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“Yes, I see now that you’re not a youngling. My apologies.” The warden stood, his penetrating green eyes watching me like a hawk watched a mouse. “However, you were given a potion, correct?”

“I was,” I admitted. No use in denying it. Clearly, he knew something about the Blood Court.

He came closer, his gait loping and graceful. At the sides of the throne, two male guards shot the warden sidelong looks, but he waved for them to stay in place. Clearly, he saw no threat in a bedraggled female. As much as I wished to prove him wrong, I didn’t think I could. I hadn’t slept in a day and had traveled for hours through the woods. I wasn’t exactly in peak physical condition.

“They are quite ingenious in that court, aren’t they?” the warden mused.

“They’re monsters,” I hissed. “I wish a stake of ash to every heart in the Vampire Kingdom.”

The warden’s lips curled up before he caught himself as he came to stand before me. “I suppose if I were in your position, I’d say the same.” He held out his hand.

I recoiled.

His face fell a touch. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Forgive me if I don’t trust in lords or kings.”

“After what you’ve endured, I suspect that’s only natural. But I have taken no potion masking my magic. I’m a full-blooded faerie of Winter’s Realm. I cannot lie to you.”

I swallowed and looked at his hand. Then, surprising myself, I took it. The lord helped me to my feet, and when I stood, he tilted my chin upward.

“Your eyes are astounding.”

I blinked. “T-thank you.” Whatever I’d been expecting him to say, it wasn’t that.

“Even here, where fae have eyes of many colors, that hue is rarer than most,” he explained.

I looked at the floor, unsure of what to say. My violet eyes had been very rare in the Blood Court too. Most of the blood slaves had been human.

“I must ask, how did you get that scar?” the warden asked, surprising me again.

The crescent moon scar over my right temple wasn’t large, about the length of half my pinkie finger and very thin. That he’d noticed it spoke to his powers of observation.

I lifted my shoulder in a half shrug. “I actually don’t know. I’ve had it since I was very young.”

He released my chin. “We all acquire scars as we age. If we’re lucky, they tell a worthy story.”

My hand went to the scar. How was it that I suddenly felt self-conscious over something I rarely even thought about?

“I apologize for my forwardness. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” the warden said, and after a pause, added, “are you hungry?”

“I am,” I blurted, unable to act indifferent. The idea of food made my stomach rumble, and all odd interactions with this fae disappeared from my mind.

“Then, you shall eat.”

“And what of my prize, my lord?” Frode asked gruffly, coming to the warden’s side. “She’s a blood slave. She is worth gold if we send her back. I can take—”

A blade pressed against Frode’s neck. His eyes went as round as the moon as his lord threatened him with the dagger, his own gaze penetrating the lesser fae.

“There will be no sending her back,” the warden commanded in the tone of someone used to being listened to. “You will tell no one that you found this female. You will not speak of her at all. I will have a prize sent to you, and that will be the end of it. If you so much as whisper to anyone about her, you will be punished. Do you understand?”

“I-yes, my lord!”

The Warden of the West withdrew his blade. “Leave us, Frode. Guards, too. I’ll see no one else from my territory today.”

Frode’s face hardened as he marched from the throne room. The guards left behind him, closing the door.

When we stood alone, the warden turned to me once again. “I’m Roar Lisika, Warden of the West and head of my noble house. But, please, just call me Roar.”