Page 6 of Brutal Fae King (Dark Faevea King #1)

“Sire,” a war counselor says. “The attack has landed against the Naga-occupied territories in Northern Murbyn Bridge.”

“And the result?” I ask

“It worked as expected; the Naga forces have been wiped out. There are, of course, stragglers and survivors, but they have fallen back,” the war chieftain says. “Effectively, there are no longer any Naga in Murbyn Bridge.”

I suck in a deep breath.

Now, the important question.

“And our forces?”

“It… also worked as anticipated, in the sense that it has destroyed many of our forces too,” he says. “The Naga suspected nothing because our soldiers didn’t move, and so they were entirely unsuspecting for our magical assault.”

“Stop obfuscating,” I bark. “How many did we lose?”

“Half the squadron, Sire,” he replies. “About fifteen men.”

I close my eyes as the war council murmurs worriedly. I take a deep breath and exhale slowly.

“A shame,” I note. “But we couldn’t allow the Naga to cultivate their forces there. If they had taken over a significant number of territories in Murbyn Bridge, they would have been able to cut off all supplies—or worse, used their venom to poison our supplies. They could have massacred the entire population of Eyston, and especially us here in Eyston Keep, without ever having to slither an inch into the walls of our city.”

I stand from the war table and begin pacing back and forth. They murmur again.

“And what of the island?” I ask. “What is our soldier’s progress there?”

“They’re still traveling, Sire,” a different war counselor answers. “They shall be there in approximately two days, should nothing happen to offset our plans.”

“Excellent,” I answer. “How is the remainder of the battlefield? Any change there?”

“No, Sire. The dwarves continue to fall back, and the sirens continue to circle—they don’t seem aware of our forces heading to their island yet,” one counselor says.

“Very well,” I say. “If that is all, then you are all dismissed.”

Many of the war counselors breathe a sigh of relief and stand from their chairs. Amongst the scuffling, Gargamint glares at me across the room. I just know this is bad from the intensity burning in his eyes. As the other war counselors leave, I wait by the door until all of them have filed out. Once the last one has left, I close the door behind them and turn to him.

“What is it?!” I demand.

“There was a development on the battlefield,” he says in a low, burning tone. “My elite team spotted some signs of non-elemental magic.”

Cold drips down my spine like a slow droplet of ice sliding down my skin. For a moment, my clenched teeth won’t let words slip through.

“Are you sure?” I ask.

“No mistaking it. There were craters all throughout the battlefield,” Gargamint says, then lowers his voice even more and asks. “Sire… is it him? ”

I turn away from my war chieftain—just needing to break his gaze for a moment.

“It… very well may be,” I say quietly. “What was he doing?”

“Not sure,” he answers. “He kept himself out of sight; no one else reported any sight of him, but there is no mistaking those craters.”

I grunt loudly before turning back to Gargamint: “I refuse to believe for a single, solitary moment that in the same timeframe, we find the woman of prophecy, he comes back—and it’s all a massive coincidence!”

My war chieftain bows his head.

“We need to ensure that he doesn’t get near her,” I snarl. “That has become paramount. Forget the Naga, forget the sirens, forget everything—we must keep him away from her. The moment he claims her, Faevea falls. Every scrap of our resources must be put into keeping her away from him!”

“Understood, Sire,” Gargamint replies. “We can take more guards and post them around her. She will be guarded around the clock.”

I grunt a little. I pace back and forth again.

“You don’t seem reassured at all, Sire,” Gargamint comments.

“I still worry,” I confess. “It may not be enough to keep him away. There is little that stone walls, iron bars, and armed guards can do against a teleporter…”

“What do we do then, Sire?” he asks.

“I don’t know. That’s the issue. We need to find a way to magically ward the keep,” I say. “But warding against a teleporter is no easy feat… and we have no mages up to the task.”

Gargamint knows better than to interrupt my thoughts. I pace back and forth.

The only person who could possibly try to ward him off would be me… but that is the problem—I’m not able to keep that kind of magic when I’m needed here, in charge of Faevea…

For the sake of Faevea, I need to keep the potential usurper away from him.

She’s mine, a voice in my head suddenly snaps, he doesn’t get to touch my things!

The thought is sharp and passes in a moment. I suddenly know what I am to do.

I turn to Gargamint and bark my order:

“Fetch the guards who can summon the witch! I need to talk to her at once about a certain rite.”

“You have figured out a solution, Sire?” Gargamint asks.

“I believe I have,” I answer. “But double the assigned guards around her and have the ones who can summon the witch come to me. You’re dismissed, Gargamint.”

He bows his head again. He spins on his heel and leaves as quickly as possible; he knows my tone, and he knows he needs to leave, now.

As soon as Gargamint closes the door behind him, I heave a huge breath. It feels as though that one breath drains almost every ounce of strength out of me.

It's always one thing after another…

I walk to the window in the war room and look out into the royal city of Eyston. As I look over it, I despair. When my parents ruled on the throne, this city was one of the grandest in the realm. It was once prosperous—but more importantly, it was once a happy place.

A happy place, with a happy king and queen ‘pon the throne.

Those days are gone. Faevea is now a miserable, cynical place, and such is a terrible cycle to attempt to break. In fact, I am wondering if it’s impossible. Once a war starts, who stops it? If we were to very suddenly stop sending soldiers, we would not be ushering in an era of peace; we’d be leaving ourselves open to attack.

Violence begets violence. It’s the way of the world. What is a king to do when we are in the throes of violence? Beget more, I suppose.

As I look over the horrid place that my home has become, I just have to wonder what the kings and queens of the past would think. Would my parents regret having passed the throne over to me? Would they understand the situation, or would they be ashamed of what a bloodthirsty reputation I have built for myself?

A sinking feeling in my stomach says they would consider it spitting on their legacy. They were proud of their peace, my parents, and they shared their successes and their philosophies with me when I was very young. They would despise me for the utterly heinous acts I’ve done…

But… there is no peace to be had in the midst of war. I don’t have the luxury of peace.

Even if it shreds what’s left of my reputation in the eyes of the people…

I sigh, but after that, I sweep my hair out of my face and steel over my expression.

That’s enough weakness. I have a witch to speak to.