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“You're hiding your hangover from exactly no one, by the way.
Idiots.
“Are you going to send a guard with me, or am I safe to step out of this room without you all assuming I'm going to stage a coup?”
A smile tugs at my lips, even as I try to smother it. He's the first high fae to ask me that since I returned, a show of respect and a good sign for this conversation.
“The goblins never stopped speaking to the trees. The Ravenswyrd has missed you for a very long time, and the sorrowful melody it sang for you reached far across the kingdom. I hope you return to the trees again soon, they have mourned your loss.”
Your father fought for centuries to gain that man's respect and failed. She’s gotten it with one meeting. I wouldn’t dismiss that easily, Soren.”
All of these females are one and the same, each a facet of the same witch, driven out of the Southern Lands long ago by a war and a fate that terrified a child of the forest who’d known only peace and neutrality. My Fates-blessed mate.
Tyton lets out a breath, raw and full of pain. “She's praying for our dead, to see them safely to Elysium. The same soldiers who've whispered their hopes for her suffering and death at your hands, and she's out there reading them their last rites to see them on their journey safely.”
“That doesn't look like begging to me. I'd rather walk until my feet bleed.”
