Page 82 of Under the Lion Star

“I think I’ll hold off until someone stops trying to murder my husband,” I deadpanned.

Although, I had to admit that the idea of having a child with Leor wasn’t unappealing. The image in my mind of him holding a little one we called our own stirred something I preferred not to dwell on. He would make a terrific father, but our marriage had started as a way to make his life easier, not complicate it further.

Over the months since we’d been wed, I had grown quite fond of the elf king. Family was important to him, a quality that we shared. I couldn’t help but develop feelings for a man who understood that families don’t always resemble the traditional picture that society expected—a group of people who shared blood. Sometimes, family was who you chose, and that didn’t make it any less special.

Unfortunately, he was a complex man to read. The few times I felt he might hold affection for me outside of friendship, I quickly wrote it off. Since we’d started being physically involved, it was growing more difficult to determine his feelings. The things he said, the way he touched me, if I were younger and naive, I’d have assumed it was born of love. He himself had said he didn’t have the capacity to be a doting husband, yet his actions had shown the opposite.

Aunt Stella and I joined the others in the yard. My aunt cooed over their sketches, earning smiles from all three artists. Orin had drawn his interpretation of Marcy’s future Elldaran husband. Which was really just a typical elf of Fjorn but with fangs, long fingernails, and blood around his mouth. Marcy loved it.

“What’s this?” I questioned Liras.

“It’s a weapon humans use,” he pointed to the various components of his artwork. “Like a bow and arrow, but the arrow is shorter. Thicker. The device seems to be spring-loaded. You should see how far they can drive one of these into a–”

He cut himself off, his eyes darting to Marcy. “A tree.”

“Right,” my aunt huffed a laugh.

“It’s a crossbow!” My cousin shouted excitedly.

“How in the Gods names do you know that?” Aunt Stella asked.

“Dad told me about them,” she beamed proudly.

I frowned. Marcy had been only three when her father was killed in battle. It seemed unlikely she would remember such an obscure detail from one of the few breaks he had to visit home.

“A crossbow,” Liras stroked his chin. “I’ve been trying to explain it to smiths in Galvord for months, but no one seems to know how to make one.”

“He’s obsessed with human weaponry,” I said quietly to my aunt.

“My dad was a soldier,” Marcy smiled at Orin, tugging his cloak.

“That explains why you’re so brave,” he ruffled her hair. “If your dad was half as tough as you, it’s no wonder the war is over.”

Marcy’s smile was blinding as she looked up at the prince. Aunt Stella’s eyes misted over; her mouth pressed tightly. She and her husband had truly loved one another, and I hated that she didn’t get her own reunion like those I had witnessed with other families.

It furthered my resolve to ensure that nothing would interfere with the peace we had been slowly cultivating with Krannar. I refused to allow another young child to grow up without their father. While Aunt Stella had done an incredible job raising Marcy on her own, she shouldn’t have had to.

The three of us said our goodbyes before making our way back toward Galvord. All I wanted to do was run and tell Leor how adorable Orin and Liras were with my young cousin, but there was work to be done.

The threat looming over Leor and his life was a burden that weighed on him more than he let on. I would take that weight from his shoulders and burn it to ash. Then, perhaps, we would be free to explore our growing feelings for one another.

I squared my shoulders, my mind replaying all the words Leor had said to me. I was capable. I was powerful. And I was going to hunt down the person trying to tear my life apart and make them regret fucking with my new family.

Barlow’s was located in a seedier part of Galvord. As the sun set, the rays reflected off the dusty glass window front of the small apothecary shop. Refuse littered the alleyway to its side, but I knew what hid in the shadows.

I smirked, pulled up the skirt of my dress so as not to gather any dirt, and made my way inside.

The few remnants of daylight cut across the red oak countertop while the bell of the door announced my arrival. Dust motes danced through the blades of light, floating around the shelves lined with vials of all shapes and sizes. Hand-written labels and prices denoted each, but none seemed to be insidious in nature.

A man appeared behind the counter, his face drawn and weathered, but his eyes widened as recognition dawned.

“My queen,” he bowed deeply. “What an honor it is to welcome you to my shop.”

“Barlow, I presume?”

“Yes, your grace,” he nodded. “I’ve been making potions nigh seventy years in Galvord. In fact, some of my wares come from your aunt. I was delighted to hear that someone related to Stella was to rule over Fjorn.”

“She recommended that I seek you out.”

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