“I don’t know. He was a fae, muscular and covered in tattoos. I’ve received orders from him before, but his identity has always been kept from me.”

I slit his throat and release the magic holding his body. He falls with a loud thud before I will the grass to grow over him in a makeshift grave, not wanting to leave a dead body on the outskirts of this village. With the rebel dead, the weight of what I did sinks into me, and that otherworldly feeling leaves me. Sighing, I rub my hand over my eyes in exhaustion and sorrow.

Just once, I want to be the one who doesn’t have to carry the emotional burden of doing what must be done. I’d love to hold my moral high ground, like Carex, would love to refuse to engage in torture and compulsion. I crave the luxury to only use my power for good. But the gods, or fate, or whatever force decides what magic we’re granted made me a monster and placed me in a situation where I’m required to let that beast free regularly. I let myself sit with the feeling of self-pity for only a few seconds, before I straighten my back and square my shoulders, ready to face the world and own my fate once again.

I turn around, expecting to see the same disgust I feel about my actions reflected in the Prince’s eyes. But when our eyes meet, dark green orbs stare back, steady, calm, and unphased by the violence I just displayed.

Hawthorne

The Thayarian landscape is as abundant as the magic that runs through the heart of the kingdom. Trees, grasses, moss, vines, and flowers cover the land. The plants there have attuned to the cooler climate and stay green throughout most of the year, only dying off for about two weeks each winter—the period called Abscission—despite freezing temperatures.

A Brief History of Modern Thayaria

The stiff, formal Velmaran clothing is scratchy, but I need to look every inch a Crown Prince tonight at the Welcome Ball. I’d much prefer the clothing of a warrior or even a commoner, but we all have a part to play this evening. My tunic is navy blue, with gold embroidered suns along the shoulders and sleeves. Medals and other unearned adornments litter my chest. The fitted trousers are cream, with a gold stripe down the side. Tradition demands I wear a crown despite my loathing of it, so I place the small halo of golden suns atop my head.

I can’t help but be nervous for the evening. We’ve spent the last week going over the plans at night in the training room. The Queen demanded I show her I could hide Fionn and Silene from another room, and at a great distance, repeatedly. Laurel, as she insisted I call her, was not taking any risks.