by Ella Fields
The crimson male blinked, clearing his throat as he turned away and muttered something under his breath I didn’t catch over the sound of another dagger being unsheathed from his boot. “You returned my sword.”
“Of course.” I twisted the dagger in my hand, studying the fine art in the leather hilt that wound between the rubies. Vines, maybe, or they’d once been before aging beneath his iron-clad grip from overuse…
The dagger fell to the dirt.
The crimson watched me with raised brows. “Butter on your fingers, Princess?”
“H-how many of my people have you killed with… with that?”
The words were too soft for such ugliness. “More than you can dream. Now pick it up.”
I didn’t, couldn’t. I stared at it, remembering the screams I’d heard from miles away, the vicious roars, the pounding of horse hooves carrying my father and his soldiers to their aid, but too late.
Too late, the village decimated, flames giving ash to the night sky…
“Opal,” the enemy barked, snapping me from my trance. He was before me, so close yet I hadn’t seen him move. I’d been too lost to the nightmare, just one of many that he and his people had given to us. “Pick up your weapon.”
I had to leave. Clarity swept in far too late. I had no reason to linger in this place that once belonged only to me with this intruder. With an enemy who wouldn’t hesitate to capture or kill me if ordered to.
Shit. Of course. That could be exactly what he was waiting for… an opportune time to catch me unawares and maybe even steal me for his king to use as bait against my parents.
“Opal,” the crimson said when I walked around him, heading for the small mouth of the cave that’d brought me to him.
This odd male was wrong. I wasn’t just stupid. I was an idiot star-bent on ignoring the obvious—we were all headed straight for certain doom. My father had been right to make his plans, as ludicrous and unfair as they seemed. With our people being plucked off, village by village, city by city, and our land butchered beneath their dying bodies, it was no longer a matter of if the king would come for us but when.
About to break into a run, I nearly tripped over a boulder when he said, “Fang.”
Stilling, I slowly turned back to find him standing there, cloaked in night in the center of the passageway, tucked away from the moonlight’s reach.
“My name. They call me Fang.”
A peace offering.
A plea to stay. I should have ignored it, but I knew even without knowing anything of this Fang at all that such a seemingly normal thing was rare for him.
“Fang,” I repeated, tasting it, unsure what to make of it. “You…” My stomach heaved, the chicken dumpling stew we’d eaten for dinner roiling and rising as I drifted back toward him. My voice rasped, choking on the question. “You’ve murdered us, Fang, and for what?”
“Because we can,” he said as simply as the rising of the sun and retrieved the blade he’d handed me. Waiting until I’d drawn closer, until I’d entered the wider opening we’d found this strange truce in, he took my hand and pulled me to him. His scent followed as he pressed the hilt into my palm, his fingers cool against mine but nowhere near as cold as his gaze. “And we won’t stop, we won’t falter, we won’t tire. So fucking stab me.”
It was as if he’d known precisely what to say to make that bone-deep fear morph into a blistering rage.
I struck, almost falling flat on my face as he lunged to the side, laughing. “Hone that anger, make it yours, not mine.” He lurched forward, and I gasped, my blade taking the sudden impact of his right before my chest. Breathing through his nostrils, he grinned, then turned us. His front at my back, strong arms caged me, threatening and warm at the same time. “Reel it in, sunshine,” he said, throaty and low as I struggled to no avail. “That fiery rage is a mighty powerful weapon, but only if you reel it in, use it, and do not allow it the chance to use you.”
My breathing steadied all the while my heart skipped too many beats. That scent, cedar and smoke, clouded my mind.
The hand swallowing mine, calloused and huge, readjusted my grip on the dagger. “Close combat,” he murmured as if wanting to explain why his body had molded to my back, “on the ground, cornered, unwanted confrontation, whatever it may be, you cannot hesitate.” His breath washed over my ear and cheek, stirring the fine hairs from my braid. “You stab instantly.” Spinning me, he drew my hand toward my chest, dangerously close to my breast, and pushed toward my armpit. “If they’re armored, find the gaps and use them.”
Nodding, I followed his movements when his hand fell away, and then we started again.
With each lunge, every thrust, and the dance of my feet, Prince Bron, my father’s plans, the distant howls and the trill of night birds, the fact that my enemy was teaching me how to survive people just like him—all of it flowed to the dark edges of my mind. There was only this strange male named Fang, his grunted half-laughs, the odd curse, the sharp agility that constantly caught me off guard, the harsh tempo of my heartbeat, and the sweat that misted my entire body.
When the baying of creatures, wolves and otherwise, across the ravine only grew in volume, I faltered, narrowly dodging his blade as it skimmed the arm of my thermal, wool fluttering to the dirt.
With a smirk curving into his cheek, feverish eyes a wild blue, and his blond hair standing in every direction, Fang swept into a deep bow, then took his leave.
He didn’t say goodbye. He left with the moon and never looked back.
Dawn gathered light and bathed the dark with smoky gold.
Fires raged in the east across the river, destroying one of the last northern towns before the woods that bordered the cliffs.
On horseback and on foot, the survivors, few as they were, arrived with their meager belongings and children in tow. Saddlebags and baskets swayed over the ash-dusted beasts, plumes of heavy breath blowing before them in great huffs.
Faces, blackened with soot, shining with sweat and tears, stared blankly at me as they passed, herded behind the city walls.
I wasn’t permitted to head to where many would need my help. There are others, Mother would say, enough that you do not need to endanger yourself.
Helpless, all I could do was stand there and await the worst of the injured to arrive. Then I could be of assistance. Then I could feel useful. Then some of this sorrow that carved away at flesh and bone would find another outlet—another purpose.
Once they’d all been shown to the city hall, where they’d stay with other families who had yet to find new housing or leave the city in search of wide-open forests, farms, and fields, I stared at the morning sky as the rising sun gathered what remained of their burning homes and swallowed it within its golden fist.
I gathered more feverfew and golden root in the fields beyond the castle, the sun now a sinking ember behind the looming pines that guarded the darkening woods.
Many people had arrived and then perished, and many were healing but forever scarred.
Setting my wares inside the basket, I lowered to the wildflower-strewn earth, gazing toward those woods with a question I’d asked myself but wouldn’t dare say aloud. Not for fear of reprimand but for fear of the answer.
Without even asking, I knew nothing would make him stop. The blood king and his vengeance-sworn armies would pillage and plunder, and it seemed they wouldn’t tire until every last creature of Sinshell was dead.
What it must be like to live with a hatred so deep, so untouchable, so incurable… I didn’t want to know.
I would never pity him, of that I was sure. Not when wagons were still ambling over the horizon outside the city, carting the dead to their final resting places by the cliffs.
Staring over my shoulder, I watched them in the distance. The castle at their backs seemed to watch on, its luminous stone dull with dismay.
When I looked back to the forest before me, I found a pair of staring eyes.
The fawn wobbled as it dared to breach th
e canopy of greenery, large eyes blinking, absorbing, and finally settling upon my face. With an excited waggle of its backside, it bounded over the grass and promptly fell on its fresh legs.
A watery laugh shocked me, and sniffling, I rose to my feet, heading over to help her rise.
Before I could reach the bumbling babe, an arrow whizzed by, and the deer slumped into the grass.
Whirling, I glared at Deandra. “She was just a baby.”
The soldier loped past me, the thick dark braids that kept her hair from her face bouncing against crusted armor. Bending, she retrieved her arrow. Blood still covered her brown cheeks and forehead from the battle across the river. If you could call it a battle. Few of the blood king’s regiment had remained when our soldiers arrived, their task in terror and murder already achieved.
Deandra shot me a grin. “A delicacy, Princess.”
Horror gripped me so swift, I had to look away when she tossed the deer around her plated shoulders.
She laughed. “We ought to get you involved in the real action and create a hardened barrier for that soft heart of yours.”
I had no words for that. There was only that nagging guilt, and it clamored and clawed with the reminder that I wasn’t doing enough. None of us would ever be able to do enough. “What are you doing out here?”
Deandra waded back through the thick grass, and I collected my basket, following as she said, “I was told to find you. We have a guest.”
The prince had arrived on his own.
His parents, Prince Bron had said, were not well pleased by the idea of a marriage between our two kingdoms, but upon receiving my father’s letter, he’d found himself curious.
Curious enough to have a large chunk of his army escort him here before having them disperse throughout our city and the fields and woods beyond, it would seem.
Rattled by nerves but resolved after the day’s bloodshed to do whatever necessary, I’d hidden in the antechamber of the great hall to listen to their stilted greetings and small talk until my mother sang my name, summoning me.
I’d expected disdain, disinterest at the very least. I hadn’t expected the prince to have grown more handsome than the last time I’d seen him three years ago. His rich brown hair curled around his hairline, whispered over a sharp chin, his eyes aglow beneath thick brows.
Full lips parted, those soil-dark eyes flicking over me once, then again with a slowness that seemed deliberate. He inclined his head. “Princess, how lovely you have grown.”
I’d matured years ago, but I didn’t bother reminding him of that. He’d been too busy tending to his female companions to notice a faerie princess within his midst.
Now, walking alongside him in the gardens, listening to him regale me with tales of their tense journey here and the delightful bakers in Tulane who’d offered him the most scrumptious scones he’d ever tasted, I half wondered if he was even aware that we’d met before.
“You’d best not eat them in future.” I finally formed words, though they were quiet. “Or anything else from strangers in Sinshell.”
His feet, clad in gleaming brown boots that matched his eyes, slowed as we rounded the fourth circle of greenery and color. The shrubbery climbed higher here, the castle courtyard at our backs and only the rooms in the towers visible.
“I’d thought food spells and faerie poisons to be nothing but grotesque bedtime stories.”
I contained a snort of laughter. “There is nothing grotesque about it,” I said, stopping before a cluster of roses and brushing my fingers over a small bud. “Your scones back in Errin will now taste of soot is all.”
“Right,” he clipped. “And what of other meals?” He shifted, the warmth of him nearing my arm. “Surely, I can eat something without worry of it ruining me for all else.”
The way he’d said those words, uttered the last few with a lower, deeper cadence, drew my eyes his way. “We will likely feed you a meal you cannot find in your kingdom.”
“Indeed,” Bron rumbled in a way that pulled at my brows. His gaze drifted from my face to my hand, my fingers cupping and encouraging the unfurling rose. His lips parted, then closed as he swallowed. “God, you truly are a faerie princess.”
I raised a brow, making to leave when he grasped my hand. His touch was gentle and warm as he pulled me close. He was tall for a human, but Fae, especially nobility, were taller than most any humans, so our noses were nearly perfectly aligned when his fingers rose, awaiting my permission.
Curious, I lifted my lips into an agreeing smile. They broke open with a ragged breath when his fingers shifted my hair behind my ear. Gentle and almost reverent, they traced the arch, the near point that, if not for anything else, made it so plainly obvious we were different.
“Soft,” he whispered, as if to himself, while furrowing his brows. “You wear no jewels in your ears.”
“I used to but too often forgot, and we heal fast.” My voice was breathy, and I swallowed when his finger slipped over the small lobe to trail down my neck, nearing the fine silk strap of my heavy apricot gown. “Bron,” I said, more of a warning, but for whom, I didn’t know as my stomach filled with tickling moths.
Seeming to catch himself, he removed his touch, smiling as though he’d been caught stealing a treat and he wasn’t sorry. “You are beautiful.”
“As are you,” I said, to which he released a shocked laugh. “What are you doing here, Prince?”
A brow rose, and he took one step back, tiny gold flecks in his eyes exploding under the sun. “Your father wrote us, as you already know.”
“You cannot mean to marry me.” Unable to meet his burning gaze, I fastened my eyes on his velvet bronze tunic and cloak. “We both know that.”
He was silent for long moments, lashes dipping as he turned on one foot and peered around the garden. We weren’t alone, but I didn’t bother telling him. Turning back, he pursed his lips, studying me, and a rip sounded when he dared to take a step closer.
It was quiet enough that I didn’t think he’d even heard it, but with my hearing, I did, and I used the distraction to prolong whatever excuse he’d been about to give me. “Your cloak,” I said, forlorn and lowering, reaching for the hem. Gazing at my roses, I hissed, “I apologize. They’re usually much better behaved.”
“The flowers?” he asked, puzzled.
I hummed, rubbing my fingers over and along the broken velvet and stitching. The tear was too ragged, stubborn. It didn’t work. With a sigh, I rose and suggested, “Leave it with me, and I’ll mend it after dinner.”
Bron removed the cloak and gathered the heavy material, but before he could place it in my outstretched hands, he leaned forward, his lips brushing my cheek. “Kind and beautiful.”
I watched him leave, my cheeks warm, one more so than the other, the wind kicking leaves around his fast steps. He’d left to avoid answering me, and I was too distracted by the softness of his full mouth upon my skin to care.
Over dinner, news arrived that some of the prince’s men had been attacked in the Spring Forest.
Up until that point, it’d been a quiet, tense affair. My father studiously ignored my mother’s warning looks whenever he’d spoken of a marriage contract, not needing to hint at the reasons but doing so all the same.
I’d sat and stared at my full plate of roasted bear and spiced turnips, pushing some of the meat into the puddle of white cream upon its side.
The prince hadn’t eaten either, though he did drink the wine.
Fool, I’d thought, being that I’d warned him of the food, and he’d not thought it would extend to drink as well. Our wines were crafted the same way most wines were, but with a faerie’s hand. The passion for their task and their lifeblood seeped into each batch.
Already, Bron’s cheeks were ruddy, his eyes struggling to focus on my father. Laughter fell from his lips over nothing as my mother kindly suggested, “Dear prince, perhaps you shouldn’t drink—”
That was when the two soldiers had arrived, Bron’s a
nd my father’s highest in command, their expressions mirroring grave concern. “Your majesty,” Elhn said with a swift bow. “We’ve just received word of bodies strung up in the trees of the Spring Forest, limbs torn apart, blood in the river…” He trailed off when my mother lifted a hand and glanced at me. “Apologies.”
Grateful I hadn’t eaten, I offered a tiny smile, my chest squeezing tight.
“My men?” the prince cried, the merriment fading from his face like an incoming storm clouding the sun. Standing, he wobbled on his feet, blinking harshly. “Good grief, what did you make me drink?”
My mother’s lips pinched between her teeth. No one had made him drink anything. He’d poured the wine before any of us were even aware of what he was doing.
“Survivors?” my father asked, his thick fingers sailing around the rim of his goblet, unseeing eyes upon the table.
“No reports of any.”
My father rose from his seat, the flora-shrouded snakes encircling the back of his gold and silver chair appearing watchful. “Let us talk outside.”
Bron’s general offered a hand when the prince tripped over nothing, then took it back when he was reprimanded.
It didn’t matter that the Spring Forest lined a lot of the coastline, stretching from Gracewood and through to Errin. They were here. Yet again, they’d crossed over.
Enough of them to wipe out a portion of the prince’s army.
After pacing my rooms for what felt like hours, I retrieved the prince’s cloak and perched upon the window seat that overlooked the gardens below to follow through on my promise.
Invisible thread flowed from beneath my fingertips, and I willed it to match the same shade of golden brown as the cloak. The scent of the prince, sea salt and something sweet like burnt sugar, rolled off the weathered velvet.
His lips, full and soft and warm and unexpectedly rubbing over my skin, the specks of gold in his brown eyes… Those fluttering moths died, replaced by molten heat when a different set of eyes and lips entered my mind.
