I glance at the servant. “Did Officer Yemmel drop this off?”
“Yes, General Dalgaard,” the servant says in a monotone voice. After being under a glamour for years, he’s lost all sense of character, to the point that his voice rarely carries any intonation. “Officer Yemmel told me to tell you that he found the bag in a nearby cave.”
“Please retrieve a bottle of orc spirits from my personal collection and deliver it to Officer Yemmel immediately,” I say as I tuck the bag beneath an arm. “Be sure to tell him I’m grateful for his assistance.”
The glamoured, castrated servant scurries off toward the wagon that holds my belongings that aren’t currently in my tent. The other servant stands beside the tent flap, his expression so blank he almost looks dead. But I know if I issue an order, he’ll snap into awareness and comply.
I try to ignore the unexpected pang of guilt I suddenly experience over the treatment of fae servants. When I’d informed Amelia that the two servants who could help her were both glamoured and castrated, she’d looked equal parts shocked and horrified.
But it’s the way it’s always been, I quickly remind myself. For as long as anyone can remember. Fallen fae—those who incur the wrath of a royal—are either sentenced to death or condemned to a life of glamoured servitude.
I don’t know what supposed crimes my two servants committed to be maimed and damned to a lifetime of servitude in a Summer Court war camp. I only know that they were assigned to me over three hundred years ago upon my appointment as general.
A sigh escapes me as I eye the tent flap. Amelia is inside, and gods, how I long to join her. In time, will she acclimate to the fae way of life? Will she eventually think nothing of the castrated, glamoured servants we keep? What about the human slaves?
There are just as many human slaves in the camp as there are fae servants, and that’s not counting the number of war prizes my soldiers have claimed, females captured during battle and kept for the purposes of pleasure. Most war prizes are human females and some males too, but there are also a few orcs among their ranks. Given how strong and stubborn orcs are, wegenerally don’t keep them as slaves, but a few of my soldiers have taken orcs as war prizes.
I glance around the camp, and it doesn’t take long to spot the numerous slaves and servants rushing about making preparations for tomorrow’s early departure. Once we get on the road and Amelia travels in the carriage, she will likely witness events and situations that will leave her reeling with even more shock and horror.
I consider the violence she witnessed in the Sorsston castle during the early days of the fae occupation. I was there. I know just how viciously my people treated the servants in the castle, as well as the citizens of Sorsston. Perhaps she’s used to the carnage. I drag a hand through my hair and suppress a groan, wishing I could shield her from the brutal reality of life in a war camp.
Just as I’m about to enter my tent, a highborn fae named Dresat lands directly in front of me. His white, feathered wings disappear in a flash of light, and he regards me with a troubled look. The male is one of the Summer Court army’s most skilled aerial scouts, and I have a feeling he comes bearing bad news.
“Did you see something troubling during your scouting mission today, Officer Dresat?” I ask.
“Unfortunately, yes, General Dalgaard. The sky bridge is gone. I have no idea what happened. Perhaps there was bad weather. But I noticed it was missing from between the mountains, and then as I flew lower, I spotted pieces of it in the depths of the canyon, though most of the remains were washed away by the river.”
“Godsblast the fates,” I say with a growl.
“I’m sorry to bring such grim news, General. I know this will make the army’s journey to Sorsston much longer than anticipated.”
“From four days to two weeks.” I glance around the camp, searching for any sign of my commanders. I notice a few of them enjoying mugs of ale around a nearby campfire. I return my gaze to Dresat. “Thank you for bringing this news. I will inform my commanders now and we’ll make the preparations needed for a longer, more arduous journey.”
He gives me a brief nod, then summons his wings and shoots back into the sky. With a deep sigh, I join my commanders at the campfire. The news I share shocks them, but we’re able to come to an agreement about the next quickest way to Sorsston. After that, I visit Commander Klemat again to share the news and modify some of the orders I gave him earlier in the night.
Two weeks. Two fucking weeks.
I’m more thankful than ever that Amelia will be traveling in the carriage.
Finally, I head for my tent, and the scent of lavender and gardenia reaches me as I enter. I immediately scan the area in search of my sweet war prize. When our eyes meet, my heart beats faster. Warmth fills me, and my chest tightens with emotion. Gods, I would love nothing more than to take her in my arms and hold her right now.
She’s seated at my desk, holding a sheet of paper. She sets the paper aside, adding it to a stack of what I assume are recently completed letters, and she rises to her feet.
“Good evening, Amelia.”
“Good evening…Tristan.”
Hearing my name on her lips causes my scrotum to draw up tight with sensation and my cock to thicken hugely in my pants. If she wasn’t watching me, I would reach down and readjust myself. But I don’t want to frighten her, so I resist the urge.
There’s a definite flush to her cheeks, which I find curious, and when I take a deep inhale, I swear I detect the feminineslickness between her thighs. My cock hardens further, and I can’t resist taking another deep inhale.
She fears me, that much is obvious, and considering her past experiences with Lord Nevel (who will soon meet a much-deserved gruesome fate), I can’t blame her for being uneasy in my presence. But she also must feel an attraction to me, and this knowledge brings me hope. Hope that she’ll one day not only tolerate my touch, but long for it as much as I long to touch her.
Her blue eyes sparkle in the faelights, and I watch her carefully as she shifts in place, her manner adorably awkward. Her gaze eventually drops to the pack I’m holding underneath my arm, and I hold it out to her like an offering.
“You found my pack.” Her eyes glimmer with tears. “Oh, thank you, Tristan. Thank you. I-I never thought I would see it again. Not that I have anything of real worth inside, but some of the items hold sentimental value to me.”
I close the space between us, and as she reaches out to accept the bag, her fingers brush mine. Her breath catches, and her eyes flare as the blush covering her face deepens to a bright shade of pink. She slowly takes possession of the bag and retreats one step, though we’re still standing rather close. The aroma of her slickness increases, and suddenly all I can think about is tasting her and feasting on her nether parts until she shatters and screams my name.
