Wh—what?How the hell could he force me to do that?
But, I'm inclined to allow you to learn a lesson. I've forgotten what it is like to be young and grossly stupid. Evidently I have been entirely too distracted.
I—I feel likeI'm missingsomething. You should tell me whatI'm missingnow.
When it was clear he would no longer verbally flay—excuse me, speak—to me today, I returned to my thoughts.
He was right about our strategy lacking. . .a bit of finesse. Attacking Montague’s estate was pointless, since only its civilian members lived there. Everyone of military import lodged atthe palace, like roaches.
Facing them like this was no lightweight decision, but I grimly comforted myself that I wasn't the only one choosing to throw away their life today. And really, what would anyone expect? Despite my father having tried to put on the brakes, Faronnelacked a reputation asa slow thinking, strategic House. We struck fast and winced later.
We marched through empty streets onto the Boulevard—proof Montague expected us or else the civilians wouldn't have taken cover. Baroun, when given the choice, preferred to stomp out his enemies rather than pick them off one-by-one. But perhaps Montague's newly awake High Lord had ordered the retreat, to deal with us himself.
I knew which scenario I voted most likely.
Once we cleared Montague District, the final district before reaching the palace, we halted, the sun at our backs, roughly thirty-six hours since the Prince had woken and gatecrashed our skirmish. A white stone courtyard sat in front of the first set of palace gates, fields on either side, the forest line a mile beyond. Not ideal terrain for a battle, but the best we had coming in this direction.
“The gates are closed,” I remarked. “Almost like they were expecting us.” I heard someone snort faintly.
I dismounted as Wyvenne and Ramonne pulled alongside me. Faronne, Wyvenne, and Ramonne faced Montague, Labornne, and Lavigne. I scanned them quickly. As I thought, Sivenne had stayed home. Not that Montague needed them.
A tall male stood in front of a wall of White Guard, and Montague's silver-and-white warriors. Labornne's purple-and-persimmon warriors were present, red-gold hair and light eyes their House stamp. A smattering of Lavigne’s forest green-and-antique gold, bronze skin and curled mahogany hair, with eyes to match their livery.
Numair and Juliette dismounted as well, staring at the Prince as if one of the mythical Dark Fae had risen.
My heart sank. I didn’t look at Édouard. This wasn’t really his fault. We’d all agreed to take the risk.
“So we’re going to do this thing?” I asked no one.
“Have faith,” the commander said.
“Oh, I have faith,” Tereille said. “I have faith we’ll all die gloriously. But what better way to die than among those you love, on your way to meet again those who went before.”
I nodded, and straightened my shoulders. All in or all out, and the decision had been made.
“Right,” I said. “Time to do this.”
As the highest-ranked in my House, the pre-battle treating fell to me. The High Lord of Montague walked forward alone, an irrelevant army at his back—pretty though. Their whites would look lovely soaked in red. I met him halfway between our forces.
Impassive eyes fixed on my face. He wore pauldron, vambrace and greaves, his tunic high-necked and white, heavy with metallic silver embroidery. One hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his slightly long manicured nails with an opalescent shimmer—except for the matte black ring finger.
Damn. A warrior's hands were my thing.
I averted my gaze when I realized I was staring, flustered.HadI hit my head?
Oh, wait. The male mage hadflung meagainst a tree, then picked me up andflung meback into the clearing.
Right. Concussion. I couldn’t be held responsible for inadvertent attraction.
“Is this what you want?” the Prince of Everenne said.
I despised that question. Mostly because it was too reasonable, and too late. The Houses could have ended the internecine warfare years ago if we'd battled it out in open combat rather than endless cycles of petty ambushes and retaliations. But then we would have had to find something else to spend our endless time on.
In the chill of the dimming spring day, Renaud's blue-black hair moved in a breeze as he gave me time to reflect. He had nothing but time, after all. Well, so did I, but Low Fae tended to die younger. I looked into swirling eyes and wondered how much of his mind was home. Eyes the color of broken glass, likea shatteredmirror, ora shatteredmind.
“If you ask it, I will extend my mercy,” he said, his deep voice quiet.
It had lost the wintry, sepulchral quality of the other day, but I shivered nonetheless. He possessed the emotion of a corpse, though his skin color had deepened a smidgen from its sunless hue.
