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Chapter Text

The Chosen.
An ironic name for us all, considering I was never chosen.

We were raised by the Matrons, and when we were developed enough for them to decide whether or not we were attractive enough to become Chosen Ones, we either became the potential wives of the nobles or rich courtiers, or were unfortunate enough to become handmaidens or Matrons-in-training.
The Matrons taught us everything we needed to know about being good wives. How to cook, to clean, how to keep a house tidy and decorated stylishly, how to care for children, learning how to dress well and in a way that is considered ‘proper’ for a lady, we all studied the different Court etiquettes and most importantly we were consistently taught not to talk unless you have something worthwhile to say.

 That last lesson had taken me twenty years to master, which was probably why the Matrons were trying so hard with the last few Offerings to get rid of me. To make me someone else’s problem.
I never forgot my place when being offered in the Courts, but within the walls of the Sanctuary, I was more than happy to use my words. I would use them while I still could, even if it resulted in punishment after punishment.

 The Offering today was secretive. More secretive than usual.
It may be because the last time we were Offered, the High Lord had chosen Ameria, a pretty pixie with jade-coloured skin, but he had only agreed to pay for, and marry her, if she succeeded in a trial.
Unfortunately, the Matrons had never given us lessons in fighting direwolves, and so we had all watched as Ameria was torn apart and eaten in front of us all.
But that was an Unseelie Court. The Court of Decay, to be precise. And although the Unseelie Courts were necessary to have alliances with, I cannot imagine that the Matrons took very kindly to one of their children being torn apart and wasted like that and so I’d like to think that they wouldn’t have any more dealings with Unseelie Courts in the future.

Perhaps they didn’t want us all to be even more nervous than usual as we prepared to be seen by whatever aristocrat could be paying for one of us today.
Whatever Court it was, it must be important, as my handmaiden Thistlebane is muttering more to herself than I’ve ever heard before, and she keeps striking my skull with the wooden hair brush in her hand as she battles the unruly blonde waves on my head into a half updo.
Her voice is too quiet to hear over the sound of all the birdsong coming through the open window, but I do pick up on a few muttered curses about the horns on my head and how she would struggle to cover the ‘unsightly’ things.

I don’t know why she bothers to try every time, anyway. The tips of them always poked through my hair no matter what she attempted to fix my hair with. The only way the handmaidens had successfully hidden them was with glamour, and that had resulted in the High Lord of the Bleeding Heart Court sending us away on account of the Matrons being dishonest about their ‘wares’.

“Where are we going today, Thistlebane?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light and conversational like they had always taught us.

“I cannot tell you, little nymph,” The handmaiden behind me tells me gruffly, her gnarled, bark-like hands dragging out a few more stray tangles from my hair. “Now fall quiet, I’m focusing.”

“I’ve been quiet for hours.” I mutter back, only for her to yank on my hair in retaliation.

I fight back the urge to hiss in pain, because that was another trait we were taught to know better of, and instead let one of my eyes wince half-closed instead.
She manages to finish my hair in silence apart from her continued muttered complaints, doing a somewhat decent job at hiding the small, black horns that stand around a couple of inches from my forehead with an improvised fringe.
She pinches my cheeks roughly to add some colour to my pale green skin, as is the usual ritual, and then points at the hastily made bed, at the usual plain white gown that covers our arms and legs but dips into a ‘V’ at the front, exposing our chests.
Not that I had much in that department to expose.

I hated the Offering dresses, and I curse at it as I drop my nightgown and change into it, not caring less about my brief time being entirely bare in front of Thistlebane. I’m certain she’s been privy to worse sights before.

“Good. Go.” Thistlebane tells me as soon as the gown is on, pointing at the door.

“Are you not going to wish me luck, Thistlebane? What if this is the last time we see each other? Will you not miss me?” I ask her teasingly, using my potential last free words like I always do every time before a Offering.

Thistlebane’s pure-black eyes stare at me and her mouth turns downward as she waves her hand dismissively at me.

 “Good luck, little Primrose. You will need it.”

I fight the urge to snort at her in response, wanting to roll my eyes at her dramatics; she had never once actually responded to my request for a wish of luck.
I knew what would happen when I opened the door.
I would find myself in an unfamiliar space, likely some form of a manor or a Court throne room. The Matrons always formed gates to where we needed to go on days of Offerings, because they didn’t like the Chosen Ones to gossip or discuss anything with one another before being sold off to their customers.

I was not prepared for where my foot landed on the other side of the door, though.
Cold marble greets my sole when I step through the Gate, which is standard for most throne rooms, but when I lift my head to find my Sisters, and the Matrons, I realise precisely where I am, remembering all the sketches I had seen in the history books during lessons with the Matrons.
The near ceiling-tall statues of the Old Gods leading up to the dias, the black and white decor with only blood-red accents to the room, including the chandelier hanging in the air with no attachments keeping it there, the arched stained windows beautifully made in the theme of night skies and nocturnal creatures.
And the most identifying feature of them all, the throne itself. Made from the swords of the fallen knights of the Court’s original occupants, cushioned with red material and a hideous bat-like gargoyle sitting atop the backrest.

We were in the newly appointed King of Faeran’s Court.
The Blood Court. Once run by the Vampyr fae, and since belonging to the Fireheart family. No-one had known how the Great King had done it, but everyone had soon learned to fear and respect the family as a whole. Controlling the Vampyr was no easy feat if the myths, rumours and songs were true.
I suddenly understand the subtle warning that Thistlebane had uncharacteristically tried to give me before I had parted, and hurry along to join hands with my Sisters, only two others having been chosen for this particular Offering.

Elara, a woman who had always taken being a Chosen One very seriously, with flame-red curls that tumbled down her spine, stands to my right. A newer Chosen member, Lillie, a pink-skinned pixie with pin-straight green hair stands to my left, with the Matrons leading us towards the dais, and the person likely lounging upon the throne.
I keep my head down, as trained. I do not wish to push my luck today. Not here. Not with this family.
This doesn’t feel like a regular Offering. This feels like a death sentence.

“King Fireheart, Second of His Name,” The more elderly Matron says clearly and concisely, dipping to a courtesy, which we are all quick to copy. “We from the Woodland Court have brought you three of our finest Chosen Ones as a gesture of goodwill for your long reign.”

I keep my head down and my face inexpressive, no matter how much I wanted to look up to examine who we were being Offered to, no matter how much I wanted to pull a face at the fact that we were being Offered as a goodwill gesture, which meant no goods would be exchanging hands, or that no deals were being made and desperately ignoring the uncomfortable tug in my chest that seemed to be trying to tell me that there was something important that I needed to see on the dias.

“I appreciate the offer, but I have no need for such toys.” The King of Faeran announces, and he sounds younger than some of the other nobles we had been Offered to before at least, but his gravelly voice does nothing but make the hairs on my arm stand on end.

“Perhaps for one of your sons, then, Your Highness.” The other Matron insists gently.

There’s a moment of thought, and then a grunt from the King, followed by the sound of boots on stone approaching us.

“I’ll take one,” A cheery male voice says from where Lillie is standing beside me. “This one is a pretty little thing. A pixie. I do find their little wings so charming.”

“Thank you, my lord.” My hand dips as Lillie takes it down with her in a polite bow of respect.
I almost startle at the feeling of a finger hooking underneath my chin and tilting my head back to force me to look at the Prince we’re being Offered to.
I meet playful brown eyes as my head is moved back, a sparkle in them that has nothing to do with the yellow flecks that freckle the honey irises staring into my own. I try to maintain direct eye contact, but it’s hard when this man, the unnamed son of the King, is a lot more handsome than any of the other men we had been Offered to previously.
His eyes are shining with playfulness, framed by long dark eyelashes that would make any woman jealous. His sun-tanned skin is freckled, giving him a youthful appearance, the points of his ears are peeking through the dark hair atop his head and are adorned by solid gold cuffs in the shape of filigree, and his full lips are pulled up into a thoughtful smile.

“A woodland nymph,” He comments, running his eyes from the top of my head to my mouth. Carefully, he brushes the blonde strands covering my horns away. “A Horned One. How quaint.”

And then he lets go of me. And although the way he had used the final word in his sentence had felt like anything but a compliment, I force myself to bow just as Lillie had, thanking him as I had been taught anyway.
I keep my head down after that, as I listen to him give Elara a half-compliment about the colour of her hair and how ‘rare’ it is. She bows, thanking him with a quiet voice, but I can hear the smile in it all the same.
I know I won’t be chosen. I am a nymph, looked down upon by most other fae for being Honey-Tongued, even though it is not our choice the power inherited to us as a race. I’m happy that Elara will be Chosen by the Prince, I am. He is devastatingly handsome, but she’s equally beautiful, and has never slipped up once in the decades I have known her. She is the best choice for royalty out of all of us that they have Offered today.

“Very fine options.” The Prince comments, and I squeeze the hands either side of me softly.

“Choose wisely, Ayden.” The King tells his son, a vague warning veiled in his words.

Prince Ayden. Ayden Fireheart.
Primrose Fireheart didn’t sound very lovely as far as names go, so it was likely a good thing that Elara Fireheart sounded amazing, even if I was slightly disheartened that I would not be securing myself a spot with royalty. No matter how terrifying the stories of the Firehearts were, Ayden had a friendly face, and was arguably the best looking noble we had seen in years.

“I’ve taken quite a liking to the nymph, father,” Ayden replies, all amusement, and it takes every ounce of restraint I have within my body not to lift my head in surprise. “Tell me, little Horned-Born. What is your name?”

And then my chin is once again being lifted to look upon Prince Ayden and I can feel the look of pure spite coming from Elara even without looking at her.

“My name is Primrose, my lord.” I tell him, bowing again.

“Your true name.” Ayden corrects me, his smile widening.

I pause when I shouldn’t, not having expected to give him an answer to a question that no fae will answer given the choice. Elara squeezes my hand despite being furious with me, a warning to answer quickly lest I be deemed impolite. I ignore her though, opting to look at the Matron on my right for advice on how to navigate the situation at hand. She tilts her head forward in a way that I know means ‘proceed’, despite the fear of the power giving this stranger my true name would have over me.
My eyes move back to Ayden, who has tilted his head slightly in wait for my answer.

“You can whisper it to me if you wish. But we are all friends here.” Ayden tells me, his smile still forming small dimples in his cheeks.

And I know I should be polite. I should tell the Court my name, despite being unable to see just who is present to be privy to my true name, and hope that it wouldn’t be used against me in a way that could cause me harm.
That is what I have been trained to do all these years. To be polite. To be complacent.
But my self-preservation takes over, and so I tip-toe, my heart skipping a beat when Ayden’s smile becomes a grin, exposing his perfectly white teeth, and he leans down so that his ear is practically pressed against my lips.

“My name is Primrose Grace Rye, my lord.” I tell him, trying not to be terrified of what use my future husband could possibly use my true name for.

I lower myself again, searching his face for any sign of malicious intent, but find none. In fact, his eyes seem to have softened, no more playful glimmer to them, and his grin is back to a more reserved smile as he nods his head in acknowledgement.

“A beautiful name for a beautiful lady.” He smirks, running his eyes over my full body this time, and it feels as though he can see right through the thin material of the Offering gown.

“Thank you, my lord.” I thank him again softly, bowing politely.

“We appreciate your offering, Matrons,” The King calls from his throne at the same time Elara and Lillie are beginning to be ushered away from the Prince by the Matrons. “We will not forget this gesture.”

“We all wish for your good health and strong reign, Your Majesty.” The Matrons say in unison, all four of them bowing in sync.

Finally, I look past Ayden, to the King, who is indeed lounging on the throne, his feet kicked up onto a knight of some sort, their face obscured by a long, white curtain of hair.
The similarities are strong between the King and his son. His eyes are the most obvious difference however, being flame-red, visible even from the bottom of the steps. They both have black hair, although the King has hair streaked with grey at the sides and he seems to have the build of what might have been a warrior in an age past. His face is cold, cruel, just like I had expected, nothing like Ayden’s natural easy-going smile and apparent friendliness, and is adorned by a long, braided beard.
Beside either arm of the throne, knights stand, their arms behind their backs, their chests puffed, and their eyes fixed on the horizon. Both have silver hair, one cut short and choppily, as though it was done by their own hand, and the other’s is shoulder-length, half of it pulled up into a bun. Each knight has longer points to their ears than most other fae, and somehow they are even more handsome than Ayden himself, even if they both have prominent pink scars lining their face, standing out from the pale tone of their skin.

I’m too much in a state of shock from finally being Chosen, and being Chosen by royalty no less, to really hear the words being spoken, only really vaguely being aware that Ayden’s grip on my arm is leading me up the steps to the throne, my bare feet hitting the marble but my brain barely acknowledging it.
He leads me straight to the King, and I courtesy, numbly thanking him for his rule and his graciousness, only for him to regard me coldly, not one speck of kindness in those crimson eyes.

“Thorne.” The King says, the word blunt, an order despite sounding as though it’s a name.

The longer-haired fae on the left of the throne bows his head, but does not look towards us. “Your Majesty.”

That unfamiliar tug in my chest pulls again at the sound of Thorne’s voice, quiet, but deep. I fight the urge to frown in the King's company, but fear I may be becoming ill in silence.

“We have matters of the court to attend to. Why don’t you take my sons newly betrothed to one of the unoccupied chambers so she can prepare for dinner? We can learn more about this Chosen One then,” The King motions dismissively toward me, and I keep my head low despite wanting to look to Ayden for company instead of one of the King's guards. “In fact, I feel my son's choice of partnership may need a little supervision.”

“It is my honour.” Thorne replies, finally stepping forward and turning to face Ayden and I.

I hadn’t managed to get a good look at him earlier, but now he is closer, I can see his eyes properly. Grey. Cold, lifeless grey, with only his left iris having a splash of colour, splitting almost in half with a royal purple hue.
His skin is scarred from his chin to the left side of the top curve of his mouth, a thin scar that looks almost like a healed cut. There also seems to be another healed cut running through his left eyebrow, but any other scars may be obscured by long, wavy strands of almost sparkling silver hair.
He is handsome, just in a less conventional way than Prince Ayden.
He bows to me, exposing the longsword draped over his back briefly, but his face is inexpressive when he straightens again, much like the King, there seems to be no hidden kindness within this knight.

“Shall we, my lady?” He asks me, and for some reason, my breath is taken from me for a moment.

“Let’s.” I reply, trying not to bow in return out of habit.

Ayden places a hand on the back of my head, drawing my attention. I tilt my head back to look at him as he strokes down the braid that Thistlebane had struggled with this afternoon. I get an affectionate smile the second our eyes meet and he lowers his head even more.
For one traitorous moment, I fear that he may kiss me, my first kiss, in front of the King of Faeran, and all of the well-wishers and courtiers present.
But he doesn’t, he simply brings his mouth close to my horned forehead, looking off into the distance as though he’d seen something worth keeping an eye on.

“I will see you later, little Horned One,” He murmurs. “I’m sure we will have a lot of fun together.”

Not having anything worthy to contribute verbally, I simply bow my head as he straightens and replaces Thorne from where he had been standing beside the throne. Thorne waits for me to return my gaze to him before offering me his arm, and I can’t help but glance at Ayden for a hint as to whether or not that is the proper thing to do.
Ayden and his father are preoccupied though, murmuring in hushed voices to one another as they gaze over the other members of lesser Courts, gathered to plead for alliances and holding gifts to appease the King and win his favour.
In a way, that was all I was. A gift for a few centuries of peace.

I loop my arm around Thornes, the cold from the metal of his armour seeping through the thin material of my sleeve.
He pauses halfway down the steps from the throne, staring at my bare feet for a moment, his silvered eyebrows pulling together. I regard him wordlessly as his eyes meet mine.

“You aren’t wearing shoes.” He states, bowing his head slightly so that he’s almost eye-to-eye with me, his eyes searching mine as though he can see whether or not I’m competent through my gaze alone.

I just stare at him in response, because it was a statement that didn’t need an answer. I had nothing more to add to what he’d said, and the King was still within earshot. I had to behave properly from this moment on. No more free words, not until I knew I was safe here.
Thorne seems to continue to wait for a response, his unusual eyes still bouncing between mine, but he relents within a moment, straightening once more and continuing to lead me towards the giant oak doors that must be the exit of the throne room.
He only unloops his arm from mine to open the door for me, which I’m thankful for, as it looks extremely heavy, as though it’s thick enough to stop an army of undesirable creatures from barrelling through if need be.
We get a lot of stares from courtiers and servants as he leads me through the twisting hallways and up numerous staircases. No-one addresses either of us, or even smiles, they just regard Thorne with something similar to fear, and run their eyes over me with judgement oozing off them before they begin to whisper as they pass.
I occasionally lift my eyes from my feet to catch sight of Thorne looking at my bare feet with a small frown, but mostly, his eyes are ahead, focused on the job he’s been given. 

It’s only when we reach a particularly quiet hallway that Thorne speaks again.

“Why do you not have shoes, my lady?”

My lady.
It feels so surreal being called such a thing. I’m unsure I will ever get used to it.

“We do not wear shoes for the Offerings.” I inform him, speaking properly and giving him the information he wants without being ‘too much’, just like I was taught throughout the past half a century.

“For what reason?” He asks, and when I dare to look at him, he’s beginning to slow to a pause outside a door, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyes thoughtful as he waits for my response.

“We wear white to represent our purity, and the Chosen Ones from the Woodland Court are expected to be barefoot to represent our relationship with nature.” I say slowly, mechanically, spewing out the words that were repeated over and over to me through the years whenever I dared question our attire.

Thorne stares down at me, silent, his face still not giving anything away, but whatever he’s thinking, he doesn’t voice and he pushes open the door he’d stopped us in front of, motioning for me to go through.
I step through, bowing my head to him despite myself and stop short when I see just how luxurious the room is.
There is an ebony four-post bed with crimson sheets in the center of the room, with what looks like fine direwolf furs thrown over the foot of the bed. All of the furniture is ebony, but the armoire and the vanity table have beautiful ivory murals painted onto them. The artist in my heart screams with joy and fights with me to get as close as I can to them, to trace my fingers over the paintbrush strokes, but I am aware that I cannot allow myself to lose control over such things now, and so I force myself to remain reserved and impassive despite my awe at such artistry in my first, and only, elegant bedroom.

“The King and Prince Ayden like their courtiers and women to wear dark crimsons,” Thorne informs me blandly, gesturing to the armoire. “I’m sure there are gowns in there that you can wear to their feast later.” 

 I nod slowly, opening the doors of the armoire to the sight of several amazing, and no doubt expensive scarlet gowns, some hemmed with gold, some with black lace features, and one even dripping with gems.
“Once you are officially named a courtier, the bath chambers and fireplace should begin to respond to your needs,” Thorne continues as I marvel over gowns, making sure to run my fingers over the material of each and every one. “Until then, you will have to seek out Prince Ayden, myself, a servant or one of the Trusted to assist you with your needs.”

I force myself to tear my attention away from the garments in the armoire, suddenly feeling as though everything is in a dream-like state, visible, able to be touched, but still somehow so far away.
I can barely register all the information that Thorne is giving me, but his voice, strangely enough, feels as though it’s warming my bones.
I must definitely be getting sick, and what poor timing.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” I interrupt, my hand going to my chest when my heart throbs uncomfortably as Thorne turns his head to look at me over his armoured shoulder. “Would it be possible for you to send up a healer? I think I may be unwell.”

“What is the problem, my lady?” Thorne asks, his eyebrows vaguely pulling together.

 “I felt this strange sensation in my chest earlier, as though there was a thread tugging at my heart,” I explain, patting my hand on my chest as if to emphasize my point. “Everything feels strange, and I’m getting a little warm despite the fireplace not being on. I don’t want to be a bother to anyone, but if I’m expected to dine with the King and Princes later, I’d like to be sure it’s nothing serious. I don’t want to embarrass them.”

It’s probably the most I’ve ever spoken in the century that has been my entire life, but Thorne only stares at me for a painful moment of silence, and I hate how difficult it is to read both him and the King. And although his face is as blank as ever, I do not miss the fact the jutting cartilage in his throat bobs visibly over his collar.

“It must have been a long day for you, Lady Primrose. You should rest while you can, there is time for it. Court matters can take upwards of hours,” He states, turning his head away from me again and starting for the door. “Please, try to make yourself comfortable here. I’ll wait outside and escort you to dinner when it’s time. You will be safe with my presence nearby.”

I watch as he leaves the room, making sure to bow heavily to me before shutting the oak door with a click behind him.
Although to anyone else in any other Court, being ensured of their safety would probably cause a paranoid episode, but after so many years being told all sorts of nasty gossip about the Court of Blood and all its inhabitants, Thornes pledge of safety in his proximity only puts my worries to rest.

 Something inside me told me that I could trust in him, even if faeries could not lie anyway.

Chapter Text

The bed feels like I have awoken in the clouds. Soft, fluffy and endlessly comfortable in comparison to the stone-hard mattresses we used to sleep on in the Sanctuary. 

 I hadn’t even meant to fall asleep, I had only flopped onto the mattress as a child would to test the softness of the bed and within no time at all, my eyes had dropped closed and I had the most easy, restful sleep I’d ever been allowed.
As I rise, aware that my hair must be dishevelled after resting upon the braid, I wonder how long I had been unconscious for. I hope that it hasn’t been hours, even if the stoic guard of the King had told me to rest. It must be painfully boring for Thorne to have been standing outside the bed chambers all that time with no company or task to do.
Perhaps he had done something worthy of such a punishment by the King, but somehow I doubted it.

 I get to my feet again with the intention of going to the armoire and choosing a gown for the dinner I would be attending. Perhaps if I got dressed in time I would be able to be taken to Ayden again, to learn a little more about the man who had Chosen me.
The gowns inside are so much more different to the attire I’m used to wearing daily. Not a fleck of white to be seen, all reds and blacks. Red was improper for a Chosen One. It hinted at the loss of one’s purity, and on some occasions, the delight in violence. But as uncomfortable as I am to be wearing such a colour, I suppose it makes sense for these gowns to be popular in a Court such as this one.
I opt for the most undaring option, a simple red gown with laced sleeves and a long skirt that was sure to cover me to the ankles. The chest wasn’t as revealingly cut as the Offering gowns, and as I wrestle the material over my wide hips, worried that the stitching may tear from the stretch, I feel a lot more comfortable in this gown simply from how respectfully covered I am.

It is a little loose at the top, however, likely having been made for a woman with a fuller chest, as is what’s considered desirable for High Lords such as Prince Ayden.
I look in the ornate full-length mirror, grimacing a little when I immediately notice just how bed-mussed my hair truly is. There are creases lining my face from where the bedsheets must have been pressed against my face during my slumber, and the gown I’ve chosen is flattering until it reaches my chest, where it becomes visibly looser in comparison to how it fits around the rest of my body.
A handmaiden. That’s what I needed. Thistlebane would know what to do to fix this, to make me presentable as I had to be considering the company I would be in.

Trying to rearrange the more offensive strands of blonde hair that are out of place on my head, I make my way for the door, taking a deep breath to steady myself to talk, potentially out of turn.
Not that I had to worry too much about propriety when speaking to a Kings guard in comparison to the royalty themselves.
I open the door to the back of Thorne, his height surpassing most fae males, his hands still clasped behind his back and his head is straight, likely facing forward without any distraction just like he had been beside King Fireheart.

“Sir Thorne?” I ask softly.

Thorne visibly tenses, his head slowly turning to look down at me over his shoulder, his expression unreadable, but almost what seems like mirth dancing in his unusually coloured eyes.

“Is it possible to request a maid?” I ask, curious as to why there’s the faint glimmer of amusement dancing in his eyes.

“They will be preoccupied with attending to the courtiers and preparing for the meal,” Thorne responds, keeping his eyes fixed on mine and not lower, which I am thankful for considering the chest of my gown is so loose that he may be able to see straight down the garment from his height. “Is it something that I can assist you with, my lady?”

I shake my head, disheartened, beginning to back away again. “It’s fine, it’s not a matter a knight can help me with.”

Thorne turns towards me a little more. “Enlighten me. It would be my honour to help.”

I give him a distrustful once-over as subtly as I can. Knights knew nothing of gowns, only being educated in weaponry and violence. Thorne doesn’t seem to find offense in it, however, still giving me his full attention and awaiting a response.

“I will just find another gown to wear.” I reply, taking another step back.

I am not expecting his once-again lifeless eyes to run up and down my person, assessing the gown, not cracking even a hint of a smile as I protectively place my hand on my chest to stop his eyes from catching sight of something that should only be reserved for Ayden’s eyes from this moment forward.

“You look lovely, my lady,” Thorne tells me, despite there being no warmth in his voice whatsoever and regardless of how dead the words are, that tug pulls in my chest again. “I do not see an issue with your attire. I’m sure the Prince will appreciate your choice.”

 “It’s too loose in the chest.” I inform him, but do not move my hand to reveal just how loose it is.

Thorne regards me again, something I do not recognise flickering in his eyes for a brief moment before he turns to face me fully and bows his head forward, keeping his eyes on the floor.

“Allow me into your chambers and I can try to remedy the situation, my lady.”

“You can fix it?” I ask doubtfully.

“I have a sister,” Thorne replies, lifting his head, the corners of his mouth lifting into an uncharacteristic and soft smile at the mention of his family. “I am surprisingly adept with womens clothing.”

I think about it for a second, but ultimately decide that I will take the chance at being considered improper by allowing another male into my chambers if someone were to call on me. There was nothing more improper than some of the gowns that I would have to replace this one with in the armoire, anyway.

“I would appreciate your aid.” I relent, opening the door a little more to allow Thorne to pass through.

He does so wordlessly, approaching the armoire without hesitation and opening it with a familiarity that has me frowning vaguely at the sight. When he straightens back up, he’s holding a corset, and I suddenly feel a lot less confident in his ability to help me as he hands it to me, leaving me to press it to my chest, turning my back to him so that he can lace up the ribbon at the back.
I had never worn such a thing before, and I was uncertain I ever would again when Thorne pulls at the ribbons, tightening the garment almost uncomfortably over my stomach.
I make no fuss, choosing to only speak again if the corset does not make me look more presentable, and wonder how on earth the High Ladies of Courts wear these so often as every breath feels like a battle the higher he pulls at the ribbons. 

 “It’s just Thorne.” He says, breaking the silence.

I frown at the patch of floor I’d been staring at despite myself, but offer no response to his random declaration.

“Earlier, you called me Sir Thorne. It’s just Thorne,” He clarifies as though he had sensed my confusion. “Knights have no titles here.”

“My apologies.” I apologise in confusion.

Every Court gave their knights titles as far as I was aware. But the Court of Blood was now royal territory, and perhaps the new King had changed the Court customs in his reign.

“Not necessary.” Thorne’s fingers brush over the material covering my back, and perhaps due to the lack of ever being touched by a male, my skin begins to prickle with nerves.

He must be tying the ribbon at the back with the way his fingers brush over the material of the gown, and once he does, he steps back, clasping his hands behind his back once more.

“If you tuck the material into the front, it will be less noticeable,” He informs me, respectfully not opting to do it himself. “Once that is done, have a look in the mirror and see if it’s more to your liking, Lady Primrose.”

I keep my back turned to him as I obediently follow his advice, my cheeks threatening to flush with how much the corset seems to accentuate what little I have in the way of breasts. It only needs a slight tuck, and then I turn to look in the mirror.
I look back at myself, my mouth slightly open as I realise that Thorne really had known what he was doing. The gown looked much better now, and the corset pulled in well enough to highlight my wider hips even more. Something that most women despised, but I was always taught to be thankful of, as it meant for easier childbirth.
I looked almost royal myself, if it weren’t for the mess atop my head.

“Thank you.” I say, almost breathlessly, tracing my fingertips over the black satin of the corset in awe.

Thorne just bows in response. “Is there anything else I can help you with, my lady?”

I give it a moment of thought before asking: “I don’t suppose you can help me rearrange my hair?”

Thorne nods, gesturing for me to turn around once again, his fingers the most careful I’ve ever felt as he begins fixing the mess of blonde hair, managing to return it back to a more acceptable state, even if it was nowhere near as nice as Thistlebane had managed to get it this morning.
I thank him again as a bell sounds out outside the chamber's door, causing him to look towards the sound.

“It’s time.” He says, his voice sounding dangerously close to a sigh.

I brush out the skirt of the gown, worrying about getting any stray hairs or stains on the delightful fabric. I don’t even notice his eyes weighing on me.

“My lady, if I may?” He asks, causing me to look up.

When I do, he’s bowed his head low again so that we’re a lot closer than I would personally choose to be, the shorter front strands of his hair having moved to expose the extent of the pink scar running through his eyebrow, and showing me new scars that I hadn’t noticed before on his forehead. Three large slash marks, no doubt from some kind of beast.
I force myself to look away from them, to look curiously at him. His eyes are intense, his silver eyebrows pulled together vaguely. For a second, I worry that I’ve done something to cause offense, something deemed punishable, even by a mere guard.
I realise after a while that he seems to be waiting for a verbal answer, and so I hum an acknowledgement at him.

“A few words of advice before you dine,” He begins, sounding even more serious than he had done prior. “This Court is not like the others. The courtiers and the royals delight in cruelty, in debauchery and in tricks and torture masked as games. Listen well to their words, and whatever is said or done, do not show fear.”

I blink at him, surprised at the brazen attitude he’s showing by speaking poorly of the King and his Court despite his low status. He doesn’t even have a title , so he cannot be that important within the Court, which must be why he probably sees more cruelties than usual in this Court compared to what I may be privy to as the Prince’s betrothed.
He seems to have learned that my words are few and far between, and straightens back up, holding his arm out for me to take, which I do, continuing to stay silent as he begins to lead me out of my new bed chambers and down the hallway.
I have questions. Of course I have questions, but I know better than to ask them while under the Court’s care, and while being so new to it. I highly doubt that anything too horrible would happen today, despite Thorne’s warning, and I allow myself to dwell on Thorne’s advice through the silent walk to the banquet hall.
 

 After strolling for what feels like hours through hallways with numerous macabre tapestries and paintings hanging from them, we approach a set of heavy doors once again. Thorne doesn’t bother giving me any more advice before pushing open the entrance to the dining hall.
Much like the rest of the Court manor, it’s decorated entirely in black and white with only the odd flash of red as feature pieces. The chandelier dripping with ruby gemstones, the table runner which is made of crimson lace with the most food I have ever seen in one room placed upon it, the seat at the head of the table is a dark red also, with the King seated in it, swirling a glass of wine as he gazes at me and Thorne.
 

 “How kind of you to grace us with the Chosen One’s presence, dog.” The King comments in displeasure in Thorne’s direction.

“Apologies, your Majesty.” Thorne bows, not even offering a reason as to why I am later than the other guests.

 All of them are staring directly at me, some of them giving unfriendly smirks as they run their eyes over me, the others just regard me with icy looks. All of them are as beautiful as expected of courtiers, although there appears to be no diversity, just High Fae nobles sitting around the table, making me feel even more severely out of place in this setting.
The only thing that offers me any comfort is that the seat beside Ayden is empty and as he lounges carelessly in his seat, as though he’s no Prince at all, he seems to be giving me an approving smile as he appraises me.

“Come here, darling Primrose.” Ayden croons, beckoning me with his finger.

I obediently cross the cold marble floor towards Ayden, trying my best to ignore the hushed whispers from the non-royals as I pass, and I keep my head down to hide the worry and discomfort I was no doubt showing on my face as much as I was trying to school my expression to match Thorne’s.
I bite back a yelp of surprise when Ayden’s warm hand places itself on my waist, gently encouraging me into my seat. When I lift my head, finally seated, I can see that Thorne has taken his place on the left side of the King’s seat again, with the same knight from earlier with the shorter hair on the King’s right.

 “You look delectable, Horned One.” Ayden murmurs to me, moving the front of my hair to expose my horns as though he wants to see them, despite having been told throughout my entire life how ugly they are.

 I can’t help the relieved smile that perks my mouth up. “Thank you, my Lord.”

 He looks lovely himself. He must have found time to change before dining, because he was now wearing a well-fitted black suit with the ruffled sleeves of a red tunic that must be underneath the jacket he’s wearing peeking past the sleeve of the heavy black material. Patterns of crimson filigree are embroidered into the lapels of his jacket, the shade matching the colour of my own gown, even if it is merely a happy accident that we match.
He has a red, tear shaped jewel hanging from the lobe of one of his ears, similar to the jewels that drip from the chandelier above us, although he still seems to be wearing the golden ear cuffs that he’d been wearing during the Offering and the warmth of his eyes are accentuated by a smokey black eyeshadow that none of us were ever allowed to play with in the Sanctuary.

“Family of the Court, this is my new future bride,” Ayden announces proudly, his hand going to the back of my head comfortingly as he turns his head to face forward, his full lips pulled into that ever-present self assured smile. “Lady Primrose, one of the finest Chosen Ones from the Woodland Court.”

“A Seelie nymph ?” A female from lower down the opposite side of the table asks, raising a perfectly kempt black eyebrow, making no secret of the disdain she seems to hold towards that fact.

 “Not your usual type.” The male sitting beside her quips, smirking into his wine glass.

“My usual type has never gone well for me, Robinthe.” Ayden defends, his thumb coursing over the back of my skull as though we had known each other for years and he knew precisely how to comfort me.

 The High Fae woman sitting beside Robinthe raises her eyebrow even more, her eyes sliding to look at what must be her partner from the corners of her painted eyes. Robinthe’s grin just widens as he leans back in his seat, ignoring the glance from the woman beside him.

“Honey-Tongued aren’t they?” The man seated to my other side asks, and when I turn my head, I’m met with the crimson eyes of an older man than the couple opposite me.

 “I do hope so.” Ayden replies in what sounds like it’s meant to be a joke, and sure enough, a few members gathered around the table snort in response.

 “Where are your manners, Ayden? Honestly.” The High Fae woman, the only one I’m realising is sat amongst the men with me, grumbles.

“Oh do relax, Amaranth,” Ayden rolls his eyes, making a point to toy with one of the points of my ears before beginning to lean forward to plate up the food for me. “We all know it wasn’t your sparkling personality that got you in with Robinthe. Maybe you have some Honey-Tongued tendencies of your own.” 

“Something like that.” Robinthe agrees, beginning to plate his food as well, much to my horror.

Surely the King was supposed to be served first, not the newest arrival to his Court, and then some courtier I was unfamiliar with, but I daren’t look around to gauge the reactions of the other guests.
Ayden taps the table in front of me once he’s scooped a handful of potatoes onto my plate, some vegetables and only a small sliver of meat, a silent order to begin to eat, I assume. Although it’s very hard to focus on remembering what piece of cutlery is the correct one to eat with this particular meal when Aydens hand is resting dangerously high upon my thigh.
I had never been touched in such an intimate manner by anyone, especially not by a relative stranger, even if we were betrothed.

I steal a glance, relaxing slightly when I see all the other guests have begun plating their own food up, apart from the King, who has Thorne plating his food for him. Unusual Court customs, but one I could probably be more comfortable with. After all, it wasn’t uncommon for disgruntled courtiers or servants to poison the food handed to their Lords and Ladies.
Ayden only moves his hand away from me to begin eating, continuing to talk jovially with Robinthe and Amaranth as though I’m not even there at all.

 I accidentally caught eyes with the King at the head of the table though, his red eyes on me with an unmatched intensity.

“Tell me, Primrose ,” The King says, making everyone pause their conversations to hear whatever he’s about to ask. “What makes you such a worthy candidate to be gifted to this Court?”

I blink, not expecting such a question but replying as quickly as I can, as I’ve been trained. “I’ve been trained my whole life to be the best wife I can be for your son, your Majesty.”

 Robinthe snorts, giving his partner a smirk. “Maybe I should trade you in, Ama.”

“No other woman would be able to deal with you.” She snaps right back.

“And what makes someone ‘the best wife’, Primrose?” The red-eyed man with the messy, graying beard beside me asks, making no effort to hide the fact his eyes are on my breasts. 

 I try to ignore his ogling, squaring my shoulders and taking a deep breath. “I have been trained to cook, clean, decorate, raise children, speak and act as a lady should. We are trained in many ways how to please a man.”

There’s a snort from King Firehearts left, a dark-skinned fae leaning his cheek on his fist so that he can give me an unfriendly smirk that only tells me how much of a mockery he’s making of me within his own head.

“So, you’ve been taught to just be a woman then?” The King asks, tipping back the rest of his wine and flinging his arm to his right to have the knight there refill his glass. “Even a whore can be trained to do all of that.”

“That’s all the Chosen Ones are, if I’m not mistaken.” A more reserved member to Fireheart’s right comments, his dark eyes scanning my face thoughtfully.

My jaw tightens at the notion. “I am pure.”

“Oh how delightful, ” The male on the King’s left laughs. “Ayden is one lucky, lucky Prince. This one could be quite valuable in the wrong hands.”

Aydens grin widens as he looks over at the man I’ve not been introduced to, even though my eyes are on him, almost expecting him to defend my honour. I don’t know why I expected such a thing. After all, I had always been taught that men knew better than me, and to just be seen and not heard.

“Robinthe mentioned Honey-Tongue earlier,” The reserved, brunette male says, thoughtfully running his fingers along the rim of his wine glass. “It’s possible that power is rendered useless considering the Chosen Ones are often taught not to speak unless spoken to.”

I regard the man to Fireheart’s right thoughtfully, still neglecting my meal. He looked of a similar age to me, his features sharp and angular, potentially some Wood Elf mixed into his complexion, his hair is cut shorter than usually deemed fashionable for courtiers, and his eyes are a deep, dark emerald.

“Oh, I most definitely need to get myself one of those,” Robinthe continues to jest. “This one consistently calls me the most vile things.”

“Because you are vile.” Amaranth says, completely seriously as she pokes at her food, but does not eat it.

Giving her a proper look, it makes sense. She’s very thin, a lot thinner than even the strays that are brought to the Sanctuary sometimes are. She’s still blessed with seemingly a full chest though, her corset done up even tighter than mine felt. Her hair cascades over her shoulders elegantly, perfect black ringlets that make me feel a little jealous and her pointed ears are lined with several thin gold hoops, with beautiful ruby studs in her lobes.
She has lovely full lips, painted a crimson colour, as is expected of this Court no doubt and a black, thin, tattooed line runs down her lip. Her eyes are downcast, stopping me from being able to note the colour of them.
Robinthe, who is definitely her partner, looks very similar to the Firehearts. Black curls that are a little longer than the younger Fireheart’s, playful brown eyes akin to Aydens, and a similar jawline to his also. He matches the playful energy that Ayden gives off, and there’s a strange warmth coming off him.

Sensing the questioning has paused while Ayden, Amaranth and Robinthe all bicker playfully and the brunette male beside King Fireheart murmurs to the King, I begin to eat as gracefully as I can.

 Only for the food to instantly burn my tongue, as if it’s been oversalted.
I fought the urge to cough, forcing the food down my throat, and panickedly looking up at all the other guests, who did not seem to be struggling with their food at all. But I had seen Ayden plate my food. It was the same as everyone else's, and yet not one of them seemed to be in any distress.
I dare a glance at Thorne, standing still and silently by the King’s side, but his eyes are fixed forward and do not break from where he’s staring even as I end up having to clear my throat.

“Is there a problem, little nymph?” Ayden asks softly, surprisingly breaking his conversation to give me his attention.

“It’s burning me.” I try to tell him quietly.

His black eyebrows pull together vaguely, and before I can stop him, his fork stabs into one of the potatoes on my plate and he pops it into his mouth, chewing it without any expression of pain or discomfort, and swallowing it.

“It tastes fine to me,” He replies, giving me an easy smile and tracing his thumb along my jawline. “Did you not rest earlier?”

“I did.” I confirm, confused and take another bite, only to be instantaneously burned again.

But Ayden hadn’t told an untruth. Even taking Thorne’s advice and listening carefully to their words, there was no trick in what he had said.
It tastes fine to me.

 Perhaps I was allergic. Woodland Court foods were different to this. We had vegetables and meats, of course, but we mostly sustained ourselves on the beans, nuts and leaves from the lands, with any vegetables being from the gardens of the Sanctuary.

I force myself to eat half of the meal before stopping, my mouth and throat beginning to blister and my stomach beginning to coil with nausea.
Nausea that did not soothe when a hand strays to my thigh again.
But not from Ayden’s side. No. The hand resting on my thigh, as high as Aydens had been earlier, was the red-eyed stranger’s to my left.
I try to catch Ayden’s eye, but he’s too busy talking chirpily to the male who had snorted at me with derision earlier. Thorne is no use, staring off to the distance much like the other guard to Fireheart’s right. So I try to shift closer to Ayden, hoping to gather the nerve to interrupt him by reaching out and touching his arm to get his attention.

But the slight movement only causes the large man beside me to tighten his hand momentarily in what feels like a warning before his hand moves even higher, his fingers grazing my core through the material of my gown in a way that is entirely unwelcome and unpleasant.
I spring to my feet, the chair I had been sitting on scraping loudly across the marble floor and causing everyone to fall silent and stare at me. My eyes are on Ayden though, and for one moment, the look he gives me is entirely unfriendly and speaks of danger before it smooths into his usual playful expression, his hand reaching for my trembling one.

“Whatever is the matter, darling?” He asks, as if I’m a spooked child.

“I apologise for making a scene,” I lead with, feeling the King’s murderous intent for the interruption from his conversation rolling towards me. “May we swap seats, my lord?”

“Swap seats?” Ayden asks, raising an eyebrow in amusement, and then craning his neck to look at the oaf of the man beside my seat. “What did you do this time, Ruthius?”

This time? I think to myself, but do not utter another word, sensing that I’ve already made a joke of the Matrons that have raised me by making a scene at my first Court meal.

“I’m simply trying to get to know your betrothed, dear nephew.” Ruthius responds.

 I do not understand how he is able to say such a thing without choking on the lie.
Getting to know my body , perhaps.
But perhaps that was all the truth needed to say such a sentence.

Ayden hums as though he doesn’t believe his uncle, regardless, his face once again becoming uncharacteristically stony. “She is mine to get to know. Tell me, darling Primrose, which hand did he lay on you?”

I pause in fear. 

 He knew, somehow. He knew , and still put me in that position at the table? Or perhaps it had happened before with mere conquests, and not someone that he had agreed to take on as a future wife and so he had trusted that his uncle would not pull the same stunt on someone more serious to him than the prior incidents.
I couldn’t lie, only twist the truth, and I’m in too much of a panic about the fuss I’ve caused to even begin thinking of ways to dissolve the situation with wordplay.

“His right.” I reply, trying to keep my voice quiet, to avoid the wrath of Ruthius at getting him into trouble with his nephew.

With a tilt of Ayden’s head in Ruthius’s direction, the guard to the King’s left disappears in a flash, only to reappear right beside me, pulling a dagger from the sheath along the side of his thigh and cutting through Ruthius’s wrist in a movement so quick and easy it may as well have been as though the knight was cutting through butter.
I gasp as the room goes silent for a heavy second, only for Ruthius to yell out angrily, and the male to Ayden’s right to cheer.

 “Thank the Gods for that, this dinner was mighty boring.” Robinthe sighs, as though it’s a relief that the man had been maimed.

“Honestly, Uncle, you’d think after losing your hand five times that you would have learned your lesson finally.” Ayden chastises gently as Ruthius holds his handless wrist to his chest, glaring with nothing but rage in his eyes at me. 

 I, however, cannot peel my eyes away from the blood on the table, and the lifeless hand laying separate from the body it came from beside Ruthius’s plate, despite Thorne’s warning.

 “Thank you, Ashyn, for the entertainment. Quick and ruthless as always.” Robinthe continues to praise, causing the guard to bow beside me before vanishing and reappearing beside the King again, who does not look impressed by the ‘entertainment’ whatsoever.

“Sit down, Prim,” Ayden encourages, gently tugging on my skirt and then clicking his tongue in annoyance. “He got blood on your gown.”

 I can’t respond even if I had wanted to. A man had his hand removed, and they reacted with a cheer and playfulness about it, left him to continue bleeding while seated beside me, and then encouraged me to sit and continue eating.
  Numbly, I sit back down, but I’m sure that’s only due to shock.
Any advice that Thorne had given me was long forgotten as my hands tremble upon my lap.

I never thought I would find myself missing the Sanctuary, the Matrons and my Sisters upon being Chosen until laying my eyes upon the sight of the disembodied hand on the table of the Court of Blood.

 Thorne’s warning was not an overreaction at all, and the realisation slowly settles into me as I sit completely silently for the remainder of the meal, not even listening to the conversations between all the attendees and not tearing my eyes from my lap.
I’m still in a stupor when the King dismisses us all and Ayden has to gently encourage me up with a firm grip on my arm.

 “Let me show you the gardens.” He smiles warmly, as though nothing had happened.

Chapter Text

The gardens are, admittedly, beautiful even in the dark of night. There are butterflies that seem to emit a faint glow floating around the flowers, some of which seem to have petals alight with magic as well. It’s the kind of sight that I could imagine myself trying to paint, had I the materials to do so.
Unfortunately, my head is still clouded over with the memory of what had happened moments prior, the image of the disembodied hand still in my mind as Ayden talks me through the shrubbery maze we walk through, and particular flowers he stops to pluck from the tall bushes to gently place within my hair.
I’m not entirely sure I’m even in my body as he stops us in front of a grand water feature in the center of the maze, marble skilfully carved into the body of a woman, with the water streaming from her eyes. Something about it feels like an omen, but I try to stop myself from thinking that way, trying to rationalise it as the shock from the event at dinner.

“So, what do you think, my little nymph?” Ayden asks, sitting on the edge of the fountain and pulling me to him by the waist.

His eyes are glittering, as though he’s proud of the gardens, and I manage to fumble my way through a compliment, but it’s clearly as not heartfelt as he’d like it, as his dark brows pull together, his thumbs running over my hip bones.

 “Is something the matter?” He asks, as though the answer isn’t obvious.

“He just…” I begin to say, before realising that what I have to say isn’t necessarily important and therefore I should keep quiet. After all, it hadn’t upset them, in fact, they’d all been rather jovial about the brutality of it.

A look of understanding passes over Ayden’s handsome features, and his lips curl up into a soft smile. “You’re upset about Ruthius?”

I give a small nod, and Ayden laughs, his eyes sparkling with amusement as he looks up at me.

“Don’t be upset about that old fool, he touched something that didn’t belong to him and paid the price for it. His hand will regenerate, he just needed to lap the blood from the table to do so, but he was too proud to do it in your presence.”

I blink at him, confused by such a statement. 

 Such things were possible?

“Have faith in me, you will see him tomorrow and it will be as though nothing happened.” Ayden soothes, attempting to pull me onto his lap. “Sit, Horned-Born.”

Obediently, I sit, although I feel uncomfortable doing so. I had never been in such close proximity with a man before, and although his expression is still playful, there’s an unfamiliar gleam to his eyes as I finally perch myself on one of his spread thighs.

“There. Much better. Now I can appreciate your beauty up close.” He smirks, moving my blonde fringe out of the way once more, exposing my dark horns. “You needn’t worry about Ruthius, he still hasn’t learned his lesson. Perhaps next time he tries touching you or Amaranth, we take his bollocks.”

My eyes widen at the use of such vulgar language, and he looks at me with amusement again, his ring-laden hand resting on the back of my neck.

“ Speak . Tell me something, little nymph. Your silence is becoming tiresome.”

I can acknowledge that is not a good thing to be, especially on my first day being his betrothed, and so I search his face for some kind of a hint of what to say, the water from behind us sounding a lot louder than it had originally.

“What would you like me to tell you, my lord?” I ask, my voice soft like I’d been taught.

“Tell me about the Sanctuary,” He replies, his tone thoughtful. “I presume you weren’t exposed to much bloodshed given your reaction to the loss of Ruthius’s hand.”

“No, I’ve never seen blood like that,” I agree quietly. “The Sanctuary is mostly a peaceful place. Quiet.”

“I can imagine.” Ayden laughs as though the comment is funny, but I don’t understand the joke.

“Punishments were rare,” I continue, trying to fill the silence that he was finding tiresome, but the words feel clumsy and awkward as they leave me. “We mostly just learned how to keep a home and learned the history of the Courts.”

“Including this Court?” He asks, a darkness passing his face.

“Well, yes, of course.” I reply. “It was once the Vampyr Court, until your grandfather slayed the High Lord and chose this Court for his home.”

“Correct.” Ayden grins lazily, moving his face closer to mine.

I hold my breath, but he simply runs his nose along mine affectionately. 

 “I am rather fond of those blemishes under your eye.” He tells me, his voice huskier than before.

“May I ask a question?” I ask, hoping that keeping him talking will distract him from how close he seems to be to kissing me.

“Ask away.” He agrees, but does not move further back from me.

“How did he do it?” I ask. “The Vampyres are rumoured to be the strongest race of fae there is.”

Ayden pauses for a moment, his smirk faltering, but it returns in an instant. “Silver, darling nymph. Silver burns them much as iron burns us. Fine silver is a death sentence to a Vampyr.”

And then he moves back, his arm flying out to the side to catch what looks to be a bat mid-flight.
His face is anything but friendly as he stares at the thing in his hands, his usually playful eyes narrowed as his hand tightens around its body, causing a faint dark mist to come off the thing.

“It seems I caught a little spy.” He comments thoughtfully, a dangerous edge to his voice.

I stare at him, half-convinced he’d gone mad.
The mist around the creature was perhaps not what I’d seen in the illustrations of wildlife we had access to in the Sanctuary, but it was clearly a simple bat, incapable of spying.

“I wonder which of the dogs you belong to,” Ayden continues, lifting the thing towards the moonlight to try to get a clearer look at the thing. “A shame, we were going to be thoughtful and give you Ruthius’s hand to fight over.”

 I don’t comment as he continues his mad ramblings, suddenly even more nervous of our proximity to one another.
But clearly, what I had considered a lapse in sanity was actually valid on his behalf, as the bat he’d tightened his fist around disappeared into a mere cloud of smoke within the blink of an eye.

“How troublesome,” Ayden frowns, wiping his hand on his jacket as though the smoke creature was a real bat, infested with all kinds of nasty illnesses. “It’s not often they’re that brazen.”

“Who?” I ask despite myself, and Ayden returns his attention to me, a lopsided grin on his face as he shrugs calmly.

“The stragglers.” He replies as if such a response isn’t cryptic. “Not to worry, it’s back to just us now.”

 I open my mouth to ask who would bother spying on him before thinking better of it and closing it again. He was the Prince of Faeran, of course there would be people trying to learn all kinds of weaknesses and secrets from him and his ilk. 

 He moves me higher up his thigh with ease, his nose running along mine again.

“Tell me, little nymph. Have you ever used your power before?”

I shake my head as softly as I can to avoid accidentally headbutting him with how close our faces are.

“A shame, I would love to see how it works.” He muses, before closing the distance and pressing his full lips to mine in the ghost of a kiss.

 My breath is caught in my throat, my eyes widening and foolishly not expecting him to move back instantly, his eyes sparkling and the corners of his lips pulling up at my reaction. He hums a little to himself, leaning back and scanning my face and persons with his eyes quietly for a moment.

“You truly are pure.” He states, as though I would be able to lie about such a thing.

I bow my head slightly in response, as anything I say verbally will be a lot more cutting than is proper.

“Not to worry, my little nymph.” He croons, caressing my cheek with his knuckles. “I can change that.”

“I… We must be married first.” I stutter, not expecting such a proposition so quickly.

The younger Matrons had always told tales of how men were easy to bed, and often would do so without marriage being in the forefront of their mind, but I had always disregarded their words of warning. After all, they had never met men outside of the Sanctuary, either. They couldn’t possibly know such things.

“Is that so?” He asks, his smile dropping and his eyes running over my face again, as if he’s trying to assess how serious I’m being. “We could get you Marked tonight, and have a ceremony another time.”

I don’t understand what he’s saying, and not wanting to sound foolish or uneducated on the customs of their Court, I simply nod in dumb agreement, causing his smile to return.

“Let’s go then.” He says, patting my thigh in a silent order to stand again.

 I stand, watching him as he gets to his feet too, his arm flinging itself around my shoulders as he leads me back through the maze of shrubbery and flowers.

  “My lord, may I ask about the company tonight?” I ask, realising I still hadn’t learned the names of two of the courtiers that had been seated at the table tonight, and didn’t know any of their relations to one another beyond Robinthe and Amaranth being partners.

“Of course. You became rather familiar with my uncle, but not the others I suppose.” Ayden replies easily, tugging me closer to the warmth of his body. “Robinthe, the loud one is my older brother. And Amaranth, the dark haired half-Vampyr is his wife, she’s a sly little thing. My father nearly split the house in half when Robinthe announced that he wished to marry her. He still doesn’t approve. The only thing saving her is the fact she’s only half Vampyr. The full blooded ones are nasty creatures. Filth, really.”

I stay silent as I process his words. Understandably they thought little of the Vampyr, and if the tales of the race were true, I could understand why. But I cannot help but find the words he’s using to refer to the Vampyr uncomfortable to listen to.

“The man who had been sitting to my father’s left was Bryss. He’s not from our Court originally, but he was sent from the Sun Court during my grandfather’s rule as an emissary and never made his way back home. He says we’re too fun to abandon,” Ayden continues to tell me. “He does love a show, and wine. Unsurprising considering the fae from the Court of the Sun are rumoured to be alcoholics.”

He was referring to the handsome fae male with braided hair and a darker complexion to the others that had snorted at me when I had informed them of how I was trained to be the perfect wife. I make a mental note of that as Ayden continues.

“The man to my fathers right is Percyval. He’s a bore.” Is all Ayden offers as a description of the clearly well educated man who had been seated beside the King.

I nod slowly. “A scribe?”

“Worse, a scholar,” Ayden groans. “There’s never any fun discussions with him. It’s all budgets, knowledge and ‘what ifs’. The man doesn’t even indulge in our finest wines.”

I frown slightly as I gaze at the floor. There was nothing wrong with being a scholar. It was a highly respected title, and they were sought after in many Courts.
I listen silently as Ayden continues to animatedly tell me tales of the guests that had been with us as we had dined, not needing any input from me to continue talking, and before I know it I’m being ushered into what appears to be a small shrine, with only one hooded sorcerer sitting alone, studying a book on the table in front of him.

“Allarys, I need a Marking.” Ayden calls cheerfully, drawing the Magus’s attention.

When he turns, I fight the urge to gasp as I’m faced with the sight of a silver haired male with almost glowing silver eyes, which are only highlighted by the tattoos of runes running down the entirety of his face across his cheeks and nose. He looks young, even with the length of his hair and beard and he doesn’t necessarily look pleased by the interruption.
He tilts his head as he regards me coldly.

“This one’s new.” He states, his voice heavy with the feel of magic as he talks.

“The others never last.” Ayden shrugs. “This one was a gift.”

I’m not sure I’m fond of the idea of Ayden being prolific with females, and the fact I was being referred to as some kind of object as though I wasn’t standing right beside him, but I force myself to give a polite bow to the Magus anyway.

 When I lift my head again, his eyes are glowing even more and to my surprise his lips turn upwards in a knowing smirk. I feel my stomach sink as I fear what Allarys may have seen to know about me. Something I could potentially not even know myself.

“You want me to mark this one?” Allarys asks, turning his eyes to Ayden and lifting a hand to gesture at me. His long sleeve falls to his elbow, revealing more ancient runes I’m unfamiliar with circling around his arm.

“Yes.” Ayden replies curtly.

Allarys gives me another once over, and then looks at Ayden, an unmistakable mirth dancing in his eyes. Whatever is going on between the two men is a mystery to me, but the way Allarys is looking at the Prince seems to be rubbing Ayden the wrong way as I feel him tense before he pushes me towards the man with magic rolling off him with an undeniable strength that I’d never felt before, not even with the Mages that occasionally visited us in the Sanctuary.

“Do it. Quickly,” Ayden repeats, his voice cold and unforgiving for the first time I’ve heard. “I have matters to attend to.”

Allarys’s smirk only grows, but he rises to his feet, his own feet bare like mine as he approaches us and reaches for my hand, a tattoo of a crescent moon in the center of his palm.

 A Blessed One. 

 I didn’t know they actually even existed. I thought they were only legends, stories told to give fae children hope.

I take his hand, knowing that of everyone in this Court, I can trust a Blessed One. One blessed by the Gods themselves. Beings of complete knowledge, Oath-Fae, the only fae that couldn’t even twist their words enough to pass as an untruth, seekers of peace.
His eyes glow again, as he no doubt sees into my very core with the contact, and his expression grows more peaceful as he gazes at Ayden.

“This one has a hopeful future,” He tells him before gently leading me deeper into the shrine, towards a table that looks awfully like a sacrificial bed. “Lay for me.”

I hesitate, despite having agreed to this with the prince I’m to be wed to.

“It will not hurt, Primrose.” Allarys reassures, his expression serene as I look up at him, knowing better than to ask how he had even known my name.

I nod, and lay on the table with a tightness in my chest. I didn’t even know what being Marked meant for me, but I trusted that the Blessed One would tell me if it was a poor decision to make.

“Empty your mind.” Allarys’s calm voice instructs from above, his hand hovering over my face. “Close your eyes, lest you blind yourself.”

I close my eyes, and the only thing I feel is a warmth running from my bottom lip to the tip of my chin as Allarys’s magic washes over me.
The warmth feels like home, not uncomfortable or painful in the slightest, and although it doesn’t last for long, I yearn for the feeling to return as soon as it’s gone.

 When I open my eyes, Allarys is smiling down at me and offers me a hand to pull me back up.

“Love sometimes isn’t what we first think it will be.” He informs me quietly before bowing his dismissal at me.

I try to decipher the words in my head as I walk towards a grinning Ayden, who immediately runs his thumb over the mark that no doubt is the same as the one Amaranth has running down her chin, too.

“It suits you.” He says affectionately. “Come on, little nymph. The night is young.”

I nod, looking over my shoulder at Allarys, who has seemed to settle himself down with his book once more.

“Thank you.” I call, trying to keep my voice soft as expected of me.

The phantom touch of a hand grazes my cheek in response, and I can’t help the way my face lights up with the awe of the sheer amount of magic the Magus has.
Ayden impatiently grabs my hand to tug me out of the temple, though, and is wordless as he enters the manor hand in hand with me, his hand warm and firm against my own. Through the corridors I can hear what sounds like a brawl, with hissing and yells coming from a metal door in the hallway. I pause momentarily, drawing Ayden’s attention.

“Ignore that, it’s the dogs fighting over their meal.” He tells me, pulling on my hand gently.

“It doesn’t sound like dogs.” I reply before I can stop myself, but luckily Ayden seems to find my confusion on the matter amusing.

“The guards, darling,” He smirks. “They fight like dogs for food.”

I don’t really understand why he seems to find humour in the idea of the guards like Thorne fighting for food, but choose not to comment on that as he continues to lead me through the corridors and hallways towards a heavy oak door, pushing it open and gesturing for me to enter.
This room is even bigger than my own, and far more elegant, the marble flooring broken apart with furs from likely the largest beasts I had ever read about in the Sanctuary. The bed is massive, visibly soft and everything within the room looks expensive, from the furniture to the jewellery hanging beside the crystal clear mirror on the vanity table.
Ayden’s hand turns my face towards him and I don’t have time to freeze before his lips brush against mine again.

“I knew it. I knew you were my mate.” He murmurs against my mouth, and I’m too busy worrying about what I should do to respond to his wild claim.

 I try to match the energy of his kisses, but my movements aren’t nearly as fluid or as confident as his own, not that it seems to deter him, as his hands tangle in my hair and he walks me backward until the back of my knees hit the edge of the mattress and cause me to fall onto the side of the bed.
His eyes are darker than usual as he looks down at me, his eyes lingering on the tattoo Allarys had just bestowed upon me.

I stare up at him, likely looking similar to a spooked faun as I realise what he intends to happen.
As if the Gods themselves were looking out for me, a knock travels through the door, causing Aydens expression to darken.
I choose not to say anything, as I don’t want to seem too eager for him to open the door, to be distracted. Whoever’s outside the door knocks again, and Ayden swings around to face the door.

“What?” He snaps, causing me to flinch.

“The dogs are done fighting. Join us.” A gruff voice replies, and Aydens demeanor changes, becoming looser and more thoughtful as he turns to look at me again.

The silence stretches out between us for a couple of moments, but he soon smiles at me, stroking my hair, and plucking out the flowers he had put amongst the braid earlier.

“I will be back in an hour or so. We’ll have fun once I’ve had my fill.” He tells me, running his eyes over my body and then biting his lower lip faintly. “Until then, make yourself comfortable.”

I sit in stunned silence as he presses another ghostly kiss to my mouth and then turns, leaving me alone in his bed chambers.
I have no clue as to what the knights fighting had to do with him, or what he meant by ‘having his fill’, but I did know what he wanted for us when he returned to this room. And I wasn’t sure I was ready.
I had barely spent time with him. And although we were to be married, and he had Marked me, I was by no means confident enough to share a bed with him yet.

And so I did what he had suggested, flopping back on the bed, and trying to make myself as comfortable as I can be as I try to recall all the lessons the Matrons had given me about pleasing a man, only to feel myself drifting off to sleep from the stress of the day, of the overwhelming nature of everything that had happened within the time of the sun rising and setting.