Page 48 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)

Wedding March

SETH

I s it morning? Night? I wouldn’t know. Time doesn’t pass in this cell, but curdles. Folds in on itself until all that’s left is pain. I think I slept, but maybe I just fainted.

A bruise pulses along my ribs, while another throbs behind my eyes. The dull scream of muscles and tendons contracting into themselves sears my brain. I’m nothing more than cooked meat in a gilded cage. Every joint aches.

Only my face has been spared.

Because that’s the part Alaric wants intact when he parades me around as Devi’s kindred. Marries my girl. Claims his realm.

My mind mirrors the state of my prison.

Quiet.

Dark.

Hollow.

Until the flutter of wings breaks through the stillness.

Percy’s voice trembles. “Oh, pretty boy…”

I try to stand up, but it’s no use, so I push to my elbows instead. Sweat gathers on my forehead, my limbs shaking. Weakness seeps into every bone in my body. I’ll be surprised if I can make it to the wedding.

“Is Devi alright?” The question tears out of me.

Percy doesn’t answer, and the grayness of his skin gives me pause. She’s not alright—not at all.

“Don’t come too close,” I rasp as he flies closer to the bars. “What if you get trapped in here?”

“I’ll risk it,” he says, slipping between the metal rods.

His wings—gods—his wings are shredded at the edges.

“What happened to you?”

“I had to squeeze out of a cage.”

Bile burns my throat. “Alaric got to you too, didn’t he?”

He nods.

A black hole forms in my chest. I can’t protect anyone. I’m useless. And soon I’ll be forced to stand witness for the one thing I can’t stomach.

“Why didn’t she fight?” I whisper. “Magic or no magic, we could’ve fought.”

“She’s lost hope.” Percy lands near my face. “You can imagine what that feels like. Always trying, always ramming your head against the same invisible wall.”

Gods help me—I get it.

“Why bother, eh? I’m never enough. No matter how hard I fight, no one thinks I’m worth their trust. Or their time. And especially not their love.”

The words fall out of me, bitter and cold. I didn’t mean to say them aloud, but Percy doesn’t flinch.

“You fight the Alarics and the Ethans of the world because you don’t want to become like them,” he says softly. “Empty souls, content only when they’re stealing from others.” He presses both hands to the singed cut splitting my chest in two and heals it, one inch at a time.

“Cruel kings always end up on top,” I choke.

“Then it’s up to you to take away their power—and make them small.”

“What if I can’t?”

“You must.” He moves to heal my arms next. “I’ll make it so they don’t immediately realize what I’ve done.”

I watch him survey my wounds. He heals the deep bruises and lacerations, but leaves the superficial abrasions—and their layers of blood and grime—intact.

“You used to hate me. What changed?”

Percy sucks his bottom lip inside his mouth, remaining silent for a while before he finally says, “Devi’s heart is a dark place most of the time.

Full of regret. A lust for revenge. A desire for self-destruction.

It’s been brighter since you came around.

She thinks your mother destroyed her ability to love.

She refuses to see what I see: that a broken heart loves just as fiercely, if not more.

Scars only make us wiser in choosing whom we love. ”

I roll to a sitting position, my ribcage no longer burning, each new breath coming in easier. “You heard her: she’s marrying Alaric, not me.”

“It’s the lyranthium fucking with both of your heads. Devi needs you to fight for her now, when she’s done everything in her power to push you away. The dress?—”

The main door of the prison block whines on its hinges, and my eyes widen. “Hide. Quick.”

Percy takes refuge behind the chamber pot, and I turn to the entrance.

It’s not Alaric, but Brel. She’s hauling a bushel of clothes in her hands, two of her subordinates following behind her. “We brought you an evening jacket and some decent pants. For the wedding,” she explains.

I bark out a laugh. “You’re too kind.”

I pretend to need help getting to my feet, Brel and her helpers buzzing around me until I’m dressed. I let them work, wincing and groaning at the appropriate times, hiding the fact that I’m well enough to do this on my own. The pain’s still there, but it’s bearable now.

Percy’s a magician. He healed everything but the outer shell. As long as Alaric thinks I’m a walking bruise, I hold the advantage.

Percy’s right about the dress. How did I miss it? I’ve been blinded by my own fears.

Even though I’ve built up a tolerance to lyranthium during my years here, the walls of the cell are affecting me gravely. If Devi’s dress was forged from pure lyranthium—refined, not alloyed—that would explain the symptoms. Even a small amount, worn so close to the skin, could’ve overwhelmed her.

Wind cuts across the open wall of the arena, carrying the scent of salt, brine, and anticipation. The constant roar of the sea below matches the pounding in my skull.

The seats are already filled. The High Fae from Lightning Point sit out front in private booths, acting stern and serious in the face of a wedding they didn’t expect. Behind them, the common folk of Deiltine flood the bleachers. Mainly the men working on the Aeolians and in the factories.

They came for a show.

For the disturbing spectacle of a traditional Storm wedding.

To witness the moment the woman I’ve fallen for is claimed by another man.

I search the arena, but Devi isn’t here. Before I forfeit my life for a woman who might never love me back, I need to see her.

Brel ushers me forward, toward the edge of the arena where the stone underfoot is slick with rain, and orders me to wait there. She flies ahead to meet her king near the altar.

The Rayne’s green and black sigils snap in the storm.

The ground is marked with three concentric semicircles with the altar at their center. The innermost ring is meant for the bride and groom. The second is for the kindreds. The third encompasses the spectators.

I wish it would all crumble to ash.

Nathaniel joins me along the rim of the second circle, his top lip curled in a snarl. “Is Devi Eros meant to strike Tatiana with a love arrow in front of everyone? Tell me!” he whispers in a rush. “Could that work? Can Devi really make her love him?”

The youngest Rayne is dressed in a tailored black evening coat and crisp white undershirt. His eyes are cloudy—almost enough to mask their mismatched colors.

“You’re missing the point of this wedding. Devi is the bride,” I say quickly.

His jaw hangs open, his gaze searching the bleachers, focussing on a booth at the front, where a thick man is standing alone, flanked by guards. “No. I saw Tatiana head off with Brel earlier…”

“Devi is the bride.”

“How can you be sure? Is she that hungry for power?”

My teeth grit together. “He’s forcing her, you idiot. Just as he planned to do with your Tatiana.”

Nathan huffs. “Like Devi Eros couldn’t overpower a newly-minted king? Alaric’s no match for her.”

“Alaric wanted us here as his kindreds to salt the wound. Me because he gets my girl. And you, your dream of becoming king. If he was marrying your friend, I wouldn’t be here.”

His face slowly falls. “Fuck. If you’re right, then where is Tatiana?”

Deep, guttural notes grate through the air, ancient and dissonant, before the organ’s music swells. The mournful melody sharpens into a primordial dirge, announcing the start of the ceremony, and Devi steps into the arena.

My pulse stumbles and spikes. Rushing. Swirling. Screaming .

She wears a simple white dress with no corset or embellishments, but the simplicity of the silk gown only makes her look more ethereal. She walks with purpose to the inner circle, eyes glued to the ground.

Gasps erupt from the crowd.

The outcropping of the altar is the only part of the arena that’s directly exposed to the elements, and she crosses into it at Brel’s silent command, following the swirled pattern etched into the floor with her back to the spectators.

She stops just before the slab of lyranthium where she’s meant to kneel.

Rain hits her in waves, soaking her wedding dress until it clings to her body.

The fabric molds to her deep brown skin, revealing the swell of her breasts, the line of her thighs, and the shape of her ass.

Her braids are woven into one thick side braid that hangs heavy with water, strands of red hair plastered to her cheeks and collarbone.

She doesn’t flinch, but stares at the stone slab in front of her, arms limp at her sides.

Percy pinches my neck, voice thick with urgency. “You’ve got to stop this.”

“Patience, little man.”

Gods help me, I need her to look at me. Just once.

Alaric steps into the circle, standing dry beneath his magic shield. “Under the watchful eyes of the gods, I claim this woman as my one and only wife,” he declares, licking his lips in triumph. He unbuckles his belt, and for a moment, the only sound is the pitter-patter of rain on stone.

The spectators hold their breaths, waiting for Devi to kneel. A sharp pain at the center of my breastbone chokes me.

“The bride must kneel for her husband,” Brel whispers, just loud enough for Nathaniel and I to hear.

It’s a reminder that’s rarely needed, and the sprite’s worried gaze flies from the bride to her groom.

Devi’s top lip curls in disgust as she contemplates the slab, and she digs her heels into the ground. Brel flies closer, motioning softly, unsure whether to coax her or beg.

Alright, that’ll do.

“Wait! I challenge your claim to this woman!” I roar over the wind.

Gray clouds gather overhead. A heavy shift in pressure rolls through the arena, the air thick and unstable.

Too many Storm Fae are packed into one place, heating the atmosphere with their presence.

It’s volatile, electric, ready to break.

There are a few boos, some fists raised—but mostly, silence. Trepidation.