They take to the river, swimming deep under the shield. I extend my bow, aiming for the sea. Archery isn't my specialty, but I'm good enough for this. Good enough for picking off humans.
The first few die before they can hope to reach the shores, but there's so many of them. So many.
We kill hundreds, thousands. Some do make it to the riverbank, and now the first line of fae against us must abandon their bows for their swords. More humans spill into our territory. Their bodies fall at our feet. We have to step on them. It's awkward. The smell of blood clogs the air, making me feel sick. I'm getting tired and my arm aches, but I never stop slicing whatever my blade can reach: throats, shins, the weakness in their armor between their shoulders and their necks. Anything I can do to hurt. To kill.
I will protect my home.
And then, the first salamanders reach us, and there is fire.
Vlari
I don't have to ask where these woods got their name. There are so many trees, all clustered together, that the abundant foliage covers the sky—we can't even see the light of the moon. These woods must be dark even during the day.
Within less than an hour, we've reached the head of a fortified stronghold. The woods mustn't be very extensive. I suppose “Darker Grove” doesn't sound quite as dramatic.
Everything about the seelie castle is alien, different, other, and yet, so very fae in nature.
At the gate, the two knights wear the exact same uniform, polished to perfection. They're even the same height. Both are dark-haired. I wouldn't be surprised if they were twins.
We're admitted inside, and everywhere, there's symmetry, perfection. The white stones of the path are polished, square, smooth. In the distance, I hear a chant similar to our winter songs, but peaceful, slow, tender, caring.
I want to vomit.
I've only taken a few steps inside their world and already, I'm bored.
The rose-stone castle is bathed with light inside—its high walls boast hundreds of humongous windows. Along the walls, there are statues and paintings of mournful maidens and still lifes of flowers.
"Do they ever have fun?" I wonder, whispering to Drusk.
He chides me with a look, but I see him wince as he takes in the gigantic painting of an apple. A boring apple.
We're led to a vast chamber where dozens of gentry are gathered around a table drinking wine as musicians play the most lifeless song of all time.
I guess I have my answer. Fun isn't their thing.
"My king. Apologies for the interruption." The hag bows deep in front of the last man I would have guessed was king, among those gathered here.
It's a boy with red hair and an easy smile that reaches the corners of his moss-green eyes. "What do we have here?" He sends Meda a wicked grin that makes me think that he, at least, does know exactly how to have fun.
His gaze takes us all in, but soon returns to Meda.
He gets up, leaving his companions without so much as a glance. He takes his goblet of wine with him, though.
"Come on, old friend. Let's get you attended to."
Although Meda stood tall and proud, never giving off that she was in any way injured throughout our walk, one glance and that man knew there was something wrong with her.
She gestures for us to follow, before setting off after him.
After walking through many corridors and up several flights of stairs, we reach what can only be the royal chamber—a vast room, larger than the entire throne hall of Whitecroft—filled with plush velvet-covered chairs and cushions, and a bed large enough for ten people.
I am guessing that it occasionally fits as many, from the king's vibe.
"Come, old friend. Sit, sit. I'll get supplies."
He disappears into a side chamber.
Meda drops on the sofa he indicates, and removes her cloak, shirt, and chemise, till she stands topless.
