I throw the souring thoughts from my mind and, with a blink, realise I’m still staring at the concubine.
They pass me by, and Ember’s gaze finally tugs away from mine. Her brows furrow for a beat before she is once again composed in the same fashion as me—a desolate statue, just going through the motions.
Faintly, I catch a whiff of that sea mould that grows around here in the light realm, up beyond the mossy hills. It’s not so much a sea up that way, more of a lake that’s flooded with drowned humans’ bodies and kept in the possession of the selkies who live deep underwater there.
I like it here.
Well, I like it better here, in the light lands. Despite that the sun doesn’t shine down on the grass or seabeds anymore since the darkness came and draped all over, it still has this sensation about it… It feels light. Even in this thick tension that has the Lesser Court in its grip.
Something inside of me lights up when Daein is called here on his duties. He might not be an official prince anymore, but these times of conquer have demands of him, and he is still royal.
I don’t do a whole lot here. Pretty sure he just drags me along because he secretly can’t stand to be away from me for months at a time. Honestly, I could use the break. But again, it’s nice here—with Daein’s guards, I can walk the mossy hills, the seashores, the markets, and the fae here are, well, friendlier. Not ‘friendly’, exactly, but far more welcoming of me as a human than the dokkalves in the dark lands.
But truth be told, I’m no human.
Daein knew it from the start what I am—
A sickly changeling, tossed into the human world, discarded and forgotten. Well, technically I’m a kinta. A broken Halfling, one born of fae blood (in my case, royal fae blood). But I was born without the power that should come with this bloodline.
We tell no one of what I truly am, of my ancestry. Daein’s orders. He demands absolute secrecy of my lineage.
I don’t fight it.
I don’t have much fight left in me anymore.
Even the quiet sigh I release as I draw away from my statue spot and head up to Daein on the podium is weak. Maybe I need my powder or some Wasteland sunshine to rejuvenate. I don’t need either anymore to survive. My sickness is gone, ever since Daein tied his life source to mine when I died in child labour I have suffered my sickness none. And yet, the powder and the light columns still warm me some, retain that healing effect it had when I was first introduced to them.
I know why I am this way. It’s not the sickness I once had that weathers me. It’s the sickness of the mind…
That’s what the healer calls it. A sickness in my mind. A misery that can’t be shaken. Guess she’s right. It’s not like I’ve ever really known true happiness. Not quite sure what that even means.
Still, something in me draws me to Daein on the podium. As if he can sense me, feel my heartbeat in his, smell the faint aroma of my lavender perfume, his head turns to the side and his sharp eyes land on me. He’s happy I’m coming to him—this is betrayed in the quirk of his mouth. An almost smile.
Elden watches me with white eyes colder than the glacier breeze that carries through the seashore, watching me closely as I slide up beside my husband. Is it habit that has me moulding to Daein’s side, nuzzling against him like a child seeks comfort from its mother?
My child never seeks comfort from me… Not anymore…
Daein wraps his arm around me, securing me in place. And my mere presence cuts off whatever conversation the brothers were having.
With a lingering, cutting stare that threatens all sorts of nasty wishes against me, Elden storms off and cuts into the crowd of dancers, uncaring of who he might bump into. But he doesn’t bump into anyone—they part around him, water around a boulder, because of who he is.
His reputation has made its mark in these lands, too.
Familiarity invades me with the scent of Daein; his natural musk, sprinkled with something sharp and clean that comes in a cloudy green bottle. I like it. My eyes flutter shut as he brings his face closer to mine.
His mouth ghosts my forehead, his words a murmur, “An hour.”
He knows I want to leave. He tries to appease me. But even if we left now, would I feel any better?
Unlikely.
A loving husband who tied his life to mine and sacrificed everything to establish my position in his world; a daughter who fights better with a sword than most warriors I’ve seen, more beautiful than the light in the Wastelands; all the riches and treatment I could ever want for—and yet, something feels so very wrong inside of me. Like a chunk of my insides is missing.
Despite the light lands feeling warmest to me—both shrouded in darkness yet light in the air—I feel the hollowness most here.
I nuzzle deeper into Daein’s solid chest, letting my eyes close on the golden wedges that flicker around the room, lights bouncing off of the walls that keep us caged from darkness looming just on the other side of the windows.
This Court was always the Lesser Court—not newly built for the dokkalves’ takeover. As I heard it, it’s been here since before the river that runs by the small palace we stay at down the side of the Royal Hill. This Court was once for all the ‘Other’fae, as Daein once spat out at me, the disgust sticking to that word like poison from his lips. Not even the litalves receive the same bout of disgust as these Others do—pixies, like the ones prancing around the ballroom to serve us all our drinks and snacks, gnomes, selkies, brownies, sprites and goblins and redcaps and all sorts of horrible, nasty little things.