Page 13

No, no. Apparently, what’s more important is the seed that sired him and whose vagina he came out of.

I am not meant for this life. For this world.

Even so, my mouth hinges open to argue just as Reginald gives me a pointed look and, with one simple question, manages to dredge up the many horrific memories of the not-too-distant past.

“If you have no more money, how will you pay your army? How will you protect your people? How will you ensure their loyalty?”

As if it has ears of its own, the words send my tail bursting free of its glamour and coiling tightly around my leg for comfort. Even the scars on my back and the muscles where my once beautiful wings used to lie flare to life with phantom pain.

I swallow hard, struggling to quell my rising panic.

The words come out in a whisper as I shoo him with my hand.

“Just give him the ring, please, Reginald.”

The highlight of holding court,as usual, is when mortals visit to have themselves or their loved ones healed or made more fertile. My heart is full as a young human woman, hand held by her husband, waits with nervous hope as I kneel to place one hand on her lower back and the other on her lower abdomen.

Heat radiates powerfully through my heart and solar plexus, down my arms and into my hands as I direct healing to her womb.

My eyes slip shut as pinpricks of energy alight my fingertips and palm and my magic flows through her skin, fascia, and muscle, spiderwebbing into her womb and the energy surrounding it.

Where hormones have once spurred dysfunctional growth, new impulses are given to her cells. Fibroid tissues begin to shift, maladaptive cells cease replicating. Excess collagen and hardened fibers begin to soften, breaking down for her body’s lymphatic system to absorb. The capillaries feeding the excess growths shrivel and wither away. Signals are sent to the parts of her brain that direct endocrine function so that her feminine hormones restore balance.

A smile tips my lips and my heart swells further, as I sense her uterine lining softening. Fallopian tubes–once inflamed and constricted, relax–and my subject’s womb has its sacred biological architecture restored.

As my magic returns to me, I send thanks to each and every molecule of her body, and I open my eyes to find relief glistening in her eyes.

Her husband, still holding her hand from where he stands on the other side of her, likely has no idea what to think. To him, it must be a strange sight to see a royal kneeling on the floor beside his wife.

I rise to stand, rubbing her shoulder. “You’ll be unusually tired for the next few days. Allow yourself to rest and relax, but try to go for walks after eating. I’ll have Reginald send you home with some dietary guidance.”

The woman nods, giving me a tremulous smile a moment before her arms come around me. My eyes burn as she holdsme against her and I return her hug. Her whisper against my shoulder is thick with emotion.“Thank you.”

When we part, we’re both wiping tears from our eyes. “Well, you might feel a little differently in a year’s time when you haven’t slept for days and you’ve got three babies all trying to suckle from the same teat.”

She bursts into a watery laugh as her husband curls her into his side.

“Do you really think it’s possible?”

Affection and longing fill my chest as I take in the sight of them.

“Entirely.”

Several hoursand one mini panic attack later, the only thing that holds me back from putting my head through a wall just to end this misery is the fact that I’ve been able to heal so many people today. I’m practically slumped over in the chair that is my deliberately understated throne as the final petitioner arrives.

I’m ready to weep with gratitude that this day is so very nearly over.

Shame rings through me dark,yet crystal clear, as the next petitioner flutters into the room on her gossamer, fairy-like wings. I can’t help but envy her and her ability to just…beherself. Wear her skin so comfortably. Like daemons, syriths are not exactly held in high regard.

And yet, here she is, entering my court like she fucking owns it and so unabashedly herself with long, wavy, blue-black hair, adorned in a full-length dress that buttons high at the neck but clings to every glorious, voluptuous curve like a reverent and worshipful acolyte.

Like syrens, syriths are notorious for their abilities of enchantment, among other things. Unless they maintain a firm grip on their magic, simply gazing upon one is enough to lull you into their grasp. Just one of many reasons they’re shunned from society. Outside of brothels, that is.

“State your name and petition, please.”

She gives me a serene smile, bowing, before straightening.

“Thank you for seeing me, Your Grace. My name is Violette Lark, and I’ve come to request a business loan.”