Page 22

LYSANDER

T he night before the Greening is a rush of excitement, preparations, and on my part, an attack of nerves.

Since King Thurgraen provides a space for the festival he’s technically a more appropriate sponsor than me, but Syril still has me come along to every meeting and I’ve never felt more out of place.

Thurgraen is a huge, venerable dragon, his claws cracked, his horns dulled by time, and the color long since leached from his muzzle, leaving behind a dusty maroon.

With the crown practically welded to his head, he looks every inch a royal.

In comparison, I feel young and flighty. When his gilded eyes sweep me from head to toe, I get the distinct feeling he doesn’t think much of me.

“Your hospitality to the stoneskins is duly noted, Syril,” Thurgraen says when the last of the logistics have been thoroughly dealt with. “It mustn’t be easy, with you being a wildling.”

“Half,” Syril corrects, brow arching elegantly. “On the contrary, Your Highness, it’s as simple as opening the doors. But if you truly feel that way, a discount on the lodge wouldn’t go amiss.”

Thurgraen chuckles as if they’ve told a clever joke.

When we leave the office, Thurgraen gestures me through the door first with a faint bow.

I return the bow — deeper, of course — and flee, glad to have these infernal meetings over with.

Every single one is like that, with both of them prodding each other as if trying to find a chink in the other’s armor with a fencing foil.

Hurrying down the hall, I run right into Ezra.

“Lys!” He steadies me. “What’s up?”

I shoot a look over my shoulder, but Thurgraen and Syril must have gone the opposite way — probably off to share a pipe on the back patio.

“Politics.” I shake my head.

“Sounds grim,” he says. Then he brightens. “Orion and Plato told me about the special ceremony you’ve got going on at the festival.”

I wince. What exactly did Orion tell him?

The Oath is an old tradition, and one that’s deeply… us . Monster. Non-human. And it’s not just a tradition, but one of the core tenets of our whole world. If these discussions with Syril and King Thurgraen have taught me anything, it’s that I could never step into the role of king.

I don’t regret letting Syril talk me into taking the Oath, because there hasn’t been one since my father died, and all wildlings have felt the consequences.

Unlike waterspirits or shadowfey, we rely on our Oath to keep our population strong.

Now that I’m fertile, I can hardly deny the wildlings of Greenriver — or anyone else willing to travel — the chance to help their dwindling numbers.

But I can’t imagine what Ezra thinks of it all.

“It’s not a big deal,” I begin, but he shifts closer, bracing an arm on the wall over my head so I’m boxed in.

“It sounds like kind of a big deal, sweets. Is that what’s got you all tied up in knots?”

“Maybe a bit.” I worry my lower lip.

Ezra tugs it free, smoothing the skin with his thumb. My lip tingles. “I noticed. You’re distracted.” His thumb drifts down my jaw and I have to force myself to pay attention.

“I’m nervous about it,” I admit, the confession falling out of me.

“You’ll do amazing.” His lips quirk with an easy smile. “I might not be one of you, but I can see how much everyone cares about you — and admires you.”

“I don’t know about that,” I mumble. Admires me? Impossible.

“Do you want me to pledge?” His voice comes out soft.

I freeze. My whole body goes hot, then cold. Ezra, pledging to me? Promising his loyalty? Desire seizes me with startling strength. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Ezra grabs my hands. “Hey, breathe. You can tell me no. It was just something Plato said.”

“Yes,” I blurt. “Yes, I want that.”

Ezra’s eyes crinkle. “Okay then. I’ll be there.”

He leans in, and my desire turns to want , choking me til I’m breathless. His broad chest presses me into the wall and his lips find mine.

Oh yeah. Kissing. Why don’t we do this every day?

Every moment of every day, even. His mouth is firm but gentle, stirring my body.

His big, warm hand cups my jaw and I feel safe.

His eyes are shut and his dark eyelashes flutter so close to my face it makes my pulse pound.

The pressure is gone as quickly as it came.

“See you later, Lysander.” His mouth quirks.

I stare after him, heart hammering.

I fiddle with the collar of my robe, feeling ridiculous.

The outer robe covers me all the way from my neck to the ground, with slits for my wings to poke out.

It’s an impeccable summer-sky blue — it doesn’t escape me that it’s the same blue my skin turns when I’m embarrassed.

Or aroused. The metaphor is painfully transparent.

Under the robe are a pair of thin pants that cling to my legs. The velvet is so soft that the feel of it under my palm gives me goosebumps.

“It’s not too much?” I ask Syril, stepping out of the room.

They shake their head. “You look lovely, darling.”

Syril wears an elegant, floor-length black silk gown with a neckline that plunges to a crisp point over their perfectly smooth chest. White silk flowers burst in sprays from the center of the dress and wind around their ribs, and gold filigree ripples down the tight black sleeves.

They look every inch a shadowfey, but the crown of blossoms rising above their dark hair is unmistakably wildling.

“Come.” They hold up an arm wreathed in protective shadow and I let my fingers rest on it carefully. The touch of their shadow is distant, like being caressed by water.

Even protected they can’t hold contact for long, so in the hallway we separate. At the end of the hall we turn right onto a balcony that overlooks the main hall of the chalet. A roar of voices rises up to meet me.

Gathered below are more monsters than I’ve seen in my lifetime combined.

Suddenly I’m sick with nerves. It feels like every monster in the city and then some have gathered for the Greening.

Though I’m covered from the neck down in a shapeless garment, when hundreds of eyes turn upward, I feel more exposed than I ever was in a sheer bodysuit on-stage at The Sanctum.

Maybe I can’t do this after all.

“This way,” Syril murmurs, sparing no time for my crisis.

Trapped, I follow. Then, as we cross the floor, monsters parting to keep their distance from my toxic skin, I see fauns, harpies…

even a scattering of naga, all watching us pass with wide eyes.

The King’s Oath isn’t about me — it’s about my people, who’ve been without a king for so many years.

Whose families have suffered because of the azeroths, just like mine has.

I clench my fists into the fine satin robe and lift my head, my blood calming.

Syril leads me to the far end of the hall, where a curtain hides another, smaller room. As soon as we pass through the first set of curtain silence descends, and I shamefully sigh in relief.

“You thought I would make you sit in the main hall.” Syril is amused.

“Well —” I wince, but they wave it off.

“Breathe easy. I know how wildlings are — I’m practically one myself.” Their eyes gleam.

Syril leads me through the second curtain to the inner room.

The gently lit space is decorated like the main hall, with greenery everywhere and lamps strung across the ceiling.

Booths and couches are clustered to create the illusion of intimate spaces.

But my eyes fall to the dais directly across from the entrance, where a seat waits for me.

Woven of what seems to be living oak branches, it looks like a throne more than a chair.

Flowering vines snake through the branches.

I step up the dais and stop before it, breathing their sweet perfume and willing myself to calm.

Did my father ever feel the same worry when he stepped up to the throne to take the Oath?

I have no memories of him. I know only what my mother told me, which was little.

He was a warrior, a fairy of good humor and quick wit, an even-handed ruler.

I always imagined we would have been too different to understand each other, because I was frivolous, I hated fighting, and my tongue was always slow.

I never felt close to him when she talked about him — her pain eclipsed all other emotions in its presence.

Strangely, I feel close to him now.

Breathing through my apprehension, I sit in the chair, and the branches shift to accommodate me. No one appears out of nowhere to tell me I’m not worthy.

Syril leans over the edge of the dais. “Many wildlings who’ve come today haven’t experienced the Oath within their lifetime. You may even get a few curious monsters from other kingdoms wanting to pledge to a fairy. Just remember, you don’t need to do anything you’re not comfortable with.”

What does that mean? But Syril is already gone, disappearing behind the curtain. I grip the arms of the oak chair and take a deep breath.

It’ll be fine.

The first to come through the curtain are two fauns dressed in tulle party gowns, one lavender and one dragonfly-green.

One faun is spotted all across her shoulders with tidy, short fur and stubby horns, and the other’s creamy, fluffy tufts spill out of her collar.

The spotted one bows first, her dress flaring out.

“Your Highness. We are Calliope and Swift from the Orchid family. We’ve come to pledge to you. We’re grateful to have a fairy take the Oath, and I asked the wind to bring your influence across the river and help our dens flourish.”

My face heats at her earnestness. The second faun, the one with cream-colored fur, curtsies and takes something out of her dress — a green bottle.

“Would you grant us your Oath?”

I gulp. The words Syril drilled into me yesterday dry up on my tongue. What if it doesn’t work for some reason? What if I’m not fertile enough ?