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“Dining hall.”

Figures. That’s where the festivities usually are—unless they’re taken outside.

Before I leave with him, I grab a bottle of oil, a dirty rag, and my sheathed sword, my leather belt wrapped tightly around it.

The two of us exit my tent, and I squint against the dawn. The edge of the sun perpetually sits on the horizon.

Malaki and I move across the camp, threading our way between tents. Around us, I can hear several soldiers singing ballads, one even playing a lyre. When we’re losing a battle, the songs turn into dirges, but right now, the music is lively and upbeat from our recent win.

Malaki and I enter the dining hall, the place nothing more than a massive tent filled with rough-hewn furniture and soldiers. Fairies sit around the tables, their cheeks ruddy and their mouths loose. It won’t be long until the festivities move outside. Get enough liquor into us, and we like to dance and dally under the open sky.

A few soldiers still on duty are serving food at the back of the room. Perched next to them are two barrels—one of distilled spirits and another of ale. Ogre piss tastes better than this stuff, but when you’ve been far from civilization for this long, it’s all practically ambrosia.

Malaki and I make our way to a group of soldiers seated around a circular table, the group of them drinking liquor and laughing.

This is how my days go. Wake up, grab a bite from the dining hall, take a shift, get off, grab another meal and share a drink with comrades—perhaps warm myself with a woman—then go to bed. Wake up and it all begins again.

An hour after we enter the dining hall, the room has filled to the brim with rowdy soldiers. I pull out my sword and unstop the vial of oil. Pouring a little onto my rag, I begin to clean my blade, my boots propped up on the table.

Tonight I’m in a grim mood.Still no closer to killing the king.

Maybe the prophetess never meant for me to be in the military this long. Perhaps I found my valor long ago without realizing it, and all this time I’ve spent slaying the enemy has all been in vain.

My sword has barely begun to glisten when the dining hall’s tent flaps are thrown open. Two dozen scantily clad men and women file into the room, the lot of them clearly here to trade flesh for the evening. I stiffen when I see some mortals mixed in with the fae.

That’s new. There are always fairies coming to these outposts to relieve soldiers of their mostprimalurges, but never humans.

Malaki’s eyes are on me. He leans in. “Supposedly the mortals are a gift from the king for our latest victory.”

A gift? Marrying a human is outlawed. Even sleeping with one is taboo. They’re considered unclean and primitive. To send them to us as a reward … it seems more an insult than a gift.

The group of men and women filter through the room, quickly pairing up with interested soldiers. Malaki and the others around me get up, letting the fairies and humans lead them outside, where they’ll dance around the campfires before moving into the clouds for a little privacy.

“Not coming?” Malaki asks when he notices I’m still sitting.

I give a shake of my head, my attention on my sword. So far, I’ve shrugged off three separate attempts to pull me away.

The girl Malaki’s with tugs on his arm with a giggle. He backs up a few steps, wanting to say something, but he chooses not to, instead turning on his heel and leaving with the rest of the soldiers. In a matter of minutes, the majority of the room has cleared out.

Just when I think I might have a little alone time, I hear the soft swish of a woman’s skirts heading my way.

… Slave …

The woman steps up behind me.

“I don’t sleep with humans,” I say before she can touch me, not looking up from my blade.

There’s a pause, and then her hair brushes mine as she leans in over my shoulder. “I can promise you that I’ll do things your fae lovers won’t.” Her breath fans against my cheek.

I sheath my sword and take a drink of my ale. “It’s not anything personal. I just happen to like my women willing.”

She runs a hand across my chest. “What makes you think I’m not?”

I catch her wrist and I run my thumb over the royal emblem branded onto her skin. The crescent moon looks grotesque when it’s made out of raised flesh.

“Tell me,” I ask, studying it, “would you be propositioning me if you weren’t owned by the crown?”

She leans in. “Tell me, would you be sitting here, waiting for battle, ifyouweren’t owned by the crown?”