"Don't say it yet," he whispers to me. "I have to figure out how to tell Luka he needs to build a new wing on the castle."
"Luka will manage," I say, looking at our new pack. "If Stephen comes for them, Kenric... I will leave his head on the gatepost."
"I know," Kenric says. "Now, help them pack. We have a family to move."
I am helping Sarah fold a moth-eaten quilt when the door to the Earl’s chamber creaks open again.
Duke Jellema steps out. He looks at Kenric, then he looks at me.
"He wants to see you," Jellema says.
"Me?" Kenric steps forward. "He’s exhausted, Hedde. He needs rest."
"Not you," Jellema corrects. He points a finger at me. "Her."
The room goes quiet. Sarah clutches the quilt to her chest, her eyes wide. To these women, I am a savior, but I am still a stranger. To Eamon, I am a rumor.
"He says," Jellema recounts dryly, "that he refuses to die without seeing the 'Fey Witch' who has the capital in a panic. He wants to know if you really have horns."
Kenric frowns. "I’ll go with you."
"No," I say, handing the linen to Sarah. "He is a predator, Kenric. If you come, he will look at you. If I go alone, he will look at me."
I smooth the front of my velvet dress.
"I will be gentle," I promise.
The room is hotter now. The fire has been stoked, but the cold of the grave is seeping into the corners.
Earl Eamon is slumped in his chair. His eyes are closed, his breathing a wet, rattling struggle. He looks small.
I close the door. I do not latch it.
"I don't have horns," I say softly.
Eamon’s eyes snap open. The blue flint is cloudy, but the spark is still there. He stares at me. He squints, trying to pierce the glamour with failing human eyes.
"You look..." he wheezes, then coughs. "You look like a court doll. Pretty. Harmless."
He grips the armrests, pulling himself up an inch.
"Jellema says you are a storm. Kenric says you are a shield. I want to see the truth."
I walk closer. I can smell the sickness on him. It is thick and cloying. He is in pain, constant and grinding pain.
"The truth is dangerous, My Lord," I say.
"I’m dying, girl," Eamon spits. "What are you going to do? Kill me twice?"
I smile. It is a genuine smile. I like this man. He has no patience for the mummery of the world.
"As you wish." I reach up and touch my ear. I pull on the thread of magic that holds the glamour in place and snap it.
The illusion ripples and vanishes.
My ears taper to their sharp, elegant points. My eyes shift from a polite human blue to their natural, luminescent violet. The air in the room drops ten degrees, smelling suddenly of ozone and deep, ancient forests. I let the weight of my presence fill the room, not to crush him, but to show him the scale of what stands before him.
Eamon stares. He doesn't flinch. He leans forward, fascinated.
"Well," he whispers. "Damn."
He looks at my ears. He looks at the way the shadows in the room seem to bend toward me. The flickering firelight makes the shadows dance like predators scouring the walls of his sickroom for prey.
"They weren't lying," Eamon breathes. "You aren't human."
"No," I agree. "I am a full-blooded Lawful Fey Princess of Hloir? Aralli?."
This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
"I'm told that Fey set a great store on names," Eamon says, "What are yours?"
"That is true. I have a few names. I am Yávi? Mairi? Andún?, Splendor of the Autumn Sunset. I am Mair?a Effíri?, Beautiful Death, in your tongue. I am Kili Uin, the Killing Wind. To Kenric, I am Víl?, Spring Breeze."
"And you married the Finstaad boy." Eamon frowns.
"I did." I say with a nod.
"Why?" Eamon asks. "You could have snapped him like a twig."
"Because he doesn't fear the wind," I say, smiling and stepping to the side of his chair. "He built me a windmill."
Eamon laughs, a dry, hacking sound that wracks his thin frame. He clutches his chest, gasping for air.
I reach out.
"May I?" I ask.
Eamon nods, unable to speak.
I place my hand on his chest. I cannot cure him, his lungs are stone and dust, and well past anything I can heal. All I can do is numb the nerves, repair a little of the damage, and ease his suffering. I push a pulse of cool, soothing magic into his ribcage.
The rattling stops. The pain vanishes. Eamon takes a deep, clean breath for the first time in years. He sighs, his head falling back against the cushion.
"Is that magic?" he murmurs. "That feels... like cold water."
"It will hold for a few hours," I say. "Enough time to say goodbye."
Eamon looks at me, his eyes clear now that the pain is gone.
"My girls," he says. "Kenric is a good man. He has honor. But honor hesitates. Honor follows rules."
He grabs my hand. His grip is weak, dry as parchment. "Stephen doesn't follow rules. If he comes for them... if he tries to hurt Rho..."
I lean down. I bring my face close to his, so he can see the violet fire in my eyes. I let him see the apex predator.
"Lord Eamon," I whisper. "Kenric has honor. I do not."
I bare my teeth, showing the fangs. "If Stephen comes for your nieces, I will not sue him in court. I will not challenge him to a duel. I will hunt him. There will not be a burial."
Eamon stares at me. He sees the violence I am capable of. He sees the absolute lack of mercy I have for threats to what is mine.
"Those girls are now, by extension, mine," I explain.
And he smiles. It is a smile of profound relief.
"Good," Eamon whispers. "That is... very good."
He pats my hand. "You are a terrifying creature, My Lady."
"When the occasion calls for it," I agree, "I am a useful creature, Lord Eamon."
"Yes," he agrees. "You are."
He closes his eyes. The tension leaves his shoulders.
"Tell the boy... tell the Earl... the deed is in the false bottom of the cedar chest. And tell him to watch the northern pass. The smugglers use it in the winter."
"I will tell him."
"And tell Jellema..." Eamon’s voice is fading, drifting toward sleep. "Tell him he still owes me five crowns from that card game in '42."
"I will see that it is paid," I promise.
I stand up. I restore the glamour, hiding the Fey nature once more, though Eamon’s eyes are closed and he doesn't see it.
He is breathing easily now. The magic is holding the pain at bay.
I walk to the door. "Sleep well, Wolf of Padma," I whisper.
"Good hunting... Wind," he murmurs.
I step out into the hallway.
Kenric is waiting. He looks at my face. "Is he...?"
"He is sleeping," I say. "Without pain. He told me where the deed is. And he told me that you are to watch the northern pass."
Kenric exhales, leaning his head back against the wall.
"He liked you?" Kenric asks.
"He liked that I am a monster," I say, taking Kenric’s hand. "He thinks I am the only thing scary enough to keep the other monsters away from his girls."
Kenric squeezes my fingers. "He's right."
"I know," I say. "Come. Let's get the deed. We have an Earldom to claim."
We leave the Dower House, the nieces fluttering around Kenric like nervous birds as they climb into the carriage, and the wagons are loaded.
But as the wheels begin to turn on the cobblestones, I linger for a moment. I lean against the carriage door, my eyes closed, tuning out the wind and the noise of the horses.
I focus one last time on the room we just left.
Inside the Earl's Sick Room
The door clicks shut. The latch falls.
Duke Jellema walks back to the table. He pulls the flask of confiscated brandy from his robes. He finds two mostly clean glasses on the sideboard and pours. The liquid is dark amber, thick, and rich.
He hands one to the dying man.
"To the end of the shift," Jellema toasts softly, using the old miner’s phrase.
Eamon takes the glass with a trembling hand. "To the daylight at the top of the shaft."
They drink. Eamon closes his eyes, savoring the burn.
"She helped," Eamon murmurs. "The pain is gone. I feel... floaty. Is this what magic feels like? Or am I just drunk?"
"A bit of both, I imagine," Jellema says, sitting heavily in the chair opposite him.
Eamon looks at his old friend. "You are playing a dangerous game, Hedde. That girl... she isn't a courtier. She isn't even a diplomat. She is a natural disaster in a silk dress."
"I know," Jellema admits, staring into his glass.
"She showed me," Eamon whispers. "She dropped the mask. Teeth like needles. Eyes like violet fire. She told me she would hunt Stephen down like a dog if he touched the girls."
Eamon smiles, a genuine, peaceful smile."I have never slept better than I will tonight, knowing she is guarding that door."
"She protects her own," Jellema agrees.
"But what about you?" Eamon asks, his voice sharpening. "She is loyal to Kenric. She is loyal to her pack. She is not loyal to you, Hedde. I saw the way she looked at you in the hall. She knows you are using them."
"I am not using them," Jellema defends, though his voice lacks its usual conviction. "I am positioning them. There is a difference."
"Is there?" Eamon scoffs. "You are building a wall against the King, and you are using Kenric as the mortar. If the wall cracks, he is the one who gets crushed."
"He won't crack. He is stronger than his father."
"Maybe," Eamon wheezes. "But make sure you don't push him too hard. That wife of his... if she thinks you are a threat to him, she won't hesitate. She won't play politics. She will just remove you."
Jellema takes a long drink. "I am aware of the risks. She's already dismantled three other dukes."
"Are you?" Eamon rattles his glass on the table. "You always were arrogant, Hedde. You think you can outsmart everyone. The King. The Church. Even the Fey. Just... be careful. The boy is a good lad. Don't turn him into a corpse just to balance your ledger."
Ashenleaf Brightnote returns, quill sharpened, sass levels unregulated.
Ahhh, wasn’t that delightful? Earl Eamon continuing to be the only human with enough spine to look a Fey Princess in the face and say, “You look like a doll.”
Iconic behavior. 10/10. Would toast brandy with again.
Meanwhile, Kenric is out here being noble and honorable and generally competent — a shocking contrast to Oskar, who would’ve taken one look at a dying Earl and immediately knocked over a vase, apologized to the wrong person, and somehow signed away mineral rights to a goat.
Let us take a moment to appreciate:
- The glamour drop that probably shaved ten years off Jellema’s life (deserved).
- Eamon immediately adopting the Fey Princess as his personal murder?weapon-by-proxy.
- The nieces fluttering around like startled sparrows while our girl calmly plans 47 homicides.
Also, can we talk about how Jellema is DEFINITELY playing politics like a man juggling lit torches over a puddle of oil? And he thinks she’s the dangerous one. Oh, sweet summer bureaucrat.
Anyway — tune in next time for more:
- Political scheming
- Familial chaos
- Fey judiciary systems (“jury of her peers”? Honey, you don’t want that.)
- And Oskar… probably tripping over air. Again.
the Discord via this invite link.