Page 11 of The Beast King's Bride

One of the Greater Fae, I think, since his stature is that of a tall human man, though the horns are strange. Greater Fae normally don’t differ much from humans in outward appearance.

He seems to be surveying the ballroom, taking his time. I’m not even sure I’m breathing as his gaze passes over everyone. A different melody seems to hang in the air, something with pipes and the soughing of the wind, and I could swear I smell meadows with flowers and brooks of water.

Magic.

Eventually, he starts down the staircase, step after measured step, the way his body moves reminding me of a great, prowling cat. Though his hair is short, he has a long braid swinging at his back as he turns, and those bronze horns gleam, curling over his ears, like a peculiar crown. His eyes flash, some dark shade.

Looks like Night Court.

Looks like danger.

Frozen in place like everyone around me, I can only look as he clears the steps and takes a step forward, hands coming to rest on the protruding hilts of knives in his belt. His attire is rich but also utilitarian—black leather britches and a coat with the collar raised, tall boots, a belt studded with silver.

Leather and silver. Not iron. Never iron for the Fae.

He turns toward the thrones and the crowd again parts to let him through, only there is some stirring in the crowd. The spell he’s cast seems to be fading. The guards surrounding the dais lift their spears to stop him.

A ripple runs through the gathered aristocrats, spreading out in circles. I shudder and draw a gasping breath. Yet even the guards seem sluggish, not moving to block his way.

Even though the king and the queen have stood, facing the Fae.

“Who are you?” King Pryam asks. “What do you want here?”

“Bow to the king!” One of the guards finds the courage to point the spear at the Fae. “Bow now!”

“Kings,” the Fae man says slowly, his rich voice carrying over everyone, “do not bow to kings.”

A warrior king of the Fae, right here, in the palace. I stare in wonder.

“Explain yourself,” King Pryam says.

“As you wish.” The Fae touches a hand to his forehead. A greeting? A gesture of impatience? “I am king Talensar Dasar’ath of Imre Jerah Isria, ruler of the Sapphire Court under the hill, and I am here to demand my tithe.”

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