Page 14 of Fey Empire

The trumpets blare again, and I nearly flinch.

Behind me, the crowd erupts into motion. They fall out of formation and start mingling and talking. Harp music begins to play. Servants hurry out with trays of drinks.

The ceremony is over. Now there is simply want amounts to another cocktail party to endure.

Selwyn lets go of my hand. He walks away without a glance or a word. He takes a drink from the tray of a passing server and joins a small group of fey, who greet him warmly.

I look away and find Prince Rhydian frowning down at me. Oh hells! I make a quick curtsy and hurry away.

This far corner looks quiet enough. A servant drifts over with a tray of champagne, I take one and offer a weak smile. She weaves back into the crowd and disappears from sight.

I’m all alone.

I can’t see Mother or any of her lackeys, but I know she is here somewhere. Oh well, I’m pretty sure she can find me if she needs anything.

I guess I will just stand here with my drink.

I take a small sip, and risk peeking out. Nobody is paying me the slightest bit of attention. It is safe to observe the party.

My gaze finds Prince Llywelyn. He looks fully recovered, thank the goddess. His short golden hair is gleaming, and he seems to be healthily exchanging tense words with a striking male fey with blue hair.

Suddenly, the blue-haired fey turns on his heels and strides away. I inhale sharply. I’m sure that in fey culture, turning your back on someone is extremely rude? Especially if they are of a higher status.

Prince Llywelyn certainly looks furious.

He runs forward. Everything is a blur of motion. Suddenly, the blue-haired fey is on the floor, sprawled on his front. Prince Llywelyn is sitting on top of him, dagger in his hand.

He brings the dagger down, pulls it out and brings it down again. Blue liquid is flying everywhere. The violence is potent. Red and fierce and clogging up the air and weighing down the gravity.

Oh. Is the blue viscous liquid, blood? Llywelyn bled gold, so it seems quite likely.

I step backwards.

Straight into a very firm, very male chest. Selwyn’s vivid magic coils around me, like a nest of vines.

I walked right into him! I try to move, to spin around and apologise profusely, but his arm wraps around my waist. Holding me in place. Almost as if he is protecting me from the violence exploding in front of us.

I gulp and watch the drama unfolding.

Prince Llywelyn is still stabbing the blue-haired fey. The rest of the room has fallen silent. Everyone is watching.

The handsome man, who cradled Prince Llywelyn when he was dying, steps forward. He takes hold of his prince’s slender waist and bodily lifts him up and away from his victim.

“Enough!” he says sternly as he sets the prince on his feet.

“Why?” hisses Llywelyn vehemently.

“Because you are still recovering from a chest wound!”

Llywelyn startles. Then he chuckles. He wipes his arm across his brow and smears blue everywhere. He sways.

His handsome man sweeps him up into a bridal carry. Llywelyn rests his head on the handsome man's shoulder with a sigh. His man carries him out of the room. Nobody tries to stop them.

Oh my. That was the most romantic thing I have ever seen. How lovely. How lucky are they? Love is a rare blessing. Few are bestowed it.

Selwyn’s arm tightens around my waist, pulling me a little closer. Butterflies take flight in my stomach. There was danger, and he came straight to protect me.

The goddess has not chosen to bless me with love.