Page 2 of Brutal Fae King (Dark Faevea King #1)

“Sire,” one war counselor says to me. “The defenses at Murbyn Bridge are beginning to fail.”

A simple sentence with a lot of connotations.

I take a moment to absorb it, scanning my eyes over a map of the Faevea Dynasty, dotted with little wooden figures representing our forces. Many of our forces still continue to stay in Eyston, surrounding my castle, but just outside of the castle town is Murbyn Bridge. All roads and paths toward the royal city go through Murbyn Bridge—if it falls to our enemies, the consequences are clear.

I scan my eyes around the war room as I think. Its dull red and gold color scheme shines low in the candles flickering in the chandelier. The fire roars, sending out its fierce orange glow into the room. The table upon which the map and other paraphernalia lie is golden oak, polished to a mirror shine. None of my officials lay any hands on it, perched on the edge of their matching seats like pussycats. In fact, they act like kittens as well—skittish, eyes darting around. If my gaze lays upon them, they squirm in discomfort.

These? These are supposed to be my military leads?

Pathetic.

I shuffle forward and look over the map again.

“The Naga have claimed some Northern areas in Murbyn Bridge. Our forces have successfully halted their invasion around the canal; however, we suspect our defenses will fail if they continue their attack at the same rate,” the war chief continues. “The dwarves seem to have pulled back, but it may be a feint. The sirens have joined as well, but they only seem to act opportunistically, claiming no man’s land as their own territory. They haven’t been a problem as yet, but we are keeping them under observation. What shall we do, Sire? Do we send some of our forces in Eyston to support our soldiers in Murbyn Bridge?”

I look down at the map. Of course they would suggest that.

I am so very disappointed in my war council. Somehow, they have become cowards in my presence.

I jab a finger onto the map, onto Cesscaim Island.

“I do not want one single soldier taken from Eyston Keep,” I growl. “Not one. We send all remaining forces to Cesscaim Island.”

There’s a murmuring of confusion among the idiots I unfortunately call my council.

“Why, Sire?” one asks.

“Because the sirens are an enemy unlike any other,” I explain. “With their aerial abilities, they can avoid many of our more powerful magical attacks, and they will likely take the opportunity to attack us whilst we tackle our other enemies. We attack Cesscaim Island—they will return to protect their home.”

Again, there is more worried murmuring by the council.

“An… unprompted attack on Cesscaim Island?” one says loudly—unlikely to me.

“It is not unprompted,” I answer. “They have joined the fray by claiming territory in Murbyn Bridge.”

I look up at them, challenging them with my gaze. They squirm, and one by one, each one of them hangs their head.

“Send all remaining forces to Cesscaim Island,” I answer. “In the meantime, let us charge a magical assault on the Northern Naga-occupied territories to the North of Murbyn Bridge from here.”

“What about our force at the border, Sire?” an advisor asks.

“Send a messenger to tell them to leave—but the message can only arrive a few hours before our magical attack,” I answer. “We cannot tip off our enemy that we are planning something.”

“A few hours, Sire?” another person asks. “Is that enough time for all our soldiers to retreat to a safe distance from an aerial magical assault?”

It is a pointed question—that is to say, they know it isn’t enough time for all our soldiers to retreat to a safe distance.

“I don’t appreciate your tone,” I growl warningly. “They are soldiers. They are prepared to die.”

Again, cowardly, bird-like gazes passed between each other.

“Is that understood?” I snarl.

They all stand to attention.

“Yes, Sire.”

“Good. Make it happen. You’re all dismissed,” I grunt. “I have more important matters to attend to.”

They all bow their heads and begin the slow process of adjourning the meeting, gathering up the paraphernalia. I’m looking for Gargamint among the faces—I need to talk to him about the prophecy desperately.

Some whispering catches my attention:

“A magical attack on the Northern areas with only a few hours' notice to our soldiers?” one war counselor hisses to another. “It’s insane! The entire squadron posted there will be killed instantly!”

“Do not let King Vicmar hear you say his plan is insane,” the one he was talking to answers back. “He’ll have you executed.”

I would. He’s fortunate I have far more important matters to attend to. If I hadn’t just spotted Gargamint, then I would have ordered a whipping for the wretch.

I approach my war chieftain as he moves with purpose toward me.

“Gargamint,” I ask him in a low tone. “Any news on the latest raid?”

“Yes,” he answers in an equally quiet voice. “In fact, you may want to accompany me, Sire, when you have the time.”

“I have the time now,” I say. “Take me there.”

He bows his head and leads me out of the war room.

As we travel down the grand hallway, he briefs me quietly: “There is one woman we have picked up you may be particularly interested in, Sire. A human woman with magical powers.”

A chill runs through my blood for a moment before it heats into a torrid rage.

“Are you sure she’s human?” I snarl softly. “You have ensured she’s not a witch or hiding her race?”

“We have checked and checked again,” Gargamint replies. “She is definitely human.”

That definitely fits with the prophecy…

“Moreover,” my war chieftain adds, “her power was lightning.”

My feet stop moving. I glare at Gargamint as he walks a few steps before he stops and looks around.

“Lightning?!” I spit. “Are you quite sure?!”

“I was there myself,” he replies. “There was no mistaking it. We are lucky she is unpracticed, or I wouldn’t have been able to deflect it. She could have taken out our entire team had she even had a small amount of experience. Fortunately, she is so inexperienced that after using her powers, she fell unconscious, so we didn’t need to fight too hard to capture her.”

My fists clench. My mind is buzzing in a numbing fury—I’m so enraged that I can’t even think for a few moments. I cannot believe it.

Prophecies, the damn things, have a tendency to be laden with metaphors and innuendos. Flowery language and riddling talk. But a human… wielding lighting…

It is as clear as prophecies come. This is the human woman who will steal the throne from me…

“Sire,” Gargamint says. “Is she the one? ”

“I believe so,” I growl.

“Shall we kill her?” he asks.

Every fiber of my being wants to say yes, but I pause long enough to consider it.

“Not yet,” I reply. “I must read through the prophecy again to ensure nothing will befall the kingdom if we kill her. Her being alive could be the key.”

“Understood,” My war chieftain grunts.

“But,” I continue, “we must send someone to consult the witch. We need her to perform some rituals on this woman and ensure she is who we think she is. Perhaps the witch can offer us some clarity on the prophecy or read us a new one.”

“Yes, Sire,” Gargamint says. “I’ll send someone to fetch the witch at once.”

I nod.

“But I do want to meet her myself,” I growl, my tone darkening as I speak. “I want to see the wretch who’s supposedly fated to steal my kingdom from me with my own eyes.”

***

Seldom do I ever grace the dungeons with my presence. There are hardly any prisoners here most days—after all, if there are a lot of executions, there is usually a lot of space in the dungeons. Most of it remains the same. The stones are still dull grey, so dark that they appear to draw light in rather than give it out, and the echoing ring of dripping coming from somewhere indiscernible.

What is new is the screaming. There is a lot more present here than typical—a raid always leaves the dungeons laden with women. As I walk in, I scan my eyes through the barred cells, looking at the prisoners. They are as frightened animals, curled up, eyes wide, whimpering like dogs. Some hide their faces. Others sit or kneel, frozen like rabbits in the face of the dog. Many are weeping, and others are muttering.

They are right to be frightened. Most of them will not survive the ritual. All but the one who fulfills the prophecy won’t.

But it’s what’s needed. There’s nothing else for it.

That’s when a scream attracts my attention. It’s a screech, not of terror, but of rage:

“Unhand me! I have done nothing wrong—you cannot keep me here!”

A strange shiver runs through me at the sound of her voice.

Hm. Impressive. Not many are willing to raise their voice in such a way when they have been captured and taken to Eyston Keep. Most of these women are too scared to even utter a single word, and this woman is screaming profanities.

I hear the prison warden clap back: “Stop fighting, you ill-mannered girl!”

I approach the scene at hand, and I see her—long, flowing brown hair, thrown over her shoulders as she wrenches back and forth against the guard; gleaming green eyes, shining with rage as she fights against her bonds. A simple peasant’s dress, puffed and thick with endless wool, as is typical of humans living near the ice wall. When her leg reaches up, I see typical woolly boots before she plummets a kick into the leg of the warden.

She is fighting tooth and nail, yet no lightning is being thrown. I suppose she is supposed to be unpracticed with her powers, but still… Is this truly the woman set to steal my kingdom from under me?

I walk closer, and the prison warden flinches when I walk in.

“I-I— Sire!” h e yelps.

I ignore the warden and approach the woman in his hands. She’s got her arms bent backward by the warden, bent down at the waist as he tries to heave her into a nearby open cell. I have to lean down to meet her eyes. Her eyes are fierce. Like emeralds whittled to a knife-sharp edge.

So… you’re the woman set to steal my kingdom from me, are you?

She’s more… slight than I would have imagined from the tales.

I reach forward and grab her by the jaw, forcing her head back and forth, surveying her face. Yes… very slight. Almost waif-like.

The woman snarls like a beast in my hand, and as I twist her face again, she spits at me. I feel the thick glob hit my face, warm and thick.

“Sire!”

The warden swings at the back of her head. She snarls in pain as he does. For a moment, I’m frozen in the sheer audacity of her. Then, I start laughing and look up at the door.

“Lock this one up more securely than the others,” I order. “The witch will be here to see her first.”

“Yes, Sire,” he says.

I begin walking away. As I do, I snarl to myself: Fine. Enjoy your little rebellion, as small as it is. We shall see who wins in the end.