I repeat these exercises, among others, for hours, careful that I limit the aether I let pour into me. I’m afraid that if I go too far, I’ll topple whatever delicate balance still exists in the magic around me. I practice until I’m shaking with exhaustion and an icy sweat coats my brow, a punishment for what I’ve forced my people to endure. Most fae eventually tire when using large amounts of magic—the ability to channel aether is not limitless, even for me. I just have a much higher tolerance than others, able to go hours without tiring. But that’s not what makes me so exhausted today. My magic is getting harder to use and even harder to control. Something about it is heavy after training all morning. The feeling isn’t new—for the last several decades, I’ve felt the burden of my magic physically, and it’s been progressively getting worse. I have this burning need inside of me to exert my magic, to take it to its limits and then keep pushing. Yet when I do that, like today, I feel completely broken afterward—like I’m made up of a series of pieces delicately stitched together, and the seams are fraying. Whether that’s because something is happening to my magic, or I’m just incredibly stressed and my magic is reacting, I cannot say. But I worry what will happen when those threads that keep me contained burst open.

Drinking deeply from a water skin before sitting down, I pull the letter out of my bag and read it again, trying to parse real threats from grandstanding. What I know of the Prince’s rash and raffish personality don’t align with the carefully crafted intimidation in this letter. They certainly don’t align to the display of power I saw from him during the court session. He’s supposed to be uninterested in anything other than drinking and meeting his next conquest, incapable of this level of political maneuvering.

I need to meet him. I huff out a dry laugh. If he wants to meet the Witch Queen, then he shall meet her. I gather my things and aerstep myself back to my room, limbs heavy and body aching all over. Sitting down at my desk, I pen a reply to the Prince.

Your Royal Highness, Prince Hawthorne, Ambassador of Velmara,