My stomach turns molten and I have to leave or risk saying something that would upset the kind old man.
* * *
The town hallis held four hours later, in the late afternoon. It’s enough time that I can go home, restock my basket, and freshen up. I’m not the only one with the idea of conducting business before the meeting. Some of the fishermen have brought their hauls. I see a few townsfolk displaying needlepoint. Everyone is all too happy to have something else to focus on—or pretend to focus on—beyond the impending elf arrival.
Yet, rumors and theories buzz in the air around me like bees in a field. I hear the whispers and speculation. What will happen? Will the queen be found?
I ignore it all, focusing on my duties. There is no way war will break out after three thousand years of peace. That’s what I’ve settled on to keep my hands steady as I pass out my jars and pouches.
“Hear ye, hear ye, citizenry of Capton,” the town crier shouts from the stage at the far end of the square. A group of weary men and women line up behind him—my father among them. “We call to order this meeting of the Capton Council.”
I stop with the rest of the townsfolk, listening to the various announcements. There are some clerical matters to get out of the way—a few disputes over fishing territories with Lanton, an agreement for tearing down an old warehouse. But everyone is just listening for the important part.
“Regarding the matter of the Human Queen,” my father says. He stands with the head of the Keepers. “The council has heard your concerns and decided to—”
He doesn’t get to finish.
“Look, there!” someone shouts.
All heads turn in the direction of the long stairs that head up from town to the temple. On them, a small legion marches. They’re led by a man who rides a horse made of shadow, its form writhing and fading like mist with every movement.
His long, raven hair fans across his shoulders. I can see a shimmer of what looks like purple, or blue, in the withering sunlight. Bands of iron weave around each other almost organically around his temples, before jutting up into a fan of sharp points at the back of his head—almost like oversized thorns—to make a crown. His ears extend away from his face into points that match the spears of his crown. When he and his soldiers are at the edge of our square, I can see that his eyes are a brilliant cerulean, nearly the same shade as the pillars of the temple.
He is nothing like the ancient, gnarled monster I imagined or the stories made him out to be. The only thing those stories seem to have portrayed accurately is the sheer power that radiates off the man.
The Elf King’s face, ethereal, handsome, youthful, as hard as diamonds, is as handsome as it is terrifying. He is like a poisonous flower—stunning and deadly. This, I realize as his eyes flash an even brighter blue, is the face of death.