Masks tilt, feathers shiver, and jewels wink in the low lights. I can’t deny it’s beautiful.
I just wish beauty meant something to me like it used to.
“It will be charming to finally see you next to the king,” Merlina says, voice quiet under her gold veil. She adjusts the last pin near mytemple, then draws back to see whether I’ve become the thing she was assigned to create.
Kiala checks the fall of my train. “Remember to breathe and smile,” she murmurs. “Kind, fawning words should just spill out when you’re in his presence!”
Eslina brushes my shoulders with a sheen that glitters in the low light. “Remember, do not touch your throat once the collar is on,” she warns, like someone coaxing a patient to hold still through a needle.
I nod.
The tapestries have been changed for the theme, with many other bloody displays of “hunting” scattered around the room. I hate them all. The guests who crowd the floors gawk at them, pointing, smiling, and laughing.
Over the last week, I have been trying—genuinely searching—for redeemable qualities in those who orbit within Arion’s court. But they are cruel to each other, to others, and definitely to me. Besides Thorne, I have found no allies, no friends outside of the loud voice in my head that can’t seem to do anything to help me against those who cage me, and I spend each moment clawing my way to the surface of the stinking shit, trying to find fresh air.
All I am learning is to grin and bear this life.
Then, finally, a bell strikes once, and the crowd hushes. The double doors at the far end of the hall open on cue.
Here we go.
Arion enters without a mask.
Instead, he is dressed like a man prepared for the hunt. I bite back an ironic chuff.
Of course.
Interestingly enough, Cursed One sneers as I take in the king. He sports a bow on his back, tight leathers across his body, and an impractical silver crown upon his brow. His smile is measured in degrees.
He walks easy, and at least those in attendance look at him like someone who is prepared to grant them salvation. Interesting, especially since I know just how many are vying for his downfall.
“Beloved guests,” he says, and the wordbelovedfits in hismouth in a way that makes me want to spit. “Tonight, we honor a truth older than song. The hunt has brought our people food and prosperity since Doros and Nicnevin graced our land with their first child. It allowed us to thrive among the forests and savage beasts. Today, that hunt continues as we prepare to save our people. Thank you for joining me in this great experiment, which, gods willing, will result in a sustained line that will stretch on for ages. Allow me to also thank the Royal Warden of my lovely human, Mr. Thorne.”
Everyone listens, rapt, then they dip their heads as they turn to face the area of the room where Thorne is carefully tucked away, already drinking from a goblet of wine. He gives a half smile, tipping his head and raising his glass to the king.
Hmm, the snake, Cursed One murmurs.
She seems just as angry at what he did—what he allowed them to do to me—as I am. She seethes during our nightly meetings.
Thorne has not spoken openly with me in days. I do not know what came of Arion’s march. But no one else is talking about it either.
I wonder if Mrath still stands, and if he was really able to get the entirety of theCumhacht na Cruinne.I certainly haven’t heard anything about it, though everyone has been in an exceptionally good mood.
If Mrath is dead…The thought strikes a sad chord in me. She wasn’t so easily sorted into “good” or “bad,” but she had been helpful back home. She had been kind to me once.
I pause my thoughts and turn back to my future husband as he drones on.
“Now, the hunt reminds us that pursuit sweetens possession, and beauty is safest when kept. To a new age of the elves! Rounder ears, but stronger resolve and abundant generations!”
Laughter and delight travel through the ballroom, and several toast the king’s words.
There are those, however, who do not grant the king more than tight smiles and silence. I watch them, studying their faces, partially or mostly obscured by their costume masks. They, too, look like hunters, though of a very different kind. The ones that seek to topplea power they do not agree with and fight like wolves over the bloody scraps.
Then Arion turns to where I stand. He lifts his hand as if he is summoning a bird that already knows the way to his wrist. “Come, my lovely human bride.”
Bride. That damned word is a stone. It skims once across the surface of my breath and sinks.
Still, I move. Still, I smile sweetly. The hem of my gown whispers like grass in a meadow. I step into the lane cleared for me by our rehearsals, and my pulse keeps time.