Page 7 of His Summer Prince

“Did you sayKingMalorn?”

“I’ve received news that the old Autumn King has passed away. Malorn had been consolidating power for years, and with a young husband and a human fort to amplify his standing, there was no one fit to challenge him when the old king died. This is politics, Elior. I’m going to dangle the golden apple as bait in front of King William III of Vale to get the entire Valian kingdom on our side, not just a minor noble house. That will take care of the humans. But we also must strengthen our position amongthe faerie courts. Which is why I’ve been wanting to talk to you.”

Oh no. An uneasy feeling settled in the pit of Elior’s stomach. There weren’t many reasons why his mother would involve him in politics. If she wanted him to stand in for her at another wedding, she would’ve sent a note, and the palace guards wouldn’t have been whispering about Elior being called to the queen.

“I’ve been corresponding with the Winter King, and we’ve come to an agreement,” she said, taking another step toward Elior. He drew back, his thighs hitting the retaining wall enclosing the greenery. The Winter Court was their fiercest rival, and its dark fae were said to be worse than those of the Autumn Court. The queen smiled. “You’re going to marry the Winter King.”

Elior swayed. It had to be a joke. His mother wouldn’t marry him to the Winter King for political gain.

“We’ve scheduled the wedding for in a year’s time,” she said. “Before then, the Winter King will visit and make it official.”

“No!”

His mother raised an eyebrow. “No? Elior, you didn’t seriously think you would have a say in whom you married, did you?”

The world spun. The Winter King. Of all people, it had to be the Winter King. Elior would be expected to live at his court, and he bet that place was freezing. Perhaps not cold enough to kill him, but his life would be miserable.

The Winter King was two hundred years his senior. He hadn’t started aging, but he soon would. Like Wren, Elior realized with a wave of nausea. Wren had mere decades to live. Elior had always known, but the notion hadn’t broken into his conscious thinking until now. He was going to outlive Wren by centuries. Every moment he got to spend with him had always been precious and fleeting, but now the need to savor each second hadheightened to the extreme.

“I’m going to spend the summer in the human world,” Elior said. His mother was aware he’d always done that, meeting up with “that boy.” Like most fae parents, she wasn’t interested in the day-to-day of her offspring. She’d been happy to leave him to his own devices from an early age, and he couldn’t even be angry about it—it had driven him into Wren’s arms, and there was no place he’d rather be. He wouldn’t let her put an end to it.

“You know I don’t like humans, and more so, I dislike you being around one, especially now you’re betrothed.”

Betrothed. Elior was going to be sick.

“Besides,” she continued, “a return to the human world might not be possible. Orcs have invaded Vale.”

“What?” Elior lost his footing and collapsed onto the retaining wall. His hands came down on the garden bed, a dead piece of bark cutting his palm. “When?” Elior had seen no signs of an invasion when he’d peeked through the veil, but the fringes of the Summer Court were far from human settlements. Without blatant signs of raids like columns of smoke rising from distant villages, there was no way to tell something was wrong.

“Days ago. The orcs have been lurking at the shores of the Great River for decades. They must’ve finally found a way to overcome its protective magic. The Winter King’s scouts report that the orcs are being led by a fearsome chief, Farigoth the Ravager. They’ve come to ravish the men of Vale.”

How much bad news could a man take in the space of five minutes? Elior’s vision blurred. What if the orcs got to Wren? With winter reigning in Vale, Elior was confined to the Summer Court, unable to help him. His heartbeat grew frantic. What if he wasn’t going to see Wren again?

“How many orcs are there?” Elior pressed out, unable to get enough air into his lungs. “Where are they now?” He wanted to beg his mother to send knights and support the humans—andsave Wren—but the glacial weather would thwart the bravest knight.

Chapter Three

Wren

The long, dark winter months dragged endlessly. Castlehill was shrouded in gray clouds, and regular snow storms annihilated all visibility. A white blanket covered roofs and streets, and the icy gale made Wren hate every moment he spent outside.

Now and then, he went to help in the castle on the hill where his mother had become Lord James Aranin’s cook, but the bulk of his work took place in the family barn. Most days, Wren and Carlisle, the neighbor’s son, helped each other muck out their barns. A little chit-chat made the work go faster. Carlisle was a goatherd who, like Wren, spent his summers in the Somer Valley, albeit further south, in the town of Ellesmere. His white-blond hair and blue eyes gave him a cool appearance, but his warm personality shone through whenever he broke into a wide smile.

“God,” Carlisle said as he drove his muck rake into the dirty straw, the musky smell of animals and hay penetrating the air, “I can’t wait for spring.”

Wren gave a mirthless chuckle. “That makes two of us.”

“You know I love my girls,” Carlisle said, nodding at his goats, “and summer work is hard too, but it’s better than shoveling shit every morning. I can’t wait to be back in Ellesmere.”

They both led a different life over the summer. From what Wren knew, Carlisle had a separate circle of friends in Ellesmere. Wren had met them a few times, including a lad named Blaise—a hard-working but not overly bright farmhand.Carlisle liked Ellesmere, but Wren was surprised that after the orc invasion, he still planned to travel south, toward the Great River. There, the orcs had set up crowded, stinky camps from where they raided nearby villages and captured men.

“Aren’t you worried about the orcs?” Wren asked, raising his voice to be heard over the bleating of the goats.

Carlisle shrugged. “If the orcs haven’t overrun Ellesmere by spring, I’m going south like every year. What am I supposed to do? The valley here is narrow and crowded. I won’t be able to find good pastures. The Somer Valley is broader, and around Ellesmere, it’s easy to find a fresh spot for grazing every few days. The south is thinly populated.”

And for good reason. When the orcs had first arrived on the other side of the Great River, the rapid watercourse separating Vale from its southern neighbor, people abandoned the villages in the vicinity. They didn’t want to be seen by the orcs roaming the opposite bank, hoping that if they were out of sight, the orcs would forget about them.

Carlisle wiped his brow with the back of his hand. It might be cold outside, but mucking out the barns would’ve made anyone break a sweat.

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