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Aoife, the High Princess of the Summer Court,
I am the High Prince of the Unseelie Court and, in my mother’s eyes, a failure who will never measure up to my younger brother’s reputation. Perhaps it would be better for her and for our Court if I didn’t come home after the Accords. Perhaps then Roark could fill my place and give our subjects the strong leader they deserve.
“You are bound to me. You are no longer Sláine, High Prince of Earth and Ruin. You will be introduced to the Summer Court as a nameless Unseelie prisoner and, if you are fortunate, you will receive a new name befitting your station.”
“You cannot lay claim to your given name or title while this Thrall binds you. You cannot communicate to anyone the nature of this spell, or of its casters. Do you understand?”
“Your voice sickens me.” She scratches her nails lightly over my throat, glaring as if she wants to rip the offending flesh away. “You will never again speak in my presence unless I directly command it of you.” My body obeys without hesitation. No amount of fighting stops my silent nod.
This isn’t the untouchable Unseelie prince; this is my friend’s husband, a man who cares for him above all others, and that devotion is what moves me down the hall to them.
“And you would choose—?” The look Roark gives me is pure confusion, as if my question is so stupid he can’t believe I asked. “Him.” “Even if—” “Every time.” The thoughtlessness of the response, the ease with which he says it, is something I can’t comprehend. This is Roark, Queen Mab’s lieutenant. The man famed in the Pantheons for his devotion to the Winter Court. The man who manipulates others to get what he wants, collateral damage be damned. Yet, he doesn’t hesitate to choose Finny over his people’s future. Will choose Finny every time.
she drips with jewels that sparkle with the same cold beauty as her eyes.
He has a spine of forged steel inside, one strong enough to let him stand in this room, unflinching, while shocked Seelie surround him on all sides. What a pity he came here. How quickly will this place shatter him?
“Aislinn,” he murmurs. My youngest cousin—my favorite cousin—has grown up in the centuries since I last saw her.
There isn’t hope of escape, not with Oberon watching for any sign of betrayal. It doesn’t matter if Sebastian is kinder than Aoife... A cage will always be a cage.
Just as I know my actions today have crossed a line for which Roark will never forgive me. To please my mother, I am giving up my brother.
Lessons learned far, far too late. I’m no longer Sláine, the Unseelie High Prince. I’m Duine, a prisoner and servant, and it’s not my place to question my new master.
Maybe he’s right. Maybe I’m being stupid about this. But after the less than stellar welcome from Bran and Grady last night, both of whom I trust, I’m wary to let Duine out of my sight.
I’m caught in a double vision of the Summer Court, torn between childhood memories and the grim reality of what this once-shining place has become. The land feels empty. War preparations have left the once lush orchards and fields barren as every harvest is collected and stored. Almost all low-class fae I’ve seen sport masks and threadbare glamour, which seems to grow weaker in the presence of the nobles they serve.
He still stands near me, but his head is lowered, his gaze dropped to the ground at our feet. I hate how quickly he reverted back to this silent, empty being.
Sebastian abandoned a royal dinner to find me. Rescue me. Hold me. He’s the only one who has ever put my needs first.
I dig my fingers into the good earth and watch Sebastian’s chest move. Link my breathing to his. Something claws its way through my chest. Its talons prick at the backs of my ribs, crawls higher into my lungs so the air I suck in burns like the chill of an arctic wind. It wraps itself around my throat, strangling my voice away and sitting there until I can’t deny its presence anymore. This isn’t the Thrall. This is the grip of a joy so strong I’m left teetering on the brink of fear.
But a Court is more than its intrigue. At some point, I lost sight of what it truly is: a collection of fae linked by blood or magick or, in Sebastian’s case, choice. He’s so much braver than I am. He doesn’t weigh the options over and over. He simply comes to a crossroads and makes the best choice he can at that moment. If not for that bravery, he wouldn’t have returned here for the sake of an impossible quest, or protected a magickless enemy prisoner. He’s more of a prince than I’ve ever managed to be.
“Is that why Orla, Bran, and Grady don’t wear masks?” I ask. Aislinn nods. “The masks are the embodiment of the spell that links a master and their servants.” “Oh.” Duine’s mask comes to mind. I don’t like the insidious thought of who forced that binding on him. Whenever he comes back, I really need to talk to him and see if we can get that damn thing off.
A few years ago, when it started to get really bad, most of the nobility made the spells a requirement for their workers. It means they can share power.” She makes a face. “Most of them abuse the system, only taking from their servants, but a few use the spells as intended and use the bond to create a communal bank of power for all to draw from. Orla, Bran, and Grady don’t have that. They’re limited to whatever magick naturally seeps into the estate’s grounds.”
she’s been doing it for all the years I’ve been gone... Aislinn’s magick has always been subtle. The balance of power between sisters is Oberon’s decision, and Aoife has been his right hand long enough that there’s no question she’s the favored daughter. Aislinn has never had much power to work with, and she’s been directing all that precious energy here.
Only a few moments in and this conversation feels like a fucking chess match.
Anyone who doesn’t see who you really are under that stupid mask deserves whatever they have coming.
Lady Elwyn’s visit pricks at something inside Sebastian. He came back upstairs, amazed that he’d won her over, even more amazed that there was a chance he could help, and his passion for his causes hasn’t diminished since.
I had always thought myself powerful as the eldest of Mab’s sons, but Sebastian’s well of power runs far deeper than mine. I wish I could see the spells he’s working. I wish I could feel his glamour against mine.
A second later, Duine’s beside me. He doesn’t touch me, doesn’t say anything, but his solid presence and the kindness in his gaze steady me more than any fancy words ever could.
I turn my head and find Sebastian there. He’s still asleep, his face buried in the pillow. I should get up, go upstairs, and get dressed. Today’s a busy day. Instead, I stay and indulge in the oddly comforting sensation of lying beside another body. I admire the way his tousled hair falls and how his hand lies on the sheets between us, stretched toward me even in sleep. I need to go. That would be the smart choice.
“More than anything, I need to know you’re safe. I...care about you.” He means it. Without question or qualm, he truly means it. He would risk everything, his mission, his position, to keep me from harm. I think I know this feeling. I think I know how it holds my hopes in its bony fingers and prepares to squeeze, to crush them to dust like the bones of a fledgling bird. I think I’ve met it before, when I was younger and weaker. Now, I’m older and wiser and have met true fear. Now, when it urges me caution, I understand there are far worse fates than following your heart.
For the first time in centuries, I want, I need, I hope, and no one is here to stop me from reaching out to him.
I love the noises he makes from such a simple touch.
“And for Herne’s sake, Sebastian, be a bit more careful with the longing looks. Rumors of such...friendliness between you will go badly, no matter how indulgent my father is of you.”
“He’s a fine example of a man who knows how to climb, but wouldn’t know what to do if he ever reached the summit.”
Duine lifts his chin. “I will kneel for you. Only for you, from this moment until my last.”
Mother said the old bindings weren’t like that. They were a promise between fae, an assurance that power could be mutually exchanged and shared. A meeting of equals. That’s all I want between us. I want Duine to stand by my side because he chooses to, not because he’s required or because a spell has trapped him there. I want him to choose me, the same way I’ve chosen him.
“Choosing to do what’s right is impossibly difficult. How else can you explain the few who manage to act that way?”
“Seb, you are the best man I’ve ever known. If you’ll allow it, I would stand by your side until the end.”
I offered myself to him and this is his claiming of me. I open for him and let myself go.
I would never trust another person with this part of me.
“You,” he purrs up at me, “are the Green Man, and through your death, I will be reborn.”
Plot development : Seb is the green man reincarnated
No physical threat, no blood, nothing but the phantom pain. The binding spell is still there between me and Seb, a comforting presence in the back of my mind. I focus on it and the connection wakens fully. Suffering and fear and desperation.
Roark’s the sword master. Lugh’s the scrapper. I’m nothing in comparison to them. But Sebastian is in pain and I will find him. I reach out and grab the hilt, drawing the sword in the same fluid motion my redcap tutor made me practice over and over.
I am Sláine, the High Prince of Earth and Ruin, and they will learn the true weight of my title.
Mother used to warn me to never use my magick without express intent. “Such power cannot be abused,” she would say, and her worried gaze would dart to my younger brothers as they played. The fear of hurting them haunted me through my youth. I had nightmares about accidentally casting against them. I would watch their skin mottle, grow thin, and finally give way to dust. I held a cursed magick in my hands.
The Knight gives a groggy shake of his head. I know him. Phineas Smith blisters the air with the intensity of his untamed energy. His blond hair is sweat-stained, matted with blood at the temple, and his eyes burn when he glances back at Roark.
Interference gone, I finally reach Seb. Beneath my feet, the painting of the Green Man stares up with lurid patience and I choke down my rising bile.
I beg. I pray. I weep. I fight and claw at the ground, fingers slipping in the blood, catching and clinging to the mask alone. Roark ignores it all. In this, he’s my mother’s son. Carved from obsidian and ice and the emptiness of a northern wind.
I wonder what the leaves overhead would look like when kissed with the first chill of autumn, how their colors would transform. I wonder what Seb’s hair would look like against the fallen leaves if I tumbled him onto the earth and watched him smile up at me, his heart in his eyes once more.
I can’t offer you anything but a broken kingdom.” “I’m a broken prince,” he counters. He swallows and offers me the shy smile I thought I’d never see again. “But whatever is left of me is yours.”
“I have thousands of troops at my back. We’ve already purged the sídhe of the Sluagh patrols who’ve been giving you such trouble.” “They’re dead?” Seb asks. “How?” “They assumed only other Sluagh would carry torches.” “You tricked them,” I clarify. Something gleams in Roark’s gaze and I’m reminded of our weapons practices together and all the sneaky tricks he’d use to beat me before he could rely on his skill alone. “Once we heard the news, I decided total war would be too costly. It seemed smart to take them by surprise.”
