Prologue
SENAN
THEN
“Believe me when I say,you’re going to fucking love this den. Last time I was there, there was this one dancer with breasts the size of melons—and just as juicy.” The way Philip rolls his tongue along his lips makes me want to vomit. He holds his arms out from his chest, curving them as if they represent said “melons.” He looks like such a twat.
I don’t understand why my brother Aeron insists on hanging around with this prick. Philip’s father may be one of the king’s newest advisors, but he is as sleazy as they come, always leering at women when they pass and making crude remarks.
I love breasts as much as the next man. Large ones, small ones, doesn’t really matter. But juicy breasts? Sounds like that poor woman needs to see a physician.
Usually, I’m up for a bit of banter and mischief with my brother in Kumulus City, but the moment Philip met us on the balcony outside the castle solar, my enthusiasm evaporated.The only upside is that the market is crowded today, and I can pretend I don’t know him.
Instead of stopping there, dearest Philip keeps going with his less-than-appealing descriptions of the fallen women who work in the flesh dens down by the river. I’m sorry, but “bare as a mole” and “a mouth that can the suck scales off a fish” does not entice me.
Why must he speak so loud? We don’t want to hear the crass shite that comes out of his vile mouth, so I highly doubt all these people purchasing baked goods and trinkets this afternoon will appreciate it either.
I take a few steps to my right, ignoring the plea in Aeron’s gaze as Philip keeps yammering.
Why our father chose Philip’s father as part of his cabinet still baffles me. Our mother despised his family—said they weren’t fit for wings, let alone a seat next to the king. If she were still alive, she would have put a stop to the madness.
Unfortunately, our father has been left to his own devices for far too long.
The market is a symphony of color. Emerald-green and ochre silks draped over wooden racks. Vivid violet corsets stretched across dress forms in shop windows. Pastel windchimes made from shells found in the Folly Sea. Small dolls with tiny wings sewn with rainbow yarn.
The most vibrant colors of them all belong to the Scathian fae themselves. Between their hair and their feathers, it’s like a kaleidoscope exploded over the market.
Most of the men have their wings out, trying to impress the women no doubt. I’ve always wanted colorful wings. Maybe red or orange, like the fire I wield. Or a nice, calm green, like the trees in Coill. Instead, I have black feathers. The hue of death and shadows, same as every other male in my family. Apparently, only the most powerful fae have black wings. Notsure who came up with that rubbish. Probably one of my ancestors. And they say we’re “blessed by the stars.” Not because of our wings but our silver eyes. I must admit, I don’t mind them nearly as much as my wings.
I suppose I can’t be too upset with my lot in this life. After all, we have a distant cousin whose feathers are the color of vomit. Not that anyone outside the family knows because he dyes them every other week.
Aeron drifts closer to me, while dearest Philip is busy making eyes at a group of women gathered around a man selling handbags.
“Does he ever shut up?” I mutter under my breath.
The golden rings along Aeron’s pointed ears glimmer when he shakes his head. “Pretty sure he talks in his sleep. The man is such a thorn in my side.”
“Maybe it’s time to remove the thorn before the wound starts to fester.”
For some reason, my comment leaves him frowning. Before I can ask him to explain his reaction, a fleeting wisp of blue catches the edge of my vision. Nothing out of the ordinary; there is color everywhere, after all. But for some reason, I find my head turning, my eyes searching for the source.
That is when I hear it.
A laugh.
Amidst all this noise, the warm, throaty sound shouldn’t stand out, yet it does. Like the unique shade of blue, it draws me in like a fire on a frigid winter’s night.
“Sen?” Aeron’s soft call fades as I scan for the source of that laugh.
My sudden stop disrupts the flow of people surrounding me. Men curse as they shove past, yet I remain frozen, because there, next to the cart filled with pink and green apples, stands a young woman, laughing with one of the vendors.
It feels as if the marble slabs beneath my black boots have turned to quicksand, keeping me from going anywhere but here.
The woman is beautiful, with flowing locks of cerulean waves, high cheekbones, and golden-brown skin, delicate features, and a long, slender neck. But I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women paraded through the castle by noblemen holding out hope of enticing a Vale prince and derailing betrothals that have long since been chiseled in stone.
Despite her beauty, there is something else that calls to me. Maybe it’s the way her head falls back when she laughs with such abandon. Or it could be the sound itself, like a symphony of pure, unadulterated joy. What must that feel like? To be so carefree. Sohappy.
A man and woman strolling arm in arm cut across my path. Something that never would have happened if my brother and I hadn’t slipped past our guards. It’s amazing how far a decent glamour and a few gold coins can get you. The castle guards may be fearsome, but most are as corrupt as Philip’s father.