Page 57 of A Bargain with the Fae King

“I-it’s dead,” I say.

“The Shadow Lands. Home of the Unseelie.” Ambrose doesn’t take his eyes off the fae contingent.

“That’s what happens when the magic of a land fades.” Riven gives my hand a tight squeeze.

Blood ices in my veins. That could happen here. If their magic continues to fade, they could end up like the Unseelie, living in a barren wasteland.

A shiver wracks my body, and I fight the urge to hug myself.

Sigurd breaks away from his people and steps across the line onto Forest lands. Unlike Riven, he has not dressed for battle but rather wears a tailored navy coat over a silver-gray shirt and dark pants. Not a weapon can be seen on him. He’s dressed to conquer the dance floor, not a host of Unseelie.

Electricity zips through the air. I twist to find more of Riven’s people behind us, a host as formidable as the one we’ve come to greet.

Riven breaks from us without a word and strides to meet Sigurd between their respective peoples.

I fumbled with the bracelet, trying to re-clasp it to my wrist as the collective audience holds its breath. My heart thunders so loudly it’ll be a miracle if no one hears it.

Silence stretches as they stare each other down, so thick I can almost feel it.

Finally, Riven breaks it.

“Welcome, Sigurd, King of Air. You and your company are welcome in my territory and in my city of Arbrean, where we will hold a ball in three days’ time to commemorate this event.” The words are stiff, too formal for the man I know.

Sigurd flashes a blinding grin before his features settle back into their continual smirk.

“A promise of peace while we are here? No violence toward each other until the human is recovered?” Sigurd extends his hand to Riven, an oddly human action.

Riven takes it, and though I can’t quite see, I’d wager he shows an arrogant smirk of his own. “Agreed.”

“It’s a promise then.”

Magic rolls off the two in a shimmering wave, passing through the assembled so that even I feel its pulse. Silence reigns once more, cut only by the distant sound of birds behind me. However, movement resumes as fae shift on their feet and loosen the tightness of their shoulders.

Danger has passed. For the moment.

“Some of my guards will escort your guests to the city,” Riven says.

“And some of mine will aid your search whileIfix your wards.” Sigurd gestures to his right with a grand flourish.

An insult, though Riven doesn’t flinch, still playing the arrogant king for his guests.

Sigurd’s gesture draws my attention to the intricate pattern carved into the earth in groves and mounds not far from where we stand. Similar to the honing circles I’d seen but different. The nuances of it are indecipherable from here, but it has to be something similar—a source or tool of magic, something to do with the wards.

“Oh yes, I have something else as well.” Sigurd glances past Riven and stares at me among the crowd.

My back stiffens. Nothing good can come from that. Ambrose tightens his grip on my hand, one he’s not released since we arrived.

Sigurd swirls his finger through the air.

I gasp as an object lifts from one of the carriages at his back and floats to him on a phantom breeze. A rock settles in my gut as recognition sets in. A large, white rose on a leafy stem.

Tension crackles between the opposing parties, even thicker than before. A sizzle and hum—magic?—tingles across my skin.

“A gift for the lady.” He snags the flower from the air.

Shit. Everyone stares at me. No one moves.

Riven is stiff as a statue, his gaze averted.

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