Page 93 of Atop the Faerie Throne
“Enough that we don’t have to risk bargaining with your people,” the female grunts.
Arvid frowns. “Asta, enough. The prince is alive and well.”
“And what about the princess? She’s probably been eaten by trolls.”
I can’t help but snort. “We don’t eat Fomorians. The meat is probably too bitter from all the lying you do.”
“Prae’s fine,” Caed says, dismissively. “Busy fucking her new mates.”
“Fomorians don’t have mates,” Asta retorts.
Caed opens his hand in answer, displaying the deceptively delicate sunburst across his palm. “Tell that to the fae goddess.”
Some of the Fomorians crane their necks, but of course, only those with fae blood can see what he’s trying to show them. The eyes of the child at the front go wide, and she whispers under her breath.
“It’s true.”
“The Ancestors—” Arvid begins but is cut off when Caed rolls his eyes.
“Would’ve stabbed you in the back for deciding to abandon your king, so who gives a fuck what they think?”
A dark cloud seems to fall over the Fomorians at that proclamation, and Jaro’s wolf shifts uncomfortably.
“Set up your camp,” I say, pushing as much finality as I can into my tone. “You have much to discuss.”
They look exhausted, and I grimace at the thought. Goddess, I’m pitying Fomorians. Whatever next?
My next stopis the inner wall, where a certain knight commander has apparently ordered that he’s not to be disturbed. I know why, and for that reason I hover a few feet away, watching as he stands with the families of his fallen knights as their ashes are interred beneath the stones.
The weeping of those left behind has become wearisome after all my years as Lord of the Wild Hunt, but it seems strangely poignant today as they filter past me, their grief fresh.
Florian lingers by the carved stones on the parapet, tracing the freshly made lines of text with his fingers.
Ah. Ascal, Kendel, and Merith. The knights he lost.
He notices me, of course, but refuses to face me.
“If you plan on speaking, get on with it.” The big male’s voice is rough as his hand falls away from the grave marker.
I raise one brow. “I’m not one of your knights to be bossed around. Where’s your mate?”
Silence.
Ah, so he came up here to be alone.
“Well, your sister has just granted sanctuary to a bunch of Fomorian refugees, so?—”
Florian whips around so fast it’s a wonder he doesn’t fall over. There’s a certain grim satisfaction in watching his expression fly through incredulity, fury, and finally suspicion.
Admiration, and more than a little envy, shoots through me as the bigger male freezes, shutting his eyes to take a deep breath, then another.
The knight commander has a temper. Everyone knows it. But what most people don’t see is just how long it truly takes for him to erupt. Recognising rage and neutralising it before it can manifest through violence or cruelty is noble.
That level of self-mastery is especially admirable when one’s nature is to do the opposite.
Of course, he’s had thousands of years to reach this point. By my best guess, he’s only a hundred years younger than Lore, although I doubt the redcap will ever attain Florian’s level of maturity, even should he live another three millennia.
Once again, I’m struck with gratitude that it didn’t take me that long to meet my mate. A mere five centuries is nothing by comparison.
