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“I can’t force my mate to appear, Gareth.” I try to run a hand through my hair, but my silver crown stops me. How many times had I wished for my mate? Only the ancestors knew. But no winter realm high fae have felt the mate bond in 150 years, not since I defeated the necromancer and won the throne. Some dark magic took hold as I twisted my blade through his black heart, and none have been able to break it since.
Everything here is delicate and fine, crafted for the high fae that have never known the bite of winter or the ache of hunger. They pretend they are more civilized because of it, but their darkness is simply hidden beneath a thin layer of gold. Gilded, not pure.
“I’ve been around enough mated fae.” “But I’m not fae.”
But they said there hasn’t been one for years?¿?¿?¿?
