanched skin sits almost too tight against the bones beneath. His eyes are filled with an icy glow. Somewhere beneath I hope there’s still a hint of the man I’d been obliged to marry, that perhaps beneath the magic his eyes will be brown as they were when we met. His appearance will only continue to change the longer her remains Forsaken. Taloned hands and tinted skin will be the least of his concerns when his mortal body begins to truly conform to its new immortal status. And yet he doesn’t seem to have a worry in his mind as he twirls his paramour, dipping her so low I worry he might kiss her before the whole court.

Instead he presses his whispers against her ear and her smile falters, a peachy glow rushing to her cheeks. Pain shoots up my arms as my nails curl into the wood of my armrests, nearly tearing up from my fingertips with how tight I grip to keep myself seated. What could he have possibly said to her?

It doesn’t matter. I’m still the empress. I have to be conducted with proper etiquette befitting my status and storming off the dais to wrench the two of them apart will do nothing but prove I have a fear that I’ll be usurped by a common whore. 

The song changes and Nathaniel pulls her upright but not so close as to hide the swell of her belly pushing tight against the fabric of her deep blue gown. Her hand moves to fix the jostled crown on her head and I nearly toss court rules to the wind. He’s crowned her. Before the whole of the court he’s allowed her to adorn her head with a crown. One so similar to the ones I wear when full court regalia isn’t necessary. It’s fashioned in the style of Creztesina, a place she’s surely never been. She’s from some small northern kingdom and yet the silver crown dipping over her forehead is a twine of silver leaves with a blooming desert flower at the center. This isn’t the homage paid by loyal ladies and dutiful lords dancing around the pair. She has stolen what is rightfully mine in every regard. If Nathaniel allows it she’ll have my throne before everything is said and done. 

“I’ll admit, she’s more audacious than even I expected.” Lettuce says, sliding into the seat beside me. 

“He’s crowned her.” I mutter, trying to keep a smile on my face. Lettuce looks again and sits up straighter in her seat. 

“What use does that trollop have with your crown? It hardly fits her features besides that.” She chides. It’s true. The pointed shape of it matches the sharp angles of my face, my long nose and upswept eyes. It gives me some pleasure to know her attempt at imitating one of my most recognizable adornments has fallen so flat. It is a crown, yes, but it looks more out of place upon her head the longer I look at her. Silver or not, it was made for me to wear. I sit back in my seat, placated for the moment. More wine is served along with some meat and I’m in much higher spirits when Lady Rosamund comes trotting up the steps of the dais. 

Currently unwed but in mourning, her gown has been trimmed in black lace for whatever husband she’s recently lost but the dress itself is a shade of blue so pale it’s almost white. She curtsies with a vulpine grin and gives the usual greeting of flattery before offering me a box. Lettuce accepts and opens it, scoffing out a laugh before passing it over for me to see. It’s a simple pair of dangling earrings. Blue gems set in silver. 

“Is this meant for me?” Rosamund should know better than to give me something like this. The color wouldn’t have scorned me a few years ago but even so the gems are cheap. Blue spinel. It looks to be sapphire to a less affluent eye, but the three of us were raised in wealth and know such gems apart from each other in an instant. To offer this as a gift after hearing what she gave that other woman is an insult worthy of expulsion from court. To be a lady in waiting is a privilege and Rosamund hardly performs her role with proper dedication. 

“Of course not!” Rosamund laughs. “Why would I ever give you such cheap jewelry? It’s merely a jest. I’ve started giving that harlot gifts just to see what her standing was in the north. They’ve all been imitations of more expensive pieces. Earlier I gave her fertility dolls. They’re perfectly fine to an untrained eye. The carvings are unflawed and symmetrical. But,” she pauses, leaning closer with a collusive smile, “I said they were red agate.”

“That’s all?” Lettuce huffs, sitting back in her seat. “You gave her red agate dolls?” 

“I wouldn’t dare!” Her wide smile always looks more devious when she’s flashing it at someone else’s expense. “Why waste such valuables on someone like her? Of course not!” She shakes her head at the notion. 

“The dolls I gave her are made of carnelian. Any other woman at court would have mentioned it, but she just thanked me even after handling them. She looked closely to see the faces carved in the stones but didn’t see anything wrong. But I’ve overextended myself with my favors, may Your Majesty pass along this gift in my stead.” Rosamund leaves with another curtsy, the ruffles along the back of her dress wagging like a tail as she melts into the throng of dancers. 

“Clever minx.” Lettuce snorts. 

“Indeed,” I agree. “Asking me to extend my hand to insult this woman in front of the emperor. Clever indeed. If I turned away her offer it would be a show of support, even keeping the gift to myself to spare her the embarrassment would be a kindness to be misinterpreted. She tied my hands, damn tramp. I hope her next husband lives a hundred years and she’s never free of him.” 

At the mention of husbands, the emperor mounts the steps to the high table, the blue witch hanging happily from his arm. The smell is like a veil being draped over me, heavy and clinging. My nostrils flare and I mourn my lack of foresight as I’m without even a handkerchief to keep the tart smell from assaulting me. It’s dizzying but my smile never falters, denying her the pleasure of seeing me discomforted by her presence. 

It’s the expectation that she’ll bow and show deference and fealty to her empress but she forgoes formality and sits without introduction. I work to keep the annoyance from my face, brows twitching upwards at her blatant lack of respect. Even the lowest of citizens in the Midlands knows that you do not enter the presence of nobility without offering a proper greeting. It would be like entering someone’s home and refusing to speak to the host. And Nathaniel allows her this, simply sitting between us. 

“Wife.” He hardly turns to address me fully, only pointing his eyes in my direction. Even beneath the magic the color has been leached away to a frosty blue. He’s still handsome despite the deathly look of his face. Full lips, wide nose, round eyes. He’s beautiful even in death. He raises a questioning brow when I withhold my response for a beat too long.  

“Wife, is it? I’m glad you’ve remembered. Or are you only calling me that because you’ve forgotten my name.” He frowns for a brief moment before smoothing back into a neutral expression.

“Cosima.” His voice shapes out the sound of my name without hesitation. I want to correct him, to say I’m Empress Cosima, but I won’t stoop to begging for acknowledgement as the Empress that he personally conferred the title to. His mistress stiffens on his other side, fingers tightening around the bunch of grapes in her hand. She sets it down to shake the juice from her fingers and I laugh. It is good that she doesn’t like the sound of my name. She knows her place even if she pretends to be aloof to such matters. 

“So you do remember. You’ll have to introduce me to the other woman you’ve acquired. I’ve yet to hear anyone call her by name.” The desire to call her one of the many insulting aliases she accrued is strong, the words welling up to spill off of my tongue, but I bite back the urge. 

“Her name is Meredith.” She startles at the sound of her name, standing awkwardly from her seat. She at least has the sense to look embarrassed, color flushing the tips of her ears as her eyes point towards the floor. I stand as well, refusing to be looked down upon by this meritless woman without even a surname to speak of. She keeps hers clasped beneath her belly, as if to draw my eyes to her pregnant state. She’s bold even in her fear, but foolish. Presenting her belly as if it will keep her from his rightful wife’s wrath. If I were a less charitable woman she would’ve met an unfortunate accident the moment she dared to step foot in my home. 

“Just Meredith? And what of your family name. Westergard, Halpain, Lind?” I list off the names of northern nobility. Powerful houses that had valiantly resisted southern invasion before bowing to Nathaniel’s sword. Of course both of us know she doesn’t carry a noble name. What high lord would allow his daughter to run off with a married man without the promise of the first wife being removed in his daughter’s favor. She is undoubtedly someone of little regard where she came from and has only this affair to her name. The bedmate of a man powerful enough to make her disappear with a single word. History isn’t fond of failed mistresses and their bastards. Nor am I. 

She hesitates a moment. “My surname is Alf. Meredith Alf.” 

“Alf?” Already her eyes are beginning to narrow as I pretend to think over her family name. Surely they’re farmers or smiths or hunters of great value in whatever town she came from, but that matters little here in the palace. 

“I don’t think I’ve heard the name before. Who is your mother? Perhaps I’ll recognize her maiden name.” My tone is amiable though I’m sure my smile never reaches my eyes. Meredith’s brows pinch into a tight line across her forehead beneath the downward point of her imitation crown as her lips shrink into a pout. She shifts uncomfortably as if waiting for me to laugh and wave away the question as a joke but I don’t. I want her to admit that she knows she’s out of place as I tilt my head in anticipation for her answer. After another moment she huffs through her nose before mumbling,

“My mother’s father was a tanner. He wasn’t anyone you would know.” She says almost too quickly. As if she has anything worth hiding about her lineage. 

“Ah, well that is good too.” And it is. Seamstresses make my dresses, hunters kill the meat on my plate, smiths make the blades that defend my crown. An unknown name isn’t something to be shamed for unless you climb into my husband’s bed for a moment of glory. Because there’s no other reason to find yourself in an emperor’s bed if not for the lavish pleasures of being doted on by a powerful man and adding blessings to your family name. Being a princess kept me from knowing the desire to be more than I was but I can appreciate the sentiment. 

“Cosima.” Nathaniel’s tone is a warning but I’m hardly stirred by it. If he wants to flash his teeth he’d better bite me or be silent. 

“That would explain your lack of court etiquette, so I’ll give you a few words of a lesson. It’s expected that you bow before your superior. I am your empress. It’s only polite to show your respect as a woman of lower status. It’s like paying honor to your liege lord.” Meredith looks towards Nathaniel as if he will give her permission to dispense with the rules that govern his empire, but he holds his silence. She dares to look surprised. 

“Meredith, Her Highness has told you to bow.” Lettuce says. “Do it quickly before you spoil the happy mood.” The witch dares to look at Nathaniel again before stomping her foot like a petulant child. 

“Just curtsy and be done with it,” he says at last. “It’s palace rules. You must obey them before the empress. If you incite her anger I won’t save you.” Is that so? Her mere existence is a thorn in my side. What anger hasn’t he protected her from by keeping her away from me. I can hardly slap someone I can’t reach. Meredith suddenly looks like a child, shoulders shifting awkwardly before she finally bows. Lettuce clears her throat when she moves to rise. 

“You’re meant to hold your curtsy until you’re told to rise.” I can imagine her discomfort. One foot behind the other as she balances the weight of her heavy gown and growing belly on bended knees. It can’t be comfortable but I enjoy the view of the top of her head, glancing over it at Nathaniel. He says nothing though his higher rank means he can tell her to stand at his own leisure. He doesn’t and I smile, nodding. It’s good that he remembers my place above this woman. 

“You may rise,” I say at last and she nearly stumbles over, bumping into the table. “Do be careful. Wouldn’t want to harm the royal heir inside you.” 

At that Nathaniel looks up, ghostly pale eyes watching my face for any show of displeasure. It’s a wasted effort. What woman wouldn’t be displeased at the thought of her husband impregnating the first whore that spread her legs for him. Some might say he took comfort where he could find it away from home. Of course war is difficult, but his soldiers suffered without their lovers and I’d expected him to lead by example. My eyes narrow. I thought too highly of him. He doesn’t look ashamed of himself but his full lips fold inward as he pinches his mouth against whatever he wants to say. I haven’t gone beyond my means as the empress. All has been within the sanctity of palace rules. I don’t need to stoop to underhanded tactics to bully her.

“Clumsy little thing.” Lettuce laughs. “Surely you were taught the proper way to bow. You aren’t so round that you can be thrown off balance so easily.”

“I was never a frequent visitor at my lord’s court. I can’t say I’ve ever had a reason to learn proper conduct.”

Lettuce clicks her tongue. “My lady.” 

Meredith frowns. “What?”

“That will be your second lesson now that you’re a guest at His Majesty’s court. If you’re speaking to titled nobility it is expected that you exercise said title. I am Lady Letizia Frosa. It’s expected that you refer to me as such.”

“So many rules?” Meredith laughs, clearly feigning confusion as if that will spare her the need to abide by said rules. 

“Indeed. Many rules in fact. It seems the emperor has spared you the lessons but now that you’ve been presented publicly it’s expected that you’ll learn your place.” A shadow falls over her pale face as she recognizes the venom in my tone. 

“Of course,” she smiles through gritted teeth, “Your Majesty.” 

“It’s all new so I understand the misunderstandings, but you needn’t worry. Sometimes favor is fleeting. You only need to be prudent. The need for such pleasantries might pass soon enough.” 

“Sit down before you knock into something else.” Nathaniel cuts in at last. She brushes a hand over the slight swell of her stomach as if to remind me she has already won that battle twice over. 

“I’m sure you’ll understand someday, Your Majesty.” Meredith laughs as she slides back into her chair. “It seems all I do while pregnant is eat. The new weight has made me quite clumsy at times. I hope my figure won’t be too terribly altered after I give birth again.” 

“Children are a blessing. To be a mother is to be changed by motherhood. You’re carrying the future of the crown, you should be less concerned with the past.” I say curtly. She seems to mull over my words as she pulls apart a piece of bread between her fingers, covering her lap in crumbs. 

“What is that saying about the past being passed, that you can’t change it? I think the future is full of possibilities. I agree that everything changes with time. May the gods be kind to us both.” Their kindness will look like a curse to one of us. I’m sure she’s aware of that as she picks at her food. My blessing would mean her downfall and I pray for it every night. She isn’t deserving of such grace. I try not to sneer as I watch her eat. 

The red tinge of her lips begins to spread around her mouth as she indulges in the greasy meats set out on the table. They’re delicious but to see someone at the high table so lacking in manners is strange. But it doesn’t seem to upset Nathaniel as she takes his hand, smearing the grease over his pale fingers. They’re white as pearls, as are the sharpened lengths of his nails. There’s a chilled air lingering around him that raises goose flesh along the arm resting closest to him. Meredith doesn’t seem bothered as she leans into him, nearly climbing into his lap as she clears one plate and then another. It makes me wonder if this is the type of woman he’s been wanting. If my meager month of marriage before he ran off to start another war was spent following rules and adhering to decorum when he wanted a woman that was able to act as she pleased. 

The Midlands have always been known to have a more rigid code of conduct than the south, and I’d been weaned from my way of life each day I spent in Nathaniel’s palace. In Creztesina, indulgence is expected and more liberal behavior is accepted. I’d given up my practices as a priestess and archer, I’d learned to govern my stomach to daintier servings, I wore less exposing clothing. All to be tossed aside for a woman that seems to be everything I was yet somehow to a lesser degree. Not even a court lady, or nobility at all. A commoner that could give him no more power than what he had taken in his victory over the Snow Lords. They called themselves kings yet each governed lands no larger than the capitol city. Hardly a kingdom and certainly not the empire Nathaniel and his father have built. And from all the pillaged castles and keeps Nathaniel had brought back the most unremarkable woman he could find. 

“I nearly forgot, we’ve prepared a gift for you.” Lettuce speaks up, nudging the gift Rosamund saddled me with. Meredith reaches around Nathaniel with greedy hands, scoffing quietly when I gently pull it away. 

“Court rules.” I smile as a servant takes the box to pass over to her. “It’s impolite for someone of lower ranking to accept something directly from my hands. Better left to the servants is what I was told.” Of course, such rules are as ridiculous to me as they seem to be to her but I refuse to give up even the slightest chance to offend her inflated sense of self. She is beneath me whether she’s warming my husband’s bed or not. A mistress can become Empress but she must first topple the woman sitting on the throne. I refuse to show weakness. She will never mistake you as an easily defeated foe. Her son has yet to be acknowledged before court, and has yet to be named as heir. Whatever power she thinks she has brewing bastards in her womb is fleeting. Just as easily as Nathaniel stepped out of our marriage bed, he can move on from hers. This doting will be brief, I’ll make sure of it. Until then she’ll have to endure these moments of barely concealed animosity. 

I shun the worry as the song changes and I find myself drawn into a dance. Without a partner I’m left on the outskirts of the circle though I find a simple enjoyment in the practiced steps that had taken me so long to learn. The governess charged with teaching me court rules always said I was too liberal when it came to lifting my skirt and I indulge in the impropriety now, tossing my gilded gown in time to the music as every lady does, purposefully whipping it higher than necessary until I feel the kiss of a breeze about my calves. I flaunt myself like a proud stallion, wild and untamed. And as expected all eyes have found me. Even Nathaniel’s. Meredith is talking beside him, hand still in his but his glowing eyes are on me. So terrible that I’m not in the mood to receive his attention. Any man but him would do and Nathaniel’s own advisor seems to take my open invitation. 

Lord Rhys Whitecrest abandons his place at the emperor’s table, Nathaniel’s brother looking thoroughly perturbed as the lord leaves him in the middle of their conversation to join me in a dance. The song flows into the next and Rhys’s hand finds my back instead of my waist. He pulls me closer than I’d been expecting until a piece of parchment can be held between our chests. It’s far more intimate than what is appropriate. It’s everything I’d hoped to find as I flaunted myself before the sea of nobility. He’s always been a clever man.

“It seems our Robin was right,” he says softly as the crowd makes space for us to dance. In the time since Nathaniel’s departure Rhys has been the only advisor I’ve been able to trust. He’s open with his honesty and holds no desires other than to keep the empire flourishing in its fledgling years of conquest. Nathaniel has only just begun this strained union of petty kingdoms and he didn’t stay long enough to keep a tight rein upon it. Instead he ran swift as the wind off to another battle and left his empress in charge of staunching rebellion and managing his patchwork of a court. Lords and dukes, and earls and baronets of the kingdom’s Nathaniel trampled under his boot have all been given a place at his court. It was like pulling weeds trying to consolidate a voice that had even the faintest hint of reason anytime I sat the throne to hear their words. Rhys has alleviated many a headache with his quick wit and handsome smile. He flashes it now as he twirls me under the candlelight.  

“Your little messenger bird hasn’t failed you yet. She certainly has him entranced.” Rhys laughs. I laugh as well, tossing my head back as if I don’t care deeply about the issue that woman represents. My power in court will be challenged soon enough if she is not dealt with. 

“I would’ve never done this to you.” He whispers against the shell of my ear. He’s far too close, and yet I don’t push him away. I let him fall into the fantasy playing behind his eyes. He’s enamored, plainly so, as his hand lingers when the song swells to a close. 

“Another dance, Your Majesty?” There are rules about dances, allowing a man only three at any given event if they’re not your husband, but I indulge him. Another and another until my feet begin to ache and my eyes grow heavy. Rhys takes notice and sweeps me away from the dwindling crowd of party goers. 

The apartment quarters designated for the ruling empress aren’t some hidden corner of the palace and he leads me there with a surprising haste. There’s an attendant at the door as we enter my drawing room, seemingly startled awake by my late arrival. I recognize her as one of the southern women serving in the palace, a small piece of home to keep me company when the foreign ladies that usually mill about my chambers have grated on the last of my patience. She takes note of my predicament in an instant, rising to relieve Lord Rhys of his duties as escort. Thanking him and sending him off quickly as if he’s dirt being swept off a stoop. The high lord looks offended by the maid’s audacity but I feign dizziness, leaning heavily against her as she mutters about me being drunk and needing attendance before shutting the door in Rhys’s face. He’s served his purpose. There’s no audience to see him fawning over me now, no reason for me to continue the charade. Nathaniel will come in due time and it would be in poor taste to truly sink to his level of infidelity to prove a point. 

The maid helps me undress, keeping up a quiet conversation as she carefully unwinds each braid and washes the paint from my skin. The gold dust is harder to banish but it’s hardly a bother to me as I listen to her familiar accent rolling in my ears. 

“I really don’t understand,” the handmaid says as she scrubs the last of the shimmer from my skin. “That woman seems so inferior. She must’ve crawled out from some minor lord’s manor to make something of herself by lifting her skirts for the first high ranked man she could find.”

“It’s by the Mother’s grace that she found her way into an emperor’s bed.”

“The Golden Mother wouldn’t waste her divinity on a woman like that, especially not when a daughter of hers sits on that emperor’s throne.” Her words are a comfort of home. It does well to soothe the annoyance still simmering deep in my chest. I hadn’t dared to hope Nathaniel would shun a public presentation of his mistress after she was boasted all over the frontlines to his greatest allies. The palace has been staffed with wet nurses and governesses to fret over his firstborn and he hasn’t made her banish the second from her body. Audacity is something the warlord keeps in abundance. Of course it would be unflinching even before the eyes of his rightful wife and empress. Though arrogance cannot force tolerance as half of his own court has sided with me even as he touts his whore around the palace as a proper wife. 

He should’ve stayed dead. It would’ve complicated my life as the throne passed to his brother with no trueborn heir to speak of. Perhaps I would’ve been remarried to the new emperor or even been allowed to keep my station as empress. But either option would have spared me the humiliation that this Forsaken lich has brought home from the battlefield. I thank the maid as she deems me clean and takes her leave. The night has grown deep. Dawn is not far off and yet I do not feel like sleeping. I am tired, physically and mentally, and yet my mind is far too restless to have a hope of sleeping sometime soon. Instead I find myself at my desk. It’s cluttered with the mess of ruling an empire. Edicts from lords waiting to be reviewed and amended or denied completely. My red ink has gone dry as I abandoned the task of editing when Lettuce arrived to distract me. 

I find a fresh pot of black ink and a clean piece of parchment to stave off my boredom. Painting has never been my strong suit but it’s an agreeable pastime that will keep me from thinking too heavily on anything. I’m halfway through with a tree dropping blossoms over rippling water when I hear the telltale click of a lock. My door isn’t bolted and the hinges that open squeal with disuse, shattering the serene silence of the night. There is no need to look towards the candelabra flickering in the corner of my eye to know it is my husband that has intruded upon my peace. The palace is full of hidden doors and passageways that run between the stone walls like veins. Naturally, there is one linking the Emperor’s rooms to his Empress, and I loathe the thought that someone has given Nathaniel the key. He brings a chill along with the candlelight as he comes up beside me. 

He sets the candle holder on my desk before drawing his clawed fingers over my shoulder. I shiver as the sharp points prickle across my skin, shying away from his sudden touch. We were only just acquainted when he left and yet here he is touching me as a lover would. I am his wife before the court, but hidden from prying eyes there is no need for us to feign affection for the sake of stability in the palace. Especially not now when he’s sewn such discord by bringing Meredith to the forefront. I hear him sigh as I shrink away from his hand. 

“Do you find me so undesirable now, wife?” Without the cacophony of voices and music echoing around us I can hear his voice in truth and even that’s changed. It has a certain graveled roll to it that hadn’t been there last you heard it. Or perhaps it had. Nathaniel is little more than a stranger. Our courtship lasted longer than his presence at my side. It seems almost wrong to begrudge him the ability to find love elsewhere. If I were a commoner perhaps I’d be more charitable to being set aside, but I’m not. I am an empress and a crown princess before that. He’s given me the world and expects that I’ll step aside to allow him to give away what is rightfully mine. She cannot have it. Not before I’m cold in the ground. And even then, perhaps I’ll return as he has as a Forsaken to reclaim my place on the throne. It’s a terrifying thought. Being denied a place in Llamor’s halls, being changed as Nathaniel has. I wonder if he knows a god has abandoned him. Though, if he does, he surely lacks the faith to find offense in it. 

“Does it matter if I find you desirable?” I ask. He snatches the brush from my hand, staining a thick streak of black over my painting. My hand still sits where I’d been adding another ripple to the water before falling limply to my lap. 

“You are my wife, I expect that I should be the only man you desire.” 

I laugh bitterly. “Do you hear yourself? Your wife must only desire you? And yet you, my husband, can find your way between any pair of legs that so pleases you.” His eyes seem brighter in the darkness, narrowing as if I’ve insulted him. I take the time to look him over again. He has foregone a shirt, arriving at my bedchamber with his pants laced so loosely that they’ve fallen low on his hips. His bare chest is scarred as Rob said, though it hadn’t prepared me for the truth of it. I’ve seen scars before but none like this, perhaps because everyone else to bear such a mark has been burned or buried as Nathaniel should’ve been. The scar is thick and raised, flesh pulled tight around it. And his dark skin is marked with stark white shapes that run in perfect symmetry across his body. He sets one pale hand on the back of my chair and the other on my desk as he leans closer, braids sweeping over his shoulder as he smiles at me. It lacks any kindness, looks almost sinister as his full lips pull back far enough to reveal the fangs that have sprouted from his gums.  

“Remember your place, my love.” He implores as if a few stern words will extinguish more than a year’s worth of fettered anger. From the moment I heard of Meredith’s existence at his side I’ve had wrath brewing inside me like a storm thundering in the distance, coming closer and closer with every moment she is not dealt with. Instead of stifling myself I laugh. Loud and unrestrained. Wrinkles gather on the bridge of his nose as he sneers at my reaction. When my laughter dies down I do my best to fix my face into a more subdued look, like his blatant anger has frightened me into behaving. In truth I have more to say that will incite him. 

“My love?” I whisper. “Is that what you say when you’re inside her?” He slams his fist on my desk hard enough to rattle the pots of ink. I jump but don’t let him deter my own anger. When he sees I won’t be so easily wrangled, a clawed hand finds my face, wide enough to grip my jaw from ear to ear as his pointed nails dig into my skin. He won’t hurt me. He can’t. The whole palace would know who put the marks on me and he’d be shamed for it. When he’s sure my eyes won’t leave the eerie glow of his own he speaks with great difficulty, as if he’s staving off a harsher reaction. 

“Every moment I laid with her I was thinking of you.” He speaks the words in gritted fragments, hand tightening on my face when I try to pull away. 

“Am I meant to be comforted by the thought that you remembered your wife while breaking our marriage vows?” Nathaniel unhands me at that, stalking to the far side of the room to be away from me. There are markings on his back, from the base of his spine disappearing beneath the curtain of his hair. It looks like warpaint from a distance but I know it won’t be banished by a bath. This is his body now. Forsaken are marked for their state of being. Some have deep black veins and colorless eyes as if they’ve been plucked out and replaced with pools of darkness. Those that have been dead for longer, had time to rot before they were raised from death, never mend. Their bones and missing flesh laced with silvery magic. Of all the stories I’ve heard and the few I’ve seen, Nathaniel is surely the least offensive to the eyes. Whoever changed him worked quickly. He must’ve been dead for no more than a few hours. Reviving probably felt like waking from the deepest slumber. 

“A thought means nothing when your actions say otherwise, Your Majesty.” I say as I watch him pace. His eyes cut towards me like two stars in the dark. 

“Don’t call me that!” He snaps, sounding as petulant as a child. 

“Would you prefer I call you ‘Your Grace?’” The sudden distance is short lived. He abandons his pacing to drag me from my seat. There’s a strength in him that seems beyond his capabilities as he tosses me on to my bed. I sit up as quickly as I can manage but he’s already there, crawling over my prone body. 

“I would prefer if the only word rolling off that vexing tongue of yours was my name.” There’s no mistaking his intentions as his hands find my wrists and draw them over my head. He holds me down with a single hand while the other explores the body he’s been estranged from for most of our marriage. We’d laid together only thrice before he ran off to play soldier at the border. Had he given me the attention a newly wed husband should give his bride I might’ve given him an heir of my own to come home to. This has been far too delayed, made worse by his doting on another woman. 

I don’t catch her sickly sweet scent on him as he brushes chilled kisses down my neck. He bathed before he came to me.

“Did you know I would have thrown you out if you came to me stinking of her? Why do you let her fill my home with that overbearing scent?”

“She wants to be like you.” He mumbles against the shape of my collarbone. “In every regard she wishes to be as you are.” I feel him take in a long breath as he finds the space between my breasts. 

“You smell like summer. That’s what people say about you. You smell sweet and spiced like the finest summer wine and she started perfuming herself with a cheap imitation of your scent.” His grip has loosened enough that I find my hand buried in his thick braids despite myself. He hasn’t undressed me but the thin silk of my nightgown does little to mask the feeling of his lips pressing against my sternum. 

“You sound as though you loathe her and yet she is pregnant. Twice over, in fact.” 

“There will never be a woman as alluring as you, sundew.” I pray he doesn’t feel the way my heartbeat stutters. A simple platitude won’t be enough to erase the harm he’s done. Still I let him push the lace-trimmed skirt of my dress further up my hips as his face nuzzles into the softness of my belly. His hands find my waist beneath my nightgown, squeezing as if he can will a child inside me without truly touching me. 

“If you’re so allured you have a very strange way of showing it. I’d say you’re just as enamored with that blue bitch.” He laughs and looks up at me, eyes shining like pearls. 

A fanged grin finds his lips. “Everyone calls her that.”

“Are you drunk?” I sneer. “Of course they do! The only one with any fondness for her is you and the opportunistic idiots of your court.” 

“She gave me a child,” he says, suddenly sobered. “What would you have me do?” 

“You are asking me what should be done with your mistress? She’s your indiscretion and you’ve hardly thought of what I might have to say in any of this. I don’t care if you were thinking of me while you gave her your first child. She isn’t me and her child certainly isn’t mine.” 

“I missed you.” Nathaniel says, nipping at my thigh as he bares it to his fanged mouth. 

“That’s impossible. You didn’t send a single letter and came home with a whore on your arm and a child for your nursery. You didn’t care enough to miss me.” I don’t mention that he hardly knows me enough to miss me either. 

“I admit my mistake, Cosima, I do. It was wrong of me to put aside our marriage because I was away from you. But she had to suffer my wrongdoing, too.”

“How could she possibly have suffered? Unless…” I use my hand in his hair to force his eyes to mine. His lips are wet with a string of spit connecting his greedy lips to the bruise forming on my thigh. “Did you force her?” 

She seems rather happy with her predicament but it isn’t uncommon for women to make a nest of nettles if that’s all that is available. Perhaps her contentment settled in after she was forced into such a position. Nathaniel blinks owlishly, sinking back between the plush of my thighs with a shake of his head.  

“She came to me willingly and I indulged like the fool I am. It was a moment of weakness. She was a siren and I was bewitched by her song. It’s no excuse but it is the truth. And even so she suffered.”

I won’t be so easily placated. “Were you cruel to her?” 

“Cruel in a different sense. I never raised a hand to her, didn’t push her beyond what she offered. But I’m sure beneath the smugness of having caught a conqueror between her legs she loathes me. Truly and deeply.”

“Why?” If he hasn’t forced her, hadn’t made the bedding painful and doted on her then as he did tonight, then what does she have to loathe. Unless she truly wishes to be in my place. Foolish to think I could be taken off my throne so easily. The children help her cause but if Nathaniel keeps indulging as he is between my legs I’ll surely have one of my own to challenge hers as heir apparent. First born doesn’t naturally mean a proper heir. There’s grace in her son being regarded as illegitimate in the eyes of the court. A child of my own would be recognized from birth as true born without any need for legitimizing formalities. 

“I called her by your name.” I remember Meredith’s hand at dinner, how her little fist had clenched so quickly when Nathaniel called me by my given name. She’s had to hear it from the moment she fell into his bed. It must sound like a curse to her, poisoning her ears so that she couldn’t forget who was truly on his mind. But even that isn’t enough.

“Do you want to know every detail? You seem so consumed by it. Would you like me to tell you how I turned her on her stomach and kept her quiet so I could imagine it was your voice whining my name? I didn’t want to see her face and know it wasn’t you beneath me.”

I scoff. “She looks nothing like me. If you were going to imagine you could’ve at least found someone that favored me more closely.” He hums and the sound sings up my spine as he noses past the final barrier of my underclothes. My knees try to knock together as his mouth finds the wet heat between my legs but his shoulders are already there to stop them. 

“I wasn’t looking.” He groans. “She came to me and I accepted her service. Blonde or brunette, it wouldn’t have mattered. It was never about them. It was about you. It was about this.” He presses a chilled kiss to my thigh hanging over his shoulder as his thumbs spread my folds to his lecherous gaze. His tongue is like ice as it drags through the wetness gathered between my legs. I gasp at the feeling, body trembling with stirred lust and a touch of chills as he teases a finger inside me. I’ve been loyal. For all his shameful behavior I’ve held fast to my vows. The only fingers that have been between my legs are my own as I waited for him to come home. He groans as I tighten around the single digit and the sound pools hot and heavy inside me. 

“So fucking tight.” Nathaniel curses as my cunt squeezes around his finger. He’s careful of his pointed nails, moving slowly as he presses in and out. “It’s all mine isn’t it? Always has been.” He simpers. I yank at his hair, trying to pull him away from the mess making of my sheets with his damnable tongue and fingers. He sounds so proud knowing only he has defiled the temple of my body in such a way. It reminds me that he hasn’t given me the same honor. 

“Bastard!” I huff. He lifts his head, eyes looking somehow brighter as his cheeks glow with a sheen of my arousal. He looks roguishly pleased with himself.

“So disrespectful.” He teases, swatting at my thigh with little intent to harm. “Tell me to stop and I will, but I won’t fit unless you open for me.” He slides another finger inside, pressing them up against the spot that sends a lightning strike up my spine as his thumb draws tight circles over my clit. I pant his name, somehow wholly uninterested yet desperate for his touch. 

“You’re insufferable.” 

“Then it’s good that my touch brings you no suffering. I can hear you, sunlight. I can hear you trying to keep those little sounds to yourself. Be good and give your Emperor what he wants. Let me hear you.” Stubbornly, I bite my lip to keep my whining at bay. Nathaniel allows my silence for only a moment before his fangs dig deep into my thigh. 

“I’ll bleed, you monster!” My insult only makes him sink in deeper until I feel heat welling around the frigid press of his mouth. 

“Monster, am I?” He grunts, bloody teeth bared at me. “You think I’m a monster?” I realize, belatedly, the error of my words. I hadn’t meant it as an insult. It was an indelicate slip of the tongue. He can’t expect that I’ll be careful about my words when he’s digging his teeth into my skin. 

“I only meant that it hurt.”

“It hurts?” He teases, mocking my discomposure. “No, you liked it.” He pulls his fingers from inside me, licking the wetness from each one as he presses my knees into my chest. His pants, already slung low on his hips, are darkened with a spot of wetness as he presses the shape of his cock against me. 

“Fuck, Cosima.” He groans gratefully. “Stay there.” He holds me still with one hand on the back of my thigh as the other struggles with the ties of his pants. The moment they’re shoved just low enough he’s pressing into me, body shaking with restraint as he waits for me to relax around him. My hips shift traitorously, pulling him deeper and he loses himself in an instant. The breath rushes from my lungs as Nathaniel falls over me, cold breath puffing against my throat as he holds himself up on shaky forearms. He bullies his shoulders under the crook of my knees, folding me in earnest as he lays his weight over me. The pleasure pinches the air from my lungs just as much as the pressure of him sagging against my chest. 

My arousal hangs in the balance, simmering like embers as I wait for Nathaniel to move. My body has already accepted him inside, my arousal surely wetting his hips where they’re flush against my skin. He’d been so eager just a moment ago, nearly bullying me in preparation and yet the moment he’s gotten what he wanted he falls still. His body is trembling, almost shivering, and his breath is shaky as his lips ghost across my throat. I feel the sharp drag of his fangs as he tries to say something but can’t. I move my hips again, more purposeful now. He’s already gotten me here so I might as well take my pleasure from him. He hardly makes it easy. He’s like a slab of stone atop me, whimpering breathlessly with each short buck of my hips. It’s pitiful. Not nearly enough to please me. 

“Move,” I seethe, “or I’ll throw you out.” Nathaniel laughs but it’s mirthless, like a grating sigh as he pulls away from me. 

“I can’t move.” His voice sounds stronger the moment he pulls away but I want to smack him for it. 

“All of that and you can’t even satisfy the wife you’ve been craving for so long? How am I meant to believe a word you say when this is how you act when I give myself to you. Get out!” I snap, already sitting up and pulling my soiled nightdress back down my thighs. The fabric has gone sheer where dampness has gathered and he knocks my hand away before I can wrangle the clinging fabric over the fullness of my hips. I nearly flinch when his fingers find their way to my neglected clit. 

“Do I look like a man that is unhappy with the woman in his bed?” He doesn’t of course. His cock is drooling a puddle of precum onto his stomach. It doesn’t matter. 

“You are in my bed,” I correct him. “And I am very unhappy.” 

“Then come claim your happiness, sundew. I’m yours to take.” 

“Shut up.” I sneer as I ruck my dress back up to my waist, feeling like a whore as I cage my knees over his hips and guide his twitching length back inside me. His head falls back against the pillows the moment our hips meet again and a guttural moan falls from his lips. I tighten myself around him, and his hands snap to my hips as if to keep me anchored while he gathers the dregs of his sanity. His indiscretions stain the moment as I wonder if he made these sounds for that paramour of his. He was like this on our first night, too, writhing and clawing at me like an animal in heat. Now his hands are cold as his talons bite into the meat of my hips. My name falls from his lips in breathy pants, each higher than the last as his hips buck to meet me on each downward stroke. 

“Come with me.” He says desperately. One hand leaves my hips to rub feverishly at my clit. It sends sparks up my spine but it won’t be enough to meet him in the middle. 

“Not inside.” I implore, already slowing my pace as his muscles begin to tighten. If he hears me he doesn’t answer. Instead he wraps himself around me, pulling me tight to his chest once more. We share our breaths as his lips brush against mine. It isn’t a kiss but he’s trying as his tongue finds mine between the swift canting of his hips. 

“Please.” I taste the word more than I hear it. His eyes are open as he kisses me, glowing like twin flames as they sparkle with tears. “Please.” 

“You have your sons.” I remind him. It’s cruel given his current state but no less deserved. He was wrong to lay with that woman, and misguided still to bring her and her bastards into my home. 

“My sons,” he agrees quickly. “Not yours. They’re not yours. I want an heir, Cosima. Let me fill you with a prince. Take my love.” I shake my head, already trying to wrestle away from his embrace. 

“I don’t want the type of love you have to offer me, Your Majesty.” He lets me go then and I let him slip out of me, masking my own displeasure as my cunt clenches emptily in his absence. His cock twitches pitifully before he spills his seed onto his stomach. It’s wasted without a womb to fill but he’s made his choice, so this is mine. He’s whimpering again and for a moment I think he’ll truly cry over being made to cum without a place to put it. Now it is simply a mess to be cleaned up. 

“You’ll have no heirs from me.” I tell him as my fingers press inside my cunt. I can be rougher than he was with my blunt nails and I make a show of riding my fingers to the edge, thumb circling my clit as I shiver through an orgasm. One that he did not give me. I wipe my hand on his pants before getting out of bed. The sun will rise soon and I want a few hours of sleep before I must face the court again. Before I have to smile and feign kindness. My ruined nightgown is tossed to the floor after I use it to mop up the mess dripping down my legs. When I finish wiping away my sweat and finding a new sleeping gown, Nathaniel still hasn’t moved from my bed. 

He looks almost pathetic laid out in the middle of my lush bed with his pants shoved halfway down his thighs and his cock going soft against his stomach. I watch him as I dab the sweat from my skin with a handkerchief. 

“You can leave now. You’ve gotten what you wanted.” I watch his eyes go dark for a moment as he blinks up at the ceiling. 

“I have nothing that I want.” I daintily drop the used handkerchief on his chest like a lady shyly hoping a knight will take her favor. 

“And what is it that you want, Your Majesty?” He sits up at last and cleans the sweat and spunk from his chest before tossing the rag aside. 

“My wife.”

My temper flares again. “I’ve done nothing but my duty as your wife.”

“Is that what that was?” He sounds saddened and I feel my mask of indifference begin to slip once more. 

“I am the wife you’ve made me.” I say hotly. “I do not want to be your wife if it means this is what I’ll become. You should’ve left her and her whelps in the same snowy keep she crawled out of. If I see her again–” I turn my back to him before I say something treasonous. He’s said she was only a warm body beside his, the first he found that could comfort his longing, but how am I meant to believe him when he brought her and her child here? A man will say anything sweet when he is in bed with a beautiful woman and Nate surely knew to deny his feelings for her while between my legs. 

“You want her gone. I know it, my love, I swear I do. What would you have me do to fix this?” Kill her. The words burn at the tip of my tongue but I can’t part my lips to say them. 

“Truly?” Nate wraps his arms around me, pressing kisses against my shoulder. 

“Truly. Whatever your wish, sunlight, I’ll do it. I was wrong. I know it. Let me try to make amends.” 

“Send her away. The whore and her bastards.” 

“That is all?” He sounds relieved. 

“Do you want me to say I want her drawn and quartered? Do you want me to wish violence on your son? I am not an evil woman. You’ve rotted me with jealousy but I won’t wish harm on innocent children. But that woman? I want her out or I will make her life miserable. I can promise that.” 

“May I ask for payment for my efforts?” His arms ensure that I don’t go far when I try to rush to my feet in a fit of anger. 

“Payment?”

Marriage is a type of power that is seldom tempered by love. The strongest swords are forged in the flames of duty and quenched in the waters of ancient powers. If each marriage is a thread the realm is a tapestry held together with the mingling of many colors. The most lustrous house is the crown, throne seated for hundreds and hundreds–nearly a thousand–years by House Andomere. The gleaming silver and shimmering gold of the sun and stars casts light over the whole of Revenspear. And father now with the final conquering of Greenscale. The island nation had been unbowed, unperturbed by the army of Wiless Skytail, born beneath a blazing comet and foretold to rule the land from the Whitechain in the north down to the Dragon Sea in the south. His army had been exhausted, a candle burned to the end of its wick, when he set forth to fold Greenscale into his newly acquired kingdom. Greedy they’d called him after his death. The woman that foretold his great conquest–a godswife of the Deepwoods–had said nothing of Greenscale, nor the Starlight Isles. But the first king had grown overzealous, drunk on the lust for war. It had cost him an eye, nearly the whole of what was prophesied, and he returned to his newly minted throne with his tail between his legs. 

In the years since, many an Andomere have set their sights on the untouched island in the west, jewel of the Emerald Sea, and yet none has succeeded. Even now. The navy of this generation was led by the three sons of the Stoneheart. Lord Robin Briar had raised each of his gray-eyed sons in his own likeness. The three of them were berserkers in battle, known for causing injury in their mountain pass homeland just as well as crown hosted tourneys. War was where the Briar brothers belonged and from word received from a midnight raven they’d done well for themselves in the Jewelands. The youngest of Lord Briar’s sons had taken the Sea Serpent for a hostage in his own sandstone palace. 

“This means victory.” Lord Harrendoore spoke assuredly as the King's Council passed the note around the table.

“Not yet.” Lord Cresslen Dunn says. He’s old and sage, the wisest of the men to sit at the table. House Dunn has always given the crown great council. He sits to the right of the king, his strong right hand. At the head of the table your father the king nods. 

“As you say, Lord Dunn. The Sea Serpent is caught but his armies have yet to surrender. Their message says that the fighting persists even without their leader.”

“Then we kill the Serpent.” 

“That won’t do.” Another lord tuts. “Killing the Sea Serpent will only cause more chaos. Another will rise in his place. And another and another until there will be no men left to rule.”

“The Serpent has no sons, there is no one to succeed him.”

“The people of the Jewelands honor warriors. It is the same on every island in the Emerald Sea as far as the sun may reach. The Sea Serpent is the strongest of them in Greenscale and they honor him as their leader. He does not need sons to have a successor. The next of the great warriors will take his place. And on and on until they’re left with those that will die easily to our men. If you’d like the King to rule over an island of corpses then the Sea Serpent can die. Otherwise he must live. Death is not the only solution.”

“And what would you suggest, my lord?” 

“Death begets death.” Is all he says. 

“Indeed,” finally Lord Whitewood speaks, “death will bring death and death, but death will also bring life.” The Lord of the Deepwoods is best known for his odd way of speaking. He sounds as if he is reciting a poem whenever the quiet Lord opens his mouth. He speaks in riddles and songs and hardly ever explains plainly what his meaning is. He’s intriguing to be sure but most of the King’s Council tired of his mystique years ago. Long before I was made privy to the talks of the Council. 

“Vandomin speak clearly, please.” Father speaks to him informally, though not for a lack of respect. All Kings of the Andomere line find themselves with a Whitewood by their side. The godswives and magicians of the Deepwoods say that some things in life are known. The sun rises in the east, this is known. The moon will change its face each night, this is known. Every Andomere is drawn to the Deepwoods, this is known. In the time of Wiless Skytail the Deepwoods was the home of the Andomeres. Long before they were kings. Perhaps it’s why I haven’t tired of Lord Vandomin’s knotted speech. He talks like a dream and I’ve always been fond of prophecies and the like. 

“In death there is life.” He says again. “A dead deer will feed the buzzards. Dead grass will nest a crow’s egg. There is renewal in this balance. This war has brought about much death. Now is a time for new life.” His eyes pass over me for a moment and the wine ripples in its pitcher as I shiver under his bright green gaze. 

“New life?” Father asks, stroking the stumble about his chin. “A child?”

“To bind the lands.” Vandomin nods. “The Sea Serpent will not bow to words. He needs blood.” 

One of the lords scoffs, “I thought death was not the answer and now what? We’re to give the Serpent a child sacrifice?”

“You’re missing his meaning, my lord.” I say before you can stop myself. All eyes turn to me and I sit up taller in my chair. The king has a mirthful look in his eyes, something close to pride. 

“With all due respect, Princess Gaelwyn, this is a war council. You’re only here because your brother has gone to fight. We don’t need your council.” The reproach stings like a whip to my pride. Anger prickles hot over my skin. The words are there to bite back, waiting at the tip of my tongue. Even as a woman a princess is above his station and yet he thinks to insult me so directly. 

“There was no respect in your words. The princess sits in her brother’s place, she speaks with his voice. Lord Vandomin says. “You were saying, princess?” 

“Thank you, my lord. As I said, you missed his meaning. What king would sacrifice a child even in times of war? Lord Whitewood meant a child, yes, but not just any child; an heir. The people of the Jewelands respect blood oaths and see the ties between parent and child as such. The Sea Serpent would not raise an army against the mother of his child. It is against their customs. The whole of the mother’s family is to be protected during feuds. My mother hails from Starfall, for example. The whole of House Yarwen would be safe if my Father took issue with the families of the Isles.” 

“As the princess says.” Lord Vandomin agrees. “Man is a needle and woman a thread.”

“It would certainly solve the issue of Greenscale. The crown has been toiling with the matter for far too long. It is time for it to be settled.” 

“Hear, hear.” The lords with sense agree. 

“Then it is settled. We’ll send word to the Jewelands to keep the Serpent alive and choose a bride for him.”

“The Sea Serpent will want to see the woman before he pledges himself to her. He will want a rose. Send him a thorn and there will be no end to the bloodshed.” 

“The realm is in no short supply of beautiful women of high station. We will find him a proper bride.”

“And for the Briar boys?” Someone asks. They’ll return from war wanting proper reward for being the men to take the Jewelands. 

“They will have whatever they please for this monumental victory.” Father says easily. The rest of the council is spent on less pressing matters of tourneys and the like. Voices buzz like swarming flies in my head but nothing is truly heard. Instead thoughts of the poor brides being married off to the Serpent and three Briars circled through my thoughts. There would be great honor in uniting the realm at long last, but at what cost. The Sea Serpent was a monster just as his name said. 

Honor would not blanket the truth of his being. Though it’s what Father says when he summons me to his solar to discuss the matter of my betrothal some days later. The king dotes on me, his only daughter. But the years for marriage had passed. Many women of my same age were married and heavy with a second or third child and yet I still stand at your father’s side, unwed and childless. 

“It’s become a matter of propriety, sweet girl.” He soothes as I pace the room like a caged lion. The tapestries on the walls with their woven eyes watch me, pale threads seeming to glow with amusement in the light of the midday sun. It truly does feel like a cage as the golden light streams through the wrought iron lattice of the window in a pattern of light squares and dark lines. The feeling of warm and cold dances across my bare arms as I pace, skin prickling with goosebumps as anger begins to nettle me like thorns. 

“Marriage I could accept,” I say thickly, repressing the angry tears budding in my eyes. Tears would not help. Tears are a child’s weapon to be disarmed by a soothing governess or pliant parent. Father is not pliant. He is steadfast and resolute as a king should be and tears would only look like an ill-mannered tantrum in his eyes. I’m beyond the age of tearful blubbering. Now is the time to be poised and collected. The tears are swallowed after a few more steps.

“Marriage I could accept,” I try again, “but to the Sea Serpent? Father, this I will not do.” 

“You can and you will. Ravens have been sent and arrangements made. You’ll be delivered to him within the week.”

“All this without my leave?” 

“What leave do I need? I am not only your father, I am your king. I need not ask your permission to make arrangements for your marriage. It is long past time. We all must do our duty. This is yours.” 

“Aren’t the Briars in need of wives?” There’s desperation in my voice. They’re brutish and poor at conversation but I’d give any one of them children. Happily, in fact, if it would save me from the jaws of the Serpent. If the stories are to be believed he is a terror to look upon. Grotesque and harrowing to even the most weathered warrior. To be married to him would be to be damned to horror every day of the rest of my life. 

“Their betrothals have been arranged. The matter has been settled. As is the matter with the Sea Serpent.”

“Your Grace, Father, please! I will take the place of any woman betrothed to the Briars. Any! I do not care which.” 

“And have me send some lord’s daughter to the Serpent?” The truth of it silences any further words. 

“I’ve spoiled you beyond measure, deluded you into believing that you could marry at your own leisure. It is not a choice for you to make. It never was. I should’ve married you off years ago.”

“It would spare me this punishment.” 

“What punishment is that? There is a war. Our people are dying with every moment you remain in this castle. Better to give him a princess and be done with it.” His tone is stony, refusing further discussion. We stare at each other, waiting for the other to break. Father bends first, dropping his head with an acquiescent sigh. He says my name gently to start.

“Gael, you are my only daughter. The jewel of my crown. But there are some things even a king cannot spare for his daughter. This is one of them, dear heart. Our family has fought for the Jewelands for generations and it is finally within reach. This will complete Wiless’s legacy and his spirit will finally be at rest.” 

Those are Deepwoods words. Spirit doesn’t exist in the new way of King Riven the Favored. He took the gods of the common folk and brought them into the Andomere traditions. Spirit doesn’t exist in the pragmatic eyes of the new gods. 

There is only passing through the hands of the Weaver before birth, threading through the eyes of the Loom in life, and being severed at death by the hand of the Blade. Death is a tapestry, too. A beautiful depiction of life to be gazed upon in death when you sit in the Hall of A Thousand Threads and bask in the stories of your ancestors. Deepwoods know the stories in life. Each of the ancestors follow their descendants, in truth. Some return to finish their work. Wiless was said to have returned thrice in Cylest the Blessed, Fawniss Goldspear, and Malorite the Unseeing. How strange that a Briar had been the one to conquer what Wiless and dozens of Andomeres couldn’t. 

“He will be at rest, but what of me? This is my only home.”

“And it always will be. I send the ancestors’s blessings with you, daughter, but that’s all that I can do. Duty must always come first. It is the first rule of the crown.”

“Of course.” My voice is watery as I bow to my father. His words spin like a wheel in my head as I retreat to the privacy of my chambers. It is still light out but exhaustion is heavy in me as if I’ve ran circles around the castle as I had as a child, finding new rooms and passages as my governess begged my obedience. Most were frightened of the old Blackstar Castle. It’s made of curious black stone that looks slick to touch and reflects light like a mirror. These black halls are strange, but it’s all I’ve ever known. To leave it would be terrifying and yet the king says I must. 

Preparations are made with haste considering the Serpent is still being held hostage in his own home. The war has not yet ended despite the celebrations in the capital. The city is in the shadow of the great, shining castle hearing news of the Sea Serpent’s capture. No one dares to think that their premature elation hinges on the warlord accepting a foreign Princess as his bride. 

“What if he isn’t taken with me?” The words sound vain and yet they’re necessary. In Revenspear the pinnacle of beauty is made in my likeness and yet the Jewelands are not Revenspear, not yet. They keep different customs and delight in different things. Should the Serpent find something lacking he is likely to put me to the sword as a show of insult. Mother soothes my doubts. 

“A beauty is still a beauty in every reach of the world. To gain Starlight, Wiless married my ancestor Amalyn. The Isles were the last he took before falling to Greenscale. And even then his armies were spared only by the proposal of marriage. Now every House in the realm has a Yarwen in their family line. Of Starfall, of Widow’s Gully, of Halfpeak. If there is a place for a Yarwen to be found, they were plucked and married into the mainland. It is the thread that binds us to Revenspear, in truth. This will be another.” She says, looking around at the servants working to pack away my room. The tapestries were taken down, trinkets stowed away, clothes folded into trunks. It feels like a buzzard plucking at my heart as each piece of myself is moved and shut away to make it as though I’d never been to begin with. 

“Another thread.” I say, voice empty with resignation. Man is a needle and here I am as a womanly thread. Just as the gods intended.

The traveling is easy. There are well worn roads leading to the west. A ship is prepared and waiting in the deep green waters of the Emerald Sea. The port is the last I’ll see of Revenspear, its watchtower of pale stone standing out against the blue horizon until it sinks out of sight over the waters. It’s calm sailing, the Emerald Sea known for its fish and steady waters. Standing at the bow, seamist kissing my cheeks, I allow myself the luxury of tears. It’s said that mermaids live in these enchanted waters and their tears make the most beautiful pearls. The tears of a princess aren’t so valuable even as they fall for the three days of the journey, only pausing as I sleep. And even then the pillow is damp when I wake. Here there’s no one to offer comfort. A few maids that are new to my service, a few guards sent to keep me until the marriage is solidified. The king didn’t spare any excess luxuries for my journey.

Truly the whole of my life was left in Blackstar. There’s hope that your broken spirit might mend but now my heart feels empty of any stirring as it sits heavy in my chest. Overhead gulls swoop and call. Perhaps if I stare for long enough one might dive down and pluck my eyes from my head, sparing me the agony of watching the shoreline approach on the third day. 

The sand has gone pink with blood. Bodies are strewn about where they’d fallen in death, some with weapons still in hand and other missing parts. There is no port but a humble dock, too small for a kingship. A smaller boat is taken to shore and a guard lifts me to shore by my waist. It goes against proper conduct but this is not a place that observes the rules of the castle. The pinkish sand is soft as snow underfoot as our party waits for the garrison stationed onshore to greet us. They come out of the trees slowly in their weathered armor. The leader of the small pack has a soiled bandage wrapped around his head. Dorian Briar I realize. His chestplate is embossed with the thorny wreath of his namesake. 

“Princess,” he bows shortly, “the palace is this way.” Following behind them is like being a child in the creek of the castle gardens. Each patch of sand is like a stone jutting from the water trying to dodge the corpses of the fallen. A few soldiers stay behind to gather more of the bodies. There’d been a cloud of smoke smoldering even from a distance and the smell was overwhelming. The salted air reeks of death and decay as more bodies are stripped of their armor and laid to burn. Most of those still left where they died are enemy soldiers. Leather armor and strange accents to their bodies. A green-skinned fishman with his chest cleaved open like a great red valley through a lush pasture. A harpy and then later the wing that had been torn from his body. A tiger man with its face mashed in like a pulpy mess spilled over a fur rug. It pleases me to be past it once the path through the trees comes into view. 

Sweat dampens the whole of my body beneath the cover of the palm trees and bugs seem to flock to the scent as if it’s nectar. The handkerchief I keep in my bodice does little to keep me presentable even as I mop away each layer of perspiration. The perfumes I wore were already lost to the sea air and now I’ll smell of salt and sweat when I’m presented to my betrothed. It matters not if I find my husband’s looks agreeable but my presentation is a matter of life and death. And yet a hike through the jungle precedes such an important event. Roots and rotting fruit threaten my balance with each step and my breath comes heavy in the humid air. Each sound startles as birds caw through the trees and heavy things drop to the ground. The guards fall in close, hands poised on their swords. It wouldn’t do for the princess to be mauled before she reaches the palace. 

After a while there’s light ahead. Not the dappling of the sun poking through the pinpoints of space between the thick canopy, but a true break in the trees as the path opens to a courtyard. There are carriages waiting and I delight in being off of my feet. Hunting was an occasional hobby in the castle but never in such delicate shoes. Pain smarts through the arches of my feet as the borderlands turn into a city outside the carriage window. Everything is pale stone and bright paint as life continues despite the war. Some buildings are boarded and street stalls empty, but there’s the occasional curious gaze as the precession of carriages passes.

Dorian helps me out of the carriage when we stop in another courtyard. This one has twin pools of water flanking the stone path leading to the palace entrance. The water is clear as the sky is blue, and still enough to use as a mirror. The delicate style I’d so carefully pulled my hair into has been ruined and the thin hairs that frame my face have fallen across my forehead in little waves, pasted down by sweat. Even the light dress I’d worn to stave off the jungle heat has gone dark in places with marks of my sweat. If a Lord of Revenspear could see their princess now they’d call me an embarrassment. No longer did I exemplify the proper looks of a woman. Now I look exactly like I’d spend an hour huffing and gasping through the root-knotted, gnat-plagued path of a jungle. Still there is honor in effort. Another dab of the handkerchief and a smoothing of the flyaway hairs steels me for entering the Sea Serpent’s palace. 

The windows cast a rainbow of colors across the floor as sunlight streams through the different shades of sea glass arranged in beautiful pictures. They look like glass tapestries hung through the halls as Dorian leads the way to the throne room. Two of the Serpent’s own guards stand outside the open door, watching as I’m ushered inside. Here is the moment of truth. 

Beneath the sore soles of my feet the gorgeous mosaic tiles are cool and grounding. Nothing will lower my gaze as I float through the room, soiled silk gown fluttering behind me like folded wings. The Serpent is there, coiled upon his throne. It’s nearly enough to falter my steps as I pass the crystal pillars lining the way to his throne. 

He is a sight to behold, beyond what was said of him. There was no terror, no horror. Instead there was the opposite. The tail had been expected though perhaps not the size of it. The Sea Serpent was a famous king. He took the place of the last when he’d fallen in battle and now he is here to be my husband. There’s wonder in the way my gaze draws over his body. His tail is the size and length of three men, perhaps wider, and his human body sits tall atop it. His scales are in shades of blue, looking like jewels in the shifting light streaming through the window behind his throne. His skin is a soft shade of turquoise, and his hair falls in thick black ringlets around his shoulders. His face holds a curious humor at the announcement of Revenspear’s Princess Gaelwyn. 

His golden eyes appraise me in the same way one might examine a gem. His forked tongue peaks out from his bisected lips as he tilts his head. He says nothing, only stares. If he expects a word from me he will be waiting for eternity. It isn’t my place to speak before him. In his palace, at his mercy. One wrong word could cost the crown this tenuous truce. After more silence has passed he finally turns to a man at his side, whispering something in the hissing tongue of his people. The man murmurs back and whatever he has to say seems to satisfy the Serpent. 

“Leave, all of you.” He commands in the native tongue of the island. His own men fall away first, following orders as they’re spoken. Those of the opposing king remain a few beats longer, eyes looking to me for leave. Their questioning gazes are ignored. The king of this place has commanded they go. Even if they don’t speak the language, seeing the others go should be command enough. They don’t need my words to follow a simple order. Dorian nods towards the door and the rest file out. When they’re gone the doors close behind them, stone grinding against stone as the guards at the door close me inside with the Serpent. Death is expected. Why else would he send away any witness to the exchange if not to be rid of the princess set before him in peace. Surely the soldiers would jump to protect me, the guards as well. Yes, sending them away was easier than spilling undue blood when they inevitably leapt to stop him. 

An acidic sort of heat prickles across my skin as anxiety rises in my throat. The journey had robbed me of any tears I had left to cry so I stand dry-eyed in the face of death. 

His tail moves. First a minute shift as if he was settling himself, and then another and another until he’s uncoiling himself and slithering down the steps before his throne. He rises before me taller than a rearing horse and nearly as wide across. His blue chest is corded in thick muscles and slashed with scars. Some are pink and raised, newly healed, others are old and faded. He is strong as he stands before me. And he is beautiful. Had he accepted me, I would’ve made a happy bride. As strange as he was in comparison to my own coloring and shape there was no way to deny that his foreign form is truly alluring in the way that all things unknown can be. I am an Andomere in name and spirit. Magic and otherness will always sing to me despite any previous misgivings. 

A taloned hand reaches out and it takes every bit of concentration to not flinch away. Death will not find me as a coward. I will watch him do it, for as long as I’m able. He will not see me cower and shut my eyes to my own demise. He will see a princess resigned to her fate, doing her duty even in the face of grave consequences. His bangles tinkle like bells as his sharpened nails play at the small braids in my hair. They’re similar to his own, beaded with precious stones as is customary in the Jewelands. Everyone is meant to decorate themselves in finery. So different from the rigid need for occasion to wear the loveliest of your jewels in Blackstar. Anymore than a few common gems along a gold chain is seen as too garish for most occasions. Now an unpolished sapphire the size of a babe’s fist hands in the hollow of my throat, matching the blue silk and silver thread of my summer dress. It’s still nearly black down the front where sweat has gathered between my breasts but it will make me a beautiful corpse when the Serpent is finished with me. 

“Princess. Woman.” he rasps in the language of Revenspear after more of his fiddling. The first of my learned languages had been that native to the Deepwoods, then that of the common folk. The language of Greenscale was taught later as is common in the years since the first conquest was attempted. Wiless was so certain his descendants would one day rule in these lands. 

The Serpent says something in that hissing language from before, doubtlessly the language of the nagas, before trying again in Greenscale’s tongue. 

“Queen.” He leaves without another word, the muscles in his arms rolling like waves as he pushes the heavy stone doors open. The small audience is still just outside the door and they part to allow him past. Dorian is the first to enter, drawing me close with a hand on my arm. It’s highly inappropriate by Revenspear standards and his grip is a hair too tight for comfort. 

“What did he say? Does he like you?” 

“I don’t know.” It’s the truth of it as I yank my arm away from him. The Serpent had said only a few words yet none of them called for my head. He’d been armed, a dagger hanging about the chains and jewels circling his waist. It would’ve been easy to draw it and open my throat and yet he hadn’t. Perhaps that wasn’t the Greenscale way. They’re a people that revel in violence. If he means to kill me there might be a need for an audience. A foreign princess hardly washes up on their shores as a token of peace every day.

“Ghisla.” It’s a word I don’t recognize as a harpy comes forward. His skin is a brilliant shade of ruby red and his feathers fade from red to dappled yellow and then ocean blue. He doesn’t bow and instead claps his fist over his heart. It is a sign of respect in the Jewelands. 

“There is much to prepare for,” his voice is accented. “I will show you to your room for the day.” Just the day. All the heat leeches from my body at that. If I only need a room for the day it’s likely that I’ll be dead come nightfall. The birdman leads the way through the sprawling palace until he reaches a place where he can go no further. Dorian and the rest of the men are barred from entry and a naga woman moves to lead the rest of the way. She’s pale as a pearl with diamond-shaped markings going down her tail in shades of brown and black. Her hair falls around her face in auburn waves as she makes light conversation. She talks of the festival that will be held tonight and how she is excited to be the one to prepare me for it.  

“I’m not usually given the honor.” She beams, needle-like fangs on full display as she ushers me into the room. “You all may enjoy the palace amenities. I’m sure they’ll find something for you to do.” A wave of unease moves through my maids as I translate what the girl has said but they leave when I ask. 

The conversation continues as she prepares me though it is more of her talking and me listening. I ask her very few things. Her name, the true name of her king. He’s only ever been known to Revenspear as the Sea Serpent. Warlords aren’t often known by their given names. She answers easily, never questioning my ignorance. She is Taela and her king is Halwe. He was named after a great warrior that was known on every island in the Emerald Sea. Her hissing voice regales me with stories of her homeland as she prepares me. She treats me like a child, bathing me in scented water and washing the sweat from my skin. The clothes she dresses me in are markedly less modest than what is traditional of Revenspear. Most of it is metalwork and jewels hung with a meager amount of sheer fabrics to maintain my modesty. 

“This may tickle.” Taela says as she pulls out a stone jar. It’s filled with a gold liquid. She uses her fingers as a paintbrush as she draws out designs over the exposed skin of my stomach and arms. Her taloned fingers are careful to not scratch as she draws suns on the back of your hands. The gleaming sun is of my family’s crest. It’s a small comfort despite the circumstances. 

“You’re done!” She says after threading the last golden bead into my hair. The woman in the mirror doesn’t look as stricken as I feel to be wearing such beautiful garbs on the night before my death. Have ravens been sent to Father? Had Dorian and the rest abandoned their princess knowing death would come to me soon. The sun is beginning to set as Taela leads the way to where the supposed festival will be held. The carriage I take now is much larger as are the horses. They’re hoofbeats sound thunderous as they charge through the streets, large enough to transport a naga and her captive. 

“Will it hurt?” It’s the question that’s been plaguing me since I was first presented. The Sea Serpent wasn’t known for his mercy. Thoughts of being strung up, spine broken and lungs exposed come to mind. A sword would be swift and clean if not for the necklaces hanging like collars around my throat. They’d need to be removed for a clean cut. Or perhaps they’d have a giant do the work. There’d be the strength of twenty men behind the swing of his axe. And what would they do with my body? Perhaps send my pieces home to be buried with my ancestors. Or tossed in the sea so my spirit may never be at rest. What rest would there be in the ever shifting waves? Maybe I’d appear on the decks of passing ships, a wraith in jewels and finery holding her own head. 

“From what I’ve heard the worst of it is a pinch. Ghislaro will be kind to you, princess.” The word she used is unknown but I suppose she means the Serpent.

“That is good, then.” A pinch. If that is all then I can face that with my head held high. He will not see me cry nor beg over a brief bit of pain. 

The streets are busier now, stalls open and people walking in the amber glow of the setting sun. The white buildings are dressed in colorful banners and ropes of wild flowers hang between them, raining soft petals into the streets as the carriage passes. Children dance beneath them, jumping to catch the petals in their hands. Little lizards with green skin and chubby tails, baby birds with soft, stubby feathers, a wolf cub with sandy fur. 

“Are executions always celebrated like this?” Taela’s hair turns to flames around her face, sunset dancing over the reddish waves as she whips her head towards you. 

“Who’s to be executed? I thought the war was done with. Are there soldiers that went against the peace treaty?” I blink. 

“Am I not being taken to my death? Is that not what all this is for?” 

“Your death? Ghisla, no! This is our way when it is time for Ghislaro to marry. You are to be his queen. Is that not why you were sent?” 

“Queen?” He’d said it before he departed but this hissing tone of his voice had filled the word with such disdain. It had sounded like he was disgusted with the prospect of me being presented as a potential bride. And then he’d left with no further words, slithered away to leave me to the servants. A shiver washes over me as Taela’s words finally settle. I’ll be married to her Ghislaro, the Sea Serpent. He hadn’t been scorned. I’d been accepted. 

“I’m to be Queen?”

“That is what I’ve dressed you for.” Taela nods. “Have I done wrong?”

“No, I suppose not. But if I’m to marry your king, what pain did you think I was speaking of?”

“I thought you were asking about the bedding. I’m told women from your homeland are expected to be untouched before their wedding.”

“Is it not the same here?” Taela shakes her head. 

“Greenscale is known for its extravagance, its indulgence. Romance is a pillar of our lives. If we didn’t enjoy each other’s bodies what would be the point of having them? We fight and we love. That is our way.” She says happily as the carriage turns into the center of the city. 

The street is a wide halo of stone around a patch of untouched land. People crowd around the carriage as it pulls to a stop, hands banging on the doors as if they’re bandits stopping a caravan. Faces of all kinds smile up at us as Taela leads the way through the crowd. The people part but only just enough to allow us through. Curious hands reach out to touch, fingers tugging at my hair and lifting the gossamer train of my skirt. Taela nods and laughs with those that speak to her but I can hardly understand the rushed cadence of the crowd’s mingling voices. Children pass flowers into my painted hands and stained fingers brush across your arms to add colorful streaks among the carefully drawn gold. Ghisla they say as I pass, faces beaming and heads bowing. It must mean queen. A word that hasn’t been needed in Greenscale in generations. This was a place ruled by kings and their concubines, full of happy bastards and unwed mothers. Queens weren’t needed. I’ll be the first in decades. 

In the center of the round street, trees rise up around a platform carved from stone. A crude throne of worn wood is sat upon the raised shelf and the Serpent Halwe is sat upon it. His men from the throne room mingle around him, sharing goblets and laughing amongst themselves. It’s so different from a wedding of Revenspear. At home, this would be a rigid affair. I’d be cinched into a corseted gown and the ceremony would be held indoors. There’d be no bombastic music and the only guest would be that of nobility. Here there are bakers with cheeks flecked with flour, warriors with blades on their hips, and children with painted faces. They’re all the same in the eyes of their king as he presides over them with a sharp smile upon his lips. 

“Ghislaro!” Taela calls as the guards at the base of his dais cross their spears to stop her approach. She shoves at their weapons, scowling when they refuse to move. The Serpent takes notice and snaps at them in his own hissing language. They fall away to allow the two of us passage but Taela only bows, refusing to move further than the edge of the grass. The bangles around my ankles jangle with each step I take up the path to the smooth ramp of stone. There is no one to lead me up the path, no father at my elbow to hand me away to my husband. He’d done that already with a raven sent before my arrival. Given away his only daughter to this snake man before me. He holds out a taloned hand when I’m close enough, thumb tracing over the shape of the sun Taela painted there. 

“They like you.” He says, golden eyes taking in the shape of his people’s hands that stain your skin. “They’ve marked you as their own. I will do the same.” It’s nearly a purr, though more rasping as he draws me into his lap. His scales are expectedly cool through the thin fabric of my skirt as he tosses my legs over the arm of his throne. The split of my skirt leaves the entirety of my leg exposed and the Serpent seems to enjoy the indelicate show of skin. The most a gown has ever shown of my body is the barest hint of cleavage or the unassuming shape of my ankles. Now it feels as if I’m wearing less than a nightgown as I sit on a throne before those that will be my people. No one seems perturbed as they dance to the sound of strings and drums filling the air. 

The moon rises over the city as the festival continues deep into nightfall. Firelight traces out the sparse shapes of the dark crowd as they gather around the stalls and dance under the falling flowers.

“There.” The red harpy that had guided me to Taela suddenly points to the sky. At home, in the Darkwoods, the stars are said to be strung like pearls on silver chains, each shape of them having a name. There is Zari the wife of Feadren, the two lovers separated in the sky by the hunter Indress that struck Faedren down in a jealous rage. The harpy points to the first stars rising through the darkness. The eye of Zari has always been bright in the sky, shining with a greenish glow just as her eyes had if the songs are to be believed. Halwe nods and the harpy disappears into the crowd. 

“It is time.” He says, setting me on my feet. The harpy returns with an old man. He wears a wreath of golden flowers atop his tumble of white hair and ropes tangle in knots around his waist. He moves slowly, leaning against the harpy for guidance as Halwe leads me to meet him on the path before the throne. A fist of knobby fingers beats once against his chest, over his heart, as he greets his king. Halwe does the same, bowing his head ever so slightly to the elder. The motion doesn’t seem as meaningful as I thump my fist over my heart, bangles ringing like bells as I curtsy. The man nods and holds out his hand. For a moment they hang between the three of us before Halwe moves behind me to place my hands into the elder’s palm. His skin is rough. These are the hands of a man that has worked, the same as Halwe’s as they soothe over my arms. Soft princess of the east sent to settle her father’s battles. The man pulls at one of the ropes on his waist, a two-strand twist of gold and silver that he wraps around your wrists. It isn’t tight enough to bind as he settles his other hand over the rope. 

“This chain binds you to your past. Gold and silver for your homeland.” His voice is startlingly clear as he speaks with a practiced cadence. “Princess of Revenspear I free you from your chains.” Halwe passes the man his dagger and he severs the rope. It falls at your feet, the two strands coming loose as it hits the ground. Halwe moves in closer until his chest is against my back. His cool body sends shivers up my spine as his scales press into my exposed skin. His hands glide down my arms until they close over mine. The elder nods and pulls away another rope. This one is three shades of green threaded with flecks of blue as he wraps it around our wrists, binding Halwe to me. 

“This chain is chosen. The bond of your future. Green for your new homeland. Do you accept Greenscale as your people?” I nod. “Do you accept Halwe as your husband?” It feels strange to suddenly be given the choice. Just as the man said, these were chains, heavy threads that bound me to such responsibilities. But he had so easily broken such bonds. For a fleeting moment I imagine myself saying no. Loosening the rope and running from this celebration. Running and running through the streets and the jungle and the burning bodies on the beach. Back to my home. But then what? Perhaps the peace with Greenscale would endure but then I’d be given to another man. Some lord or far off prince to soothe another political headache for the king. That is the truth of it. As a princess this is the burden I must carry. It is as much a choice as anything else in my life but I lift my chin and accept it. Though a slight incline of my head doesn’t seem to be enough for my husband. He bends and sways behind me until his lips are against my ear. 

“Out loud, princess. I want to hear you accept me with your words.”

“I accept.” The words are nearly carried away on the breeze but there’s a smile in his voice as Halwe laughs darkly against the shell of my ear. The elder asks the same of him and his voice is strong as he accepts me as his wife. 

“Who have you brought me?” The Elder’s voice croons like pattering rain, warbling with age as I step into her tent. It's handsomely made from the hides of different beasts. Here are the stripes of a wildcat and another side is the sandy gray mix of a direwolf hide. She sits in the center, awaiting my answer. I kneel before her on the brightly threaded mat, offering her the squirming bundle from my arm. She takes my son from me with careful hands, knobby fingers pulling back the swaddle to poke at the shape of his cheeks. I’d waited to present him, longer than I probably should have. Past is his first moon. He’s nearly three months grown now as the Elder traces the soft shape of his nose. Her eyes look over him carefully as she takes in every detail of my child. 

“We call him Xereus.”

“Strong name,” she nods, “noble. He will be good and righteous. Honorable. But I expected him to be paler.” Xereus giggles as she pokes at the round shape of his stomach. He’s grown fat on his mother’s milk as was my hope in delaying his presentation. He’d been small at birth as most halflings are. Were he any larger he might’ve split his mother in two. He’s bigger now, the same size as a newborn orc child. 

“He’s old.” The Elder tuts as she runs a hand over the thick mop of curls atop his head. 

“Three months in two days.” I confirm. 

“You waited too long. What reason did you have to hide him? He isn’t ill.” She looks at the shape of his tiny nails and the wrinkles on the soles of his feet and Xereus is happy to wiggle his toes at her. 

“He’s a halfling.” I say it with no shame. It is the truth of his parentage. I an orc and his mother a human. I feel no shame in the word and I will raise my son to feel proud of it. 

“Oh?” The Elder sounds intrigued. “He isn’t pale.” Xereus wiggles when she rolls him to his stomach, trying to raise his head. He manages it for a few short seconds before his chin falls back to rest on her thigh. Her fingers map the shape of his spine as she looks at me expectantly. Most halflings of our tribe are born of elves or fae, creatures that come in varying shades. Most of those adopted into the tribe are shades of cream that they pass down to their children. Orcs are hardy shades of green but most halflings are light as brewed tea. Xereus is one of the few exceptions. 

“His mother isn’t pale. Her skin is brown.”

“Ah, the human.” The Elder nods, white braids slipping over her bony shoulder. “She has skin like polished wood, I remember. Of course the human gave you a small child. But he will grow.” She says, wrapping Xereus back into his blanket. Her hand falls over his brow as she closes her eyes. I hold my breath as she sits in silence. I hear a bird caw outside, the wind whistle past the tent, my heart beating in my chest. When she takes her hand away her face is pensive. 

“He will be strong as his name says. Give him an axe when he is ready. He will be a great hunter and wear a horned beast’s skull as his helm. Xereus the Unbroken.” She declares him. Air rushes back into my lungs as she hands me my child. The Unbroken. Most are given less vague titles upon their presentation. I’d been waiting outside with the few others that needed to present their children. One had left with Haruth the Boatbuilder, another Reevus the Smith. My son would be Unbroken. I take him into my arms carefully still. He’s so small even after waiting through more moons, still small enough to fit in my hands. His tiny fist feels like the size of a grape as he grabs hold on the teeth strung around my neck. I say nothing as I leave the tent and no one asks anything of me as I walk past. The Unbroken. I was Yelwen the Berserker. Named just before the massacre of my birth tribe. I’d been raised to fight in the pits of an elven city. I look at my son in my arms, blowing spittle as his curious eyes take in the sights of the town. The Unbroken sounds like a curse. 

His mother doesn’t greet us when we arrive home but I can hear her voice floating faintly through our home. I find her outside, elbows deep in a bucket as she works the stains from one of my tunics. She’s singing to herself as she works and I stand to listen. It’s a human song, the words sounding odd to my Orcish ears as I try to understand her meaning. I only hear a few familiar words. Something of war and love. Her voice stops when Xereus squeals, little arms leaving his swaddle to reach for his mother. She looks up with stars in her eyes, a smile already rising to her lips as she abandons the laundry to greet us. She must see the darkness clouding my vision as she takes Xereus into her arms. 

“What’s happened?” She asks. “What did the Elder say?” 

“He will be strong.” I say heavily. She takes one of my scarred hands into her own. It’s so small but holds such strength. Enough to fend off the storm gathering in my mind. 

“Strong? In what way?” She has always been keen on meanings. Knowing prophecies and curses lurk just beneath the surface of plain words. He could’ve been named Xereus the Builder. His hands would be strong. He would lay brick and cut lumber. That would be his strength. 

“He will be strong. Noble, she said. He is to be Xereus the Unbroken.” She frowns and I watch the worry gather between her brows and in the corners of her mouth. A mother’s worry is a heavy burden. I’d watched her make herself sick when I said that Xereus was too small to present. She ate more meat, more vegetables, exhausted herself with whatever she could do to make her milk hardier. But it wasn’t her doing. Of course he was small, he was her son. And that is the terrifying truth of it. 

Our son. The Unbroken. 

The word stings each time I think of it. I want to take him back to the Elder, to remind her that he is a halfling born of a human mother. He need not be anything more than a healthy, long-lived boy. And yet so much weight has already been settled on his tiny shoulders. Between us Xereus is ignorant to our dread, happily teething at the beads of his mother’s necklace. She mutters something in her mother tongue sounding desperately upset. I take her inside, chores forgotten. She settles heavily in her rocking chair, absently patting Xereus’ back as her eyes stare unseeingly before her. They’re no longer sparkling with the wonder of motherhood. Now her eyes are glossy with unshed tears. 

“Perhaps there was a mistake.” She mumbles as Xereus begins to snore against her chest. He sounds like the purrs of a kitten, soft and innocent. I can’t reconcile the sound with the memories of what came before I found my tribe, my wife. I twirl my wedding band around my finger as I think of the time before I found peace. I was the Berserker. I was fighting for my life. Now I am simply Yelwen and that is enough. I’d hoped for that for my son. I had named him Xereus. Strong in the way that a tree is. Firm and steadfast. It was my mistake for thinking he’d need to be strong. I don’t want a life of hardship for him. I don’t want him to toil and fight. I should’ve called him Netayus and given him a life of peace and tranquility. He could’ve been something gentle, like the Weaver. I would’ve liked to watch him learn his craft. To come home from a hunt and find him making baskets in front of the fire. Now he must train but not as all orc children do. He must train for duty, not tradition. His weapons will be sharpened and tested, not hung over the mantle when his training is done. 

“My love,” I recognize her human words, “is there nothing that can be done?”

“The Elders make no mistakes. They see through all of time. They are our past, guard our present, and tell us our future. Without their guidance we are lost.” It’s what I’ve been taught since joining the tribe. What I heard when I was held captive and forced to fight. What I know to be true. They have strange and ancient magic in those old bones. It whispers through everything they do. There are five elders of our tribe and none have ever made a mistake in their words. Least of all in the naming of a presented child. The Great Mother guides them. I wonder what she could possibly want with my little son. My wife rises to set him in his crib. The scarf slips from her head when she stands, freeing her dark tumble of curls. I find a stray braid to twirl around my finger as she pulls at her tiny curls. They spring back like coiling snakes when she releases her distressed grip. 

“We should’ve waited longer.” She cries out, turning into my chest for comfort. I wrap her into my arms and wish I could protect her from the worries that plague my mind as well. 

“It was already too long. Any longer and they would’ve been knocking at our door. He’s been named. It’s all we can do to walk beside him on this path, wherever it may lead.” 

“It will lead to grief before he can find his peace in life.”

“I am sorry.” She shakes her head. 

“There is nothing to be sorry for. It isn’t your fault. I only wish he had been given a gentler name.” 

“The fault is mine as his father. I’m an orc. Were I a human, things could be different.”

“Yelwen!” She snaps, thumping her tiny fist against my chest. “You are an orc. That is the truth of it. I do not wish for it to be any different. Do not blame yourself for the Great Mother’s doings.” 

“She has never been kind to me.” She takes a step back, brown eyes taking me in. I watch her lashes flutter and her gaze flits from one scar to the next. Here is where I was stabbed in the fighting pits and there are where the chains used to hang around my wrists. And more from encounters with bears and goblins, wolves and raiders. My path has been littered with more hardships than most and I don’t want the same for my son. 

“My precious husband.” She sighs mournfully.

“My beautiful wife.” I agree. 

Tragedy struck like an axe, cleaving open the realm’s beating heart. A horse had returned to the castle, a handsome stallion with russet coloring. Saddled but riderless as he bucked and wheeled through the courtyard. It had taken three squires to calm the raging beast and one had an eye keen enough to know his Prince’s mount. It was only after the horse was stabled that they noticed the blood. Gold as it was, it caught the light of the sun, throwing spots of reflected light around the stable. An arrow had found its way into the thick leather of the saddle still streaked in dried rivers of golden blood. The bolt gleamed with the unmistakable luster of magic. A shimmery silhouette of rosy gold like the sun at dawn limned the shaft and dropped like poison from the midnight stone of the arrowhead. 

The material is a curiosity found only in the farthest reaches of the realm where dwarven Lords make their homes and forges at the foot of a smoldering mountain. The smoking hills run red with rivers of molten rock and when those rivers freeze they turn to black ice. And whether by dwarven charm or will of the gods, black ice is the only weapon fae gave come to fear in their wins of existence. A prick from a black ice dagger is said to burn like an open flame, but when laced with the elusive veil of magic a simple burn could turn to poison that licks through gold-laden veins like sparks through a dry brush. And the gilded bloodstains on the Prince’s saddle alluded to one such injury. 

The disappearance of his son stirred the King to the near brink of madness. He’s grown delicate as a dried flower in his old age. The throne he’d once commanded with his full stature now seemed to dwarf him as he sat upon it. Fashioned from a spindly tree, it’s roots thirsted like writhing snakes over the raised platform, scaling the walls and burrowing into the steps as leaves bloomed around him. Once he might’ve looked handsome perched upon his throne of redwood and sunset leaves, but now he looked more like a child stuck up a tree as the foliage swallowed his diminished form. Even his crown looked out of place upon his brow, the gold shaped into the gaping maw of a wolf no longer seemed intimidating when matched with the face beneath it. The King had always been pale, skin like freshly fallen snow. Now his skin looked more sickly than enchanting, laced with the lavender shape of his veins filled with Spirit magic. 

Mortal human that he was, the King couldn’t remain standing if not for his wife’s magic. The Unseelie Queen herself had filled his body with a piece of her own longevity. He’d keep as long as she did, so long as it wasn’t a sword looking for his death. Illness and age meant nothing to him, though it was clear that the disappearance of his son had made him sick with worry. His eyes were shaded with the deep bruising of sleepless nights and sunk back into his skull as his face went gaunt with missed meals. His robes were dirty as they hung from his hunched shoulders, his greying hair greased with neglect. There was nothing regal about his appearance as he called the council to session, but there was no shame to be found in the distress of a grieving father. 

“So there’s nothing?” His voice was thin as spider silk, so soft it would’ve been lost if not for the reverent silence that blanketed the throne room. Save for the restless shuffles of the King himself, everyone was still as a statue, silent as a grave. 

“I am meant to accept this loss?” He wavered over the words. Loss weighed heavily on all. Not even kings were exempt from grief.

A human councilor stepped forward, “There will be other sons, Your Majesty.” He looked deceptively equipped to counsel a king. Old and wise. Hair thinned at his crown and streaked with white, skin wrinkled at his forehead and drawn down around his mouth. He had a joyless face. And yet, he was the youngest man in the room. His relative youth made him eager to speak, to impress. He’d counseled kings before, dealt with the loss of an heir. But those had been human kings. He must’ve thought himself clever for his quick tongue. There will be others. 

“It is not guaranteed,” an eleven woman–the Queen’s personal advisor–said. “It’s difficult for human men to sire children with fae women. Prince Aedriel is the only prince of our queendom and you expect another to come easily. Child.” She spat the word. The man bristled but her animosity was warranted. Through the decades–nearly a century–of marriage there has only been Aedriel and his sister Cyrel. But she died in the cradle, sick with a cough that twisted through her weak lungs and smothered her in the night. The others weren’t spoken of. Some came out of the Queen as blood long before she was meant to labor and few died shortly after their first breaths. Half-fae children weren’t uncommon but those sired by human father’s were rare to quicken and seldom lived such unafflicted lives as Prince Aedriel. There’d been a fever in his infancy that threatened to take him but the Goddess was merciful. May she be merciful again lest more decades be lost to trying for another heir that could hardly replace the life of a missing son. 

“Magi,” the King addressed her at last, “is there truly nothing to be done? No spell of prayer to save my son?” The woman moved a half step forward, dress sweeping the stone floor. She had the same presence as a lioness might, commanding the room with the mere mention of her title. The council turned to her, breaths stopped and eyes implored as she took her time to think of an answer. Between the low draw of her brows and hard set of her lips the magi might’ve looked angry to be called upon, but if the King thought so he said nothing of it. 

Humans understood so little of magic, assuming its limitations are much closer than they are. Magic to those that can’t wield it seemed like a drop of water when it’s truly an ocean, vast and deep. Most magic were only capable of a few tricks; reviving a dead plant, swaying a breeze, or lighting a candle, though rarely all at once. Of the five disciplines of magic most only favored one, and never Spirit the most fickle of the magic persuasions. But a court magician was expected to be versed in all forms of magic and Fern was. Her veins also ran purple with the agelessness of Spirit. 

“I’ll find your son,” she said finally, “I will bring him home.” The words rang through the room like a peal of bells. There was conviction behind them. There had to be. 

The King set about gathering all that the magi needed for her ritual. A book, a horse, a secluded place to work her magic. The King asked to be in attendance for whatever ritual she might perform with the Queen by his side, hidden beneath a long veil of lace. The soft shade of blue made her look like a ghost in the darkness of the meadow just inside the castle’s hunting woods. The shadows of nightfall ate away at the fringes of the clearing but it was banished with a simple wave of her hand and thoughts of a sunset. Ribbons of reddish fire danced through the air like blushing comets, drawing shapes with the tails of their flames. It took little focus for Fern to maintain the light. Fire was always been an easy element to master. 

The Prince’s horse startled at the sudden burst of magic, tugging at his reins as the strings of light danced past his head. He kicked at the ground, hooves turning up loamy earth as he tried to pull away from the magician’s steady hand. She batted another ball of light away when it got too close to the stallion and it felt like little more than a sun warmed stone against her skin. There was no godly blessing to calm the frightened creature, no element to call to soothe the reading horse, but she kept him steady in hand. As the last creature to see the Prince she needed the beast to perform her ritual. 

“Steady,” she cooed like a mother to her child. The horse sniffed at her but its erratic movements seemed to still. Fern pulled his head close until the flat space between his eyes rested against her chest. A few puffs of warm air seeped through her dress as the horse finally calmed itself and raised its head. Its eyes were emptied and all that reflected was the magi’s face and the lights that still danced through the air. 

“What are you going to do to it?” The King asked. The Queen was quick to hush him, a dark hand shot out from under her veil to pull him further from the scene. The stallion was a favorite of his son’s, of course he worried for the creature’s fate. 

“No harm will come to him. I only need to see into his mind. Now hush, you’ll ruin it if you distract me once I’ve started.” The King had nothing to say to that, not even to reprimand the informality. Fern let the reins fall from her fingers but the horse stated where it was left, tossing its forelock when another of her Fire magic danced past its head. She called to Earth next, toeing off her shoes to walk freely through the grass. It whispered against her ankles, bent and changed as it was asked. With only a thought, shapes forked in the clearing like paths worn by a herd. The grass flattened underfoot until only dirt remained, formed into a proper sigil with the horse at its heart. Several rings crossed with triangles. Once the faint glow of Earth had faded, Fern laid out the items she’d collected from the castle into their respective places upon the sigil. First, a worn book from the Prince’s chambers; a favorite from his childhood, then the arrow torn from his horse’s saddle, and lastly herself. Past, present, future. She’d set herself as his future by promising to find him, her voice rang true with promise. It had been the first step of the ritual. She whistled for the horse and the great beast turned towards her, eyes gone pale with Spirit magic as Fern reached into its mind. 

It always felt strange to meld her mind with that of an animal. No matter how intelligent it might’ve been it always felt like her consciousness was being bent and crushed and frayed at the edges, shrinking to something smaller and less knowing. There was more to hear, more to smell, but thoughts quieted. And with no mind to be scattered and fragmented the events of the Prince’s disappearance were still held in full clarity, awaiting a probing eye like a play just before the curtain rose. 

It happens suddenly, as was expected, and she and the stallion jerked in random against the reins that had suddenly gone taut with purpose. There was a spurring kick that feels like it should’ve hurt but it was little more than a light thump. Still enough to coax speed into her gait as another arrow flew through the treetops. It whistled through the air, nicking her ear as the Prince leaned over her neck. Another arrow hits and it felt like little more than mosquito against her skin as the point stopped short by the thick leather of the saddle. The next shot yanked her reins painfully. Hard enough for the horse reel back, front legs kicking out wildly as the Prince fell to the ground with a pained shout. There was the sound of the air whooshing from his lungs and the whistling of more arrows and the thought of the stables. Her hooves broke roots underfoot as the horse careened towards home. A haze was suddenly cast over the scene of the forest falling away in the pursuit of safety like a shimmering fog. Humanity came back in parts. It felt like sealing cracked glass as her mind traced the path the stallion took away from the Prince to where he was found wandering in the castle courtyard, startled and alone. 

The fear was still palatable as Fern’s skin began to burn. A line of heat welled up beneath her eye, tracing just under her lashes and dripping down the curve of her cheek. It ran a slithering path over the curve of her jaw and down the slope of her shoulder, flowing down the length of her arm until the heat pooled on the back of her hand. The heat was familiar as passing her hand through a spot of sunlight as the tracking sigil took shape. Each was different from the last and the Prince’s settled into the shape of an arrow with its head pointed to the left. Fern moved her hand, testing the sigil. The point moved with her, magic weaving beneath her skin in a faint burning, ticklish way. An annoyance as the tear shape of it brought a twitch to her eye, but not unbearable. There had been worse marks set upon her body by magic. The glow of Spirit tinged her vision as she turned towards her awaiting audience. 

“Gather your men, Your Grace. I will see your son home by dawn.” 

They sent her off with twenty men all mounted and armed, prepared for another attack. The captain of the squadron was a small minded man, Fern found as she led them forward. He regarded her with the same caution one might approach a wounded animal, like she was weak and formidable all at once. There was a muted discomfort or perhaps it was disdain that colored his face as the group rode out of the castle grounds. The Prince had gone missing on a hunting trip just outside the capital city where the game was bigger and bandits were just as common as wolves. But it was a trip he made often, and always without a guard. Most would steer clear of a fae hunting alone. Whoever attacked Prince Aedriel hadn’t been a simple band of thieves. 

The magic laced weapon recovered from the Prince’s saddle pointed to a conspiracy though the thought of it only occupied Fern’s mind for a brief moment. She was a court magician; a witch, a godswife. The crown didn’t host her for her ability to unravel political intrigue. It made the captain’s skepticism that much more of an annoyance. His eyes glared at her through the slit in his helm as he rode up purposefully beside her. The gaudy shape of fish fins and scaled cape gave away his lineage, a Gregael. A salted and bitter family from the coast, every one that Fern has met was just as smarmy and abrasive as the last. The captain was no exception as he took her flank. 

“How are you so sure of where you’re going, girl?” He asked, leaning in close to make himself more of a nuisance. Night had fallen thick and dark through the forest save for the reddish lights that still floated around Fern. One brushed her cheek as she leveled the captain with her own stare, Fire sparked against Spirit and made her gaze flash before she batted it away. The captain’s frown hadn’t shifted. “Well?”

“I’ve shown you the sigil, captain, what other proof do you need?” He squinted at her until his eyes were nearly lost in the shadow of his helm. 

“We’ve searched these woods since the Prince went missing. If there was anything to be found my man would’ve seen it by now.”

“Be that as it may, I’ve still been tasked with finding Prince Aedriel. If you wish to defy the Queen’s orders and return to the castle you’re more than welcome to, but I will continue to ride.” The captain made a noise of offense and pulled his horse up in front of Fern’s. Beneath her, the Prince’s horse stiffened. 

“What are you playing at, magi? I know your type. You’re good for a few smoke and mirror tricks but I don’t trust you to do a better job than me or my men.”

“I don’t need your trust, captain, only your cooperation. Now if you’d please move. I promised the Prince home by dawn.”

He set his jaw against her flippant tone, “So you’ve lied to the King and Queen? Their son is most likely dead and eaten by some beast of these woods. Let them know the truth.”

“That is your truth and this is mine,” she raised her hand as if asking him to kiss it, the sigil still glowed like dark purplish veins beneath her skin. “The Prince is not dead. Tracking sigils don’t find dead things.” They’re meant for familiars. A constant link between a magi and their chosen companion, everpresent. Fern’s would fade once she touched the Prince, or if he died before she could. Its presence attested to the fact that his heart still beat. The captain scoffed, still holding his horse steady before hers.

“What is your place in all this?”

“Nowhere. My place is where I’m called and I’m being called forward. Now move or you will be moved.” That sent sounds of disapproval through the band of men mounted behind her. The man in her path barked out a laugh. 

“I won’t be moved by the likes of you, woman. I don’t trust you and until you start speaking clearly we won’t be moving on with the goose chase.” The red glow of the Fire lights still floating through the air mingled with the green glow of Earth as the land shifted around Fern to the shape of her mind’s desire. The captain was plucked from his saddle as easily as a flower, armor groaning as the tree branches twisted tight around him. His horse was quick to wheel back, clearing the path forward. 

“As I said, I don’t need your trust. Should we pass through here upon our return I shall release you, else you’ll be strung up until the sun hits these trees come morning.” The captain said something. Perhaps an insult because a man like him would never stoop to beg even when hung like a rabbit in a trap. It made no difference to the magi. Dawn would come as it always did and she had things that needed to be done before then. The captain was the least of her worries as the tree hugged him close, half concealed in its leaves. High enough to be out of the way of wolves but not so high that he’d be terribly injured if he were to fall. 

“If you must, appoint a new captain, otherwise I’ll name myself leader and you’ve all seen where insubordination gets you.” There was more murmuring behind her, the sound of men as they decided if they would rather follow behind a woman or be strung up and humiliated. It was only recently that the Queen found herself in power and most men still hadn’t become acclimated with the thought of a woman leading. But after some time the boldest of the men nodded the battalion’s acquiesce and Fern nudged her horse onward. 

The crackling of Spirit running through her arm kept like an oil-fed flame, burning diligently through the hours of their journey. Sunrise was only a few hours away when purple light began to blaze anew from her hand. The sigil seemed to grow restless beneath her skin and tendrils of seeking light branched out in search of their prey. The Prince was close. Fern abandoned her horse, tossing the reins to the closest soldier before she turned for the trees. The rays of purple light brushed against trees and snaked across the ground, picking at the barest hint of the Prince’s presence. There was his blood dried a sickly yellow on the tree bark and his uneven footprints stamped into the dewy moss. Fern followed like a hound on a leash while the soldiers called at her back. She did not need them, their weapons would only frighten the injured man she was sure. A woman wielding magic wouldn’t be any more of a comfort but she was only one and they were many. Knowing the ways of men they’d only crowd him, and panic would rise like he was a cornered animal. 

“The Prince is close,” she called behind her, eyes still following the trails of Spirit stretched out before her. They seemed to amass just through the trees in front of her, purple light keeping close to the ground. And if the sigil’s light hadn’t been circling like buzzards in the air she might’ve stepped on the Prince half buried on the ground. 

First there was a hand, caked in dirt and crusted in his own blood; then an arm and shoulder that disappeared beneath the hollow of a log. It was heavy but decayed and Fern overturned it with some heaving. It shattered against the mossy ground, bursting into a cloud of wood chips. Beneath it the Prince coughed. His face was damp with dew and sweat, his shirt stained with blood. He tried to turn away from her light, just as frightened as the skittering creatures that had also found refuge beneath the log, then hissed and let his weight fall again. Fern reached out to brush the stray bits of wood away from his sweating face and the tracking sigil burst against her skin like a comet. It blazed bright as a torch for a moment before winking out in a puff of amethyst smoke. There was darkness for a moment before Fern called to Fire. She’d left the light with the torchless soldiers but without Spirit to guide her the forest fell dark as pitch. She felt the fatigue of overusing her magic strain at her body like a sore muscle but ignored it. The Prince was here and she needed to take him home. 

Her sleeves were ruined by the time she wiped all the sweat and grime away from the Prince’s face but his eyes were open, even if unfocused. Gold, as she imagined his mother’s to be, and clouded with an untethered haze. He had the eyes of a man close to death. A shroud had settled over his gaze as if his soul was withdrawn and defeated. His mind was pained in a way she couldn’t imagine. It was the face his father wore as he addressed his council. There’d be little left in her for the trip home but, against her better judgment, Fern summoned the strength to ease his intangible pain. She could do little for his physical injuries but his mind could be soothed. The Prince moved with her as she leaned in, face following hers like a flower towards the sun. When she was close enough his hand seized her wrist, fingers clinging with a strength she hadn’t thought he possessed in his fragile state. The blunt cut of his nails dug into her skin hard enough to cut through her clothing, carving proof of himself as she whispered a soothing spell into his ear. 

It wasn’t Spirit, but Air that lifted such burdens and a breeze swam around them as she spoke the words. The magic took hold with little protest and she watched the Prince seize and then loosen like a severed rope. His eyes cleared for a moment before rolling closed. His grip on her arm fell away, her blood beneath his nails. Just as his breath evened with the stillness of sleep Fern heard the distinct sound of soldiers moving in. They weren’t a stealthy group that the monarchs had given her in all their heavy armor. They jangled and clanged like bells through the trees, bringing with them more Fire light. She shielded the Prince’s eyes to keep away the heightened reddish glow. 

“He is here,” she called as loud as she dared. The first to break the tree line had his sword drawn. “There’s nothing here but shadows.” She said pointedly. One by one they sheathed their weapons. One with a helm shaped like a swooping raven came forward to kneel beside them. His eyes cut through the darkness with a purpose, gaze fluttered here and there before he nodded to himself.

“He will survive until we return to the castle.” Aedriel had done his best to wrap his wound, sleeves torn to strips and tied around his torso. The arrow had grazed him deep enough to gouge but the bleeding had staunched and the messy dressings did well to keep infection at bay, but it wouldn’t hold for much longer. The Prince groaned when the soldier lifted him, golden blood weeping in slow drops from his side. The ride on horseback would be hard but Aedriel had no choice but to bear it for a while longer. Air still comforted his mind, but there was nothing she could do to preserve his body. Water had never been her strong suit. 

Dawn came warmly over the horizon, glowing pink and gold through the clouds as their party was welcomed back into the castle. The guards standing vigil on the walls had gone shouting as soon as the line of horses was spotted coming down the road and the gates had been thrown open. The King and Queen stood to greet them, still dressed in their sleepwear as they stood barefoot on the cobblestone, though the Queen still wore a shortened veil that fell to her waist. Curiously, no other servants had been summoned to accompany them to receive the injured Prince. 

The raven-headed knight presented their son like a precious artifact pillaged during a battle. He knelt in all his armor, gleaming in the early morning light, and held the Prince out to them. There was a beat of silence. A moment of uncertainty. Fern let her magic slip from his mind and the Prince jerked awake in the knight’s arms, pained but alive. It was all the encouragement they needed. The Queen let out a screeching whoop that echoed over the sky as her hands reached out to touch him. Her skin was a shade of brown so deep it reflected light like a mirror. She glowed as she took her son into her arms. 

Where the King had weakened in his age, she held firm. She pulled Aedriel close to her chest, heedless of the grime and gore that covered him. He was much too large to be carried but the strength of a Fae meant a mother could hold her child as she had when he was young. She tried to speak, Fern heard her voice thick and choked as she tried to sound out something to say, but all that escaped were warbled cries. Half elated and half devastated. Her child was with her once again and she was overcome. The King wrapped them both in his arms, meager strength doing little to help carry his son. His voice was steadier but all he said was Aedriel Aedriel Aedriel like a mantra. His eyes were wet with tears and it sent a wave of unease through the men around her. Knights liked to think themselves above such shows of emotion, but Fern was glad to serve someone that knew what fear and sadness felt like. It kept them from inflicting too much of it on those they ruled over. 

“Call for a physician.” Fern told a guard. He regarded her with a look that questioned her audacity before he decided it’d be better to follow her word. The Prince was still injured, his wound irritated by the long ride and his clinging mother. Gold blood was beginning to seep into the Queen’s veil and stain the King’s robe. There was only so much his Fae lineage could do to preserve him, only so much blood left in his body. He’d likely be bedridden for days once the healers were done with him. He could hardly stand as the Queen tried to set him down after finally crying herself out. He dipped and swayed until she caught him around the shoulders. Her voice was now a reedy wheeze as she tried to find her breath. Fern nodded and turned to leave. 

“How can we ever thank you?” The King asked after her. Fern waved off the notion. She wanted her thanks, of course, but now was not the time. 

“When Prince Aedriel is well we can speak. I won’t hear any of it until then.” The King nodded and Fern curtsied. Her work was done and even though the sun was climbing higher by the minute she craved her bed and a sleep like death.

The castle was just stirring as she walked to her rooms, though it never truly slept. There were always guards posted and the odd maid or messenger carrying a midnight letter. Fern had spent enough sleepless nights walking with her flurry of Fire through the halls to know they’d never be truly empty. As a simple Magi she wasn’t privy to most of the going’s ons in the castle but she was awarded some high station comforts. Her room was one of them. It was one meant to house visiting dignitaries, though she kept it for most days out of the year. Her maid, Lorna, had been through by the time she returned. The sheets were turned down and a tray of food was waiting. She ate what she could before drawing the curtains and collapsing onto her bed. Her dirty dress stank of horse and was covered in dirt and it took the last of her energy to strip and roll beneath the covers. Unbathed and uncaring as her vision swam with exhaustion. Magic was simple most days. A few simple tricks and spells that tired her out no more than a walk in the gardens. But tracking sigils–Spirit magic of any kind–sapped energy like a bottomless cup. And though she’d learned–nearly mastered–every element, Fern was still human. She had no innate well of magic like the Fae. The spell the Queen put on the King would’ve killed her within a week and yet the Queen still stood after decades. 

She felt like death as she laid curled up beneath her covers but there was little time to dwell on her many pains and fatigues before sleep took her. 

Wakefulness came in slow waves like a tide rolling up the sand. Fern first heard voices, hushed and pitched with panic; then she caught the tinny, cloying scent of medicines; finally light found her through the curtain hung around her bed. Warm shapes of it swam over her as people paced through her room. She wasn’t where she’d collapsed. Her body came back to her slowly. Cold toes, stiff knees, sore back. Someone had dressed her while she slept and left her flat on her bed with the sheets coiffed around her. The blankets were fresh and pillows fluffed behind her head. It took her a few attempts with sound barely wisping out of her mouth before she could speak. 

“Who is it?” She asked and felt the scratch of her voice grate at her throat. Her lips were cracked as dried mud. She was desperately thirsty. A figure beyond the curtain startled. Whatever they’d been speaking of with their heads bowed and hands wringing was forgotten at the faint sound of her voice. 

“Lady Magi,” a greying man in a shapeless robe pulled back the curtain to greet her. “You’re awake.” 

“Yes, and thirsty.” She said blandly. Another man crowded in next to the first, offering her a cup of water. She sucked it down indelicately while they watched as if she’d performed some miracle. 

“Is there something I should know of?” She asked once the cup was empty. Her mind was still fogged with a cloud of unconsciousness but it was beginning to fall away. “Has something happened to the Prince?” The men shared a look.

“The Prince has made a full recovery, my Lady. You’ve been asleep for quite some time. Nearly a fortnight.” His voice was mournful, peppered with stress. It seemed to be the only thing keeping either of them standing. Tension lined their hunched shoulders and drooping brows. It seemed to stitch through every line of their faces. 

“We thought the worst.” The second said as if the thought was impossible. Magi had died for less. Magic could only preserve her through so much. Fern thought of magic like a well in her chest, with each spell she drew up a bucket of it, but wells could run dry. If she’d exhausted her reserve she might’ve died in her sleep but even as the darkness had pressed in heavily around her she could still feel the last threads of magic curled inside her. Her soul must’ve guarded it like a candle in the wind, refusing to let it wink out. Refusing to die. 

“I lived.” It was all she could say. She’d been asleep for almost two weeks and somehow she lived, though she could feel the effects of her coma draped over her. Her throat was still scratched with thirst and disuse, every muscle ached when she tried to use it. Her toes felt like she’d walked across a frozen lake, burning yet numb beneath her blanket. But her chest felt overfull, magic spilling over after going so long without being tapped. Since she’d learned there’d never been longer than a few days that she went without summoning some spell and it left her filled to bursting with it. It made her twitchy, eager to leave bed, but the physicians were quick to stop her when she tried to throw back the blanket. 

“It isn’t recommended that you move for a few more hours. Your body is still trying to wake. Moving might cause unneeded upset.” He said it gently, as if she’d be offended by his council. She felt her body’s uncertainty. If she tried to stand there was no guarantee she wouldn’t fall at the slightest weight set on her tingling feet. 

“Could I have some food?” There was a gnawing hollowness in her gut that refused to be ignored. 

“Of course!” One of them darted out of the curtains and she heard the door open then close. The one that remained seemed to pale in his absence. Fern watched him for a few beats as he went back to wringing his hands and twirling the rings around his knobby fingers. 

“There’s something else? Did something happen while I was asleep?” The castle stopped for no one. Many things could’ve happened while she was none the wiser. For all the things she was ignorant of, even as she walked the halls, she could imagine how easily a conspiracy could unravel in two weeks’ time. Sweat beaded between the sparse threads of hair on the healer’s head as he tried to think of what to say. 

“There’s no need to be delicate about it.” She reassured him. 

“Then if I may, my Lady,” he gestured to her arm. It felt just as useless as the rest of her body and hardly moved as she tried to lift it. He assisted her, rolling up the sleeve of her nightgown, turning her arm so she could see the shapes blossoming over her skin. The gold stood out against her brown skin as he gestured to the shapes tattooed into her arm. She’d seen such marks before, perhaps not in quite the same shapes but a Fae bond mark was easy to parse. Gilded tattoos woven into skin. Hands were a common place for them. It’s where the King and Queen’s marks resided. Shapes like a blossoming tree traced across their skin giving them matching right hands. The same hand the King had held and kissed when they first met nearly a century ago. 

“The same shapes were found on Prince Aedriel.” An instinctual burst of strength jerked her hand from his. The old man startled and shrank his hands back into the billowing sleeves of his robe. 

“Be at ease, my Lady. The only people who know of this are the Prince, the King and Queen, myself and Physician Tytos, and your maid. It was kept very quiet while we awaited your recovery.” That did little to reassure her. She could hardly do anything about it with so many people knowing. There had to be some type of spell to break a Fae bond but it would likely take more out of her than a tracking sigil. Fern imagined it would probably kill her to perform such a spell and yet the acidic anxiety that pooled in her gut told her she had to try. 

“You’re relieved of your duties.” Is all she said. She wanted to be alone, to think. The man bowed before retreating like he could feel the discontent radiating off of her skin in thick waves. He was kind enough to draw back one of the curtains before he left. The sun slanted through the windows from the east. Still morning. Fern felt a bolt of rage seize her. It coiled tight around her until she wanted to pluck the sun from the sky and crush it in her hands until it was forever night and she could sleep until she turned to dust between her sheets.

“Fae bond.” The words leaked like venom from her dry lips. 

A lifelong binding contract. One that she hadn’t willingly signed. Magic was a choice for humans. She’d made the decision to forsake her humanity in order to learn. Though there hadn’t been much of it in her to start. Orphans were easiest to teach. What family ties needed to be severed when you were alone in this world? And what few friends she had didn’t take much to let go of. Her soul was pledged at a young age. She’d grown up in the shadows of great magicians. She’d married her gods and became a godswife. What mortal contract dared to bind her now? Fear gripped her as she thought of losing her magic if the Prince asked to marry her. She’d have to stand in the presence of a priestess ordained in the same faith that imbued her with her power and forsake her vows of devotion. 

“I refuse.” She told the air. She sat in silence for a few minutes before making her decision. 

She tossed back her blankets and stared at her feet, willing away the feeling of walking over shattered glass. It felt like a thousand shards stabbing at her lower extremities, the same feeling of missing the fabric and pricking her hand whenever one of the Queen’s ladies tried to teach her needlepoint, but a hundred times over. While she worked through the stiffness Fern thought of the Prince. 

Aedriel was little more than a concept in her mind. As consequential as another squire or stable hand in her mind. The Prince was practically a stranger aside from a few polite conversations, surely not someone to be bonded to. And he wouldn’t be if not for the marks that now marred her skin. Such a small thing had somehow rerouted the trajectory of their lives like an arrow blown off course. Had she not touched his skin they’d still be parallel rivers running side by side yet never touching. She’d curtsy to him in the halls, share words during balls, but never love him. Now it would be expected of her. The weight of it felt like stones tied around her neck as she choked on the anxiety welling up inside her. It was all she could do to focus on one small thing at a time. 

Move your toes, then your fingers, Fern thought to herself, Go slowly, don’t rush. 

By the time her door opened again the needling numbness had abated enough for her to stand. She leaned heavily on the frame of her bed as she paced up and down the length of it like a deer finding its footing for the first time. She was as unsteady as a flower, bending and bowing with each brush of the breeze. When her foot didn’t move quickly enough to catch her next step she pitched forward for a moment, arm throbbing as all of her weight was suddenly thrust upon it. An arm was quick to loop at her waist before she could fall to her already aching knees. There was a noise of surprise and the clattering of cutlery as Lorna did her best to balance the tray of food in one hand while holding her Lady up with the other. Fern leaned heavily against her with little care for the tray of food she’d requested. Her hand clamped tight against Lorna’s shoulder as she sat on the edge of her bed. Lorna took a moment to be certain she wouldn’t fall before moving away to set her food on a bedside table. She returned quickly to kneel at her Lady’s side. 

“How are you feeling?“

“Like a statue come to life,” Fern said with a stiff roll of her ankles. There was no reason to be gentle with her wording in Lorna’s company. Had Fern had a sister she’d imagine her to be like the green eyed girl that rested gently against her knee. In the castle there were very few people Fern could truly call a friend, and of those few she trusted Lorna irrevocably. And she’d been right to it seemed as Lorna explained the efforts she went through to keep her alive while she was resting on the brink of death. The water she’d dripped over her lips and daily repositioning. Had she not made such painstaking efforts Fern would have surely been in bed another week before she could find her feet. Instead she ate the thin broth that Lorna brought and let the girl lead her around the room like a child toddling at their mother’s side. 

“They’re hideous,” she’d say as she looked at her marred hand held in Lorna’s. The color of it caught the light as the sun set like wildfire through the window. 

“I don’t mean to upset you, but there’s more.” 

“More?” Fern had only a bit of strain in her voice. “More of what?”

“The marks. I’ll fix your hair if you’d like to see.” She didn’t want to see what else the Prince’s touch had left upon her body but let Lorna lead her to her vanity anyway. Her posture was rigid as she felt Lorna going through the motions of unwinding her hair from the two braids she’d wrangled her curls into. Her fingers were deft, nimble as a spider spinning silk as she unwound her curls. Fern tried to focus on the soothing feeling of her companion brushing through her hair. It was a comforting feeling that gave her the courage to look upon the mirror. 

Upon her face were more of those wretched shapeless marks. 

“He’s ruined me.”

“It isn’t so bad,” Lorna rushed to reassure her. “Your beauty hasn’t been diminished.”

“You and I both know it isn’t beauty I am worried about. I’ve been marked. I will bear these until death. Be it mine or the Prince’s.” Lorna yanked her hair at that moment, shocking the last remark to silence. 

“I forgot to mention the spiders that have gathered in your absence. Ghastly things in every corner, my Lady.” Fern understood her words. She didn’t speak of true spiders building webs in her absence. They could be brushed away with the sweep of a broom. No, these spiders she spoke of were more heinous. They’d eat her alive if she didn’t watch her words. 

“I must cover this monstrosity. Find a goldsmith. Have him fashion me a mask for only half of my face. And a seamstress. I’ll need new dresses.” Lorna nodded. “Black gowns only. And I’ll need a veil. Tell anyone that asks that I am well but I seem disturbed, as if I am mourning something.” Lorna paused her braiding. 

“Mourning? You can’t.” She said sharply. Another servant wouldn’t dare speak to her in such a tone but Lorna wouldn’t be perturbed by her Lady’s station. “It will be seen as a slight against the royal family. Public mourning is forbidden in the castle unless it is for a member of the royal family.” 

“They will forgive me for this. I am mourning the loss of my magic. They cannot begrudge a godswife this simple display of loss.” Lorna seized her by the shoulders, turning her in her chair. 

“It’s gone? You’ve lost it?” There are tears brimming in her pale green eyes. Over the few years Fern has taken up residence in the castle she’s explained small bits of magic to those that might ask. Lorna knew that her magic was like a part of her soul, and losing it would feel like death. 

“No. In truth I feel filled to bursting with it. But I will need a reason for my sudden distance should the Prince approach me. And I will need the crown’s sympathies. The Queen might be able to see through my lie, but I’ll do my best to stay out of her sight until I can be free of this place.”

“You’re leaving?” Lorna sniffled. 

“What choice do I have? I will not be ruled over by the whims of some amorous Fae. I do not wish to be a Queen. My service to the people as a magi is enough for me in this life. I did not choose this.” 

Tragedy struck like an axe, cleaving open the realm’s beating heart. A horse had returned to the castle, a handsome stallion with russet coloring. Saddled but riderless as he bucked and wheeled through the courtyard. It had taken three squires to calm the raging beast and one had an eye keen enough to know his Prince’s mount. It was only after the horse was stabled that they noticed the blood. Gold as it was, it caught the light of the sun, throwing spots of reflected light around the stable. An arrow had found its way into the thick leather of the saddle still streaked in dried rivers of golden blood. The bolt gleamed with the unmistakable luster of magic. A shimmery silhouette of rosy gold like the sun at dawn limned the shaft and dropped like poison from the midnight stone of the arrowhead. 

The material is a curiosity found only in the farthest reaches of the realm where dwarven Lords make their homes and forges at the foot of a smoldering mountain. The smoking hills run red with rivers of molten rock and when those rivers freeze they turn to black ice. And whether by dwarven charm or will of the gods, black ice is the only weapon fae gave come to fear in their wins of existence. A prick from a black ice dagger is said to burn like an open flame, but when laced with the elusive veil of magic a simple burn could turn to poison that licks through gold-laden veins like sparks through a dry brush. And the gilded bloodstains on the Prince’s saddle alluded to one such injury. 

The disappearance of his son stirred the King to the near brink of madness. He’s grown delicate as a dried flower in his old age. The throne he’d once commanded with his full stature now seemed to dwarf him as he sat upon it. Fashioned from a spindly tree, it’s roots thirsted like writhing snakes over the raised platform, scaling the walls and burrowing into the steps as leaves bloomed around him. Once he might’ve looked handsome perched upon his throne of redwood and sunset leaves, but now he looked more like a child stuck up a tree as the foliage swallowed his diminished form. Even his crown looked out of place upon his brow, the gold shaped into the gaping maw of a wolf no longer seemed intimidating when matched with the face beneath it. The King had always been pale, skin like freshly fallen snow. Now his skin looked more sickly than enchanting, laced with the lavender shape of his veins filled with Spirit magic. 

Mortal human that he was, the King couldn’t remain standing if not for his wife’s magic. The Unseelie Queen herself had filled his body with a piece of her own longevity. He’d keep as long as she did, so long as it wasn’t a sword looking for his death. Illness and age meant nothing to him, though it was clear that the disappearance of his son had made him sick with worry. His eyes were shaded with the deep bruising of sleepless nights and sunk back into his skull as his face went gaunt with missed meals. His robes were dirty as they hung from his hunched shoulders, his greying hair greased with neglect. There was nothing regal about his appearance as he called the council to session, but there was no shame to be found in the distress of a grieving father. 

“So there’s nothing?” His voice was thin as spider silk, so soft it would’ve been lost if not for the reverent silence that blanketed the throne room. Save for the restless shuffles of the King himself, everyone was still as a statue, silent as a grave. 

“I am meant to accept this loss?” He wavered over the words. Loss weighed heavily on all. Not even kings were exempt from grief.

A human councilor stepped forward, “There will be other sons, Your Majesty.” He looked deceptively equipped to counsel a king. Old and wise. Hair thinned at his crown and streaked with white, skin wrinkled at his crown and drawn down around his mouth. He has a joyless face. And yet, he was the youngest man in the room. His relative youth made him eager to speak, to impress. He’d counseled kings before, dealt with the loss of an heir. But those had been human kings. He must’ve thought himself clever for his quick tongue. There will be others. 

“It is not guaranteed,” an eleven woman–the Queen’s personal advisor–said. “It’s difficult for human men to sire children with fae women. Prince Aedriel is the only prince of our queendom and you expect another to come easily. Child.” She spat the word. The man bristled but her animosity was warranted. Through the decades–nearly a century–of marriage there has only been Aedriel and his sister Cyrel. But she died in the cradle, sick with a cough that twisted through her weak lungs and smothered her in the night. The others weren’t spoken of. Some came out of the Queen as blood long before she was meant to labor and few died shortly after their first breaths. Half-fae children weren’t uncommon but those sired by human father’s were rare to quicken and seldom lived such unafflicted lives as Prince Aedriel. There’d been a fever in his infancy that threatened to take him but the Goddess was merciful. May she be merciful again lest more decades be lost to trying for another heir that could hardly replace the life of a missing son.