Page 65 of The Realm That Falls to Her

“Okay,” I say, digesting this. “So my magic must have helped, right? You said it means I’ll heal faster?”

“Yes, but…all fae have magic. That is often not what saves a fae on the battlefield. It is only the strongest fae, physically, who may continue fighting with such injuries. Your body has the strength of a fae and then some.”

I remember how I’d pushed Ruskin when he grabbed me in our room, how I lobbed the ball so far in bastet. He’s right, I’ve been physically stronger—a lot stronger—for a while now, but it’s impossible to notice when it creeps up on you day by day, when you have nothing specific to compare it to.

“How can that be?” I ask. I don’t expect the healer to have the answer at all, but he starts to offer me one, his tone cautious.

“You are naminai matched, aren’t you, my Lady? Forgive me, but I’ve heard the rumors. It’s why I suspected Prince Ruskin was channeling to you, though I’ve never seen that type of bond in action before.”

“Yes, we are. What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Well, I have no evidence for it, but I wondered if, as well as magic, you may be sharing…other characteristics of Prince Ruskin’s? It would explain your appearance, and your strength?—”

“Yes, I get the idea, thank you.” I interrupt him abruptly. He looks awkward, but happily falls silent. I want to protest, and say there’s nothing odd about my appearance at all, but it would be a lie. Frankly, I’ve stopped looking in mirrors recently, not wanting to be confronted with the undeniable sharpening of my cheekbones and ears, as well as the changes to my eyes, which deepen in color every day. And now this strength. The physical capabilities of a fae. Is it all part of the same thing? It’s not bad in itself—it just saved my life—but I don’t like not understanding exactly where it comes from.

I dismiss the healer, thanking him for his help. He seems glad I’m not harsher with him for being so honest. When I sit up to swing myself out of bed, Ruskin stirs, and I find my mood immediately improves as his yellow-green eyes blink sleepily at me, then brighten as he becomes more alert.

“Ella,” he breathes, and leans forward to kiss me. It’s gentle and tender, his fingers stroking trails of warmth down my face as I sigh into him.

“It’s okay,” I say between kisses. “I won’t break.”

He draws back, his lips curving upwards into a smile, even though I can still see a spark of worry in his eyes.

“Let’s not test that theory again, shall we?” he murmurs. “Now, let’s get you out of here and into a proper bed.”

I kiss him again, enthusiastically, my hands going to his chest. “That sounds fun.”

“To sleep, you minx,” he says, helping me up from the cot.

“How dull,” I complain. “I was hoping for some entertainment. I know I’ll feel much better once you’ve taken care of me.” I tug playfully at his waistband—a quick movement so no one sees, and he rolls his eyes at me even as they darken with desire at my suggestion.

But I suppose I should be more specific when wishing for entertainment, because as we exit the healers’ wing, Destan comes towards us. He’s half striding, half-jogging, and glances over his shoulder like he’s being pursued.

“Great, I was hoping you’d be up by now,” he says and then, to my surprise, pulls me into a hug. “Well done not dying, my dear. Though it should be noted that you and arrows are not a good mix either.”

“Gentle,” Ruskin complains, making me giggle. “She’s still mending.”

“She looks all right to me,” says Destan airily. “Definitely well enough to celebrate.”

I narrow my eyes at him. “What are you talking about?”

He smiles, but there’s a slight edge of panic to it. “Don’t make me go on my own,” he says.

“Make you go wh—” Ruskin begins, but then a pair of Unseelie come stumbling down the corridor.

“Lionsvale!” shouts Jasand, “We were wondering where you’d gotten to.”

Destan’s eyes widen in a silent plea for help as Jasand claps him on the back.

“He was finding Prince Ruskin,” Wistal hollers, sounding delighted. “And Lady Thorn!”

“The holding feast is already underway, my friends. You mustn’t miss it!”

I meet Ruskin’s eye and we share an amused look. It’s clear the pair have already been celebrating plenty, but it’s difficult to see how we could say no. I shrug at Ruskin and follow Destan as he’s dragged down the corridor by the two Unseelie.

“Just don’t overdo it,” Ruskin mutters in my ear as we enter the dining room, which is heaving with Unseelie from the battle and others who want to join in the fun. “You’re still recovering, you know.”

I try to heed his advice, but it’s difficult when fae keep coming up to me and shoving drinks in my hand, telling me I fought valiantly and patting me on the back hard enough to slop ale on the floor. Since more than half the drinks that get handed to me are fae-brewed anyway, I have a good excuse to discreetly hand them off to the nearest reveler. Ruskin sits in the corner, holding his own audience with a group of older fae who seem to have known his father. At first I worry that his lack of memory would give him away, but it seems that they’re more intent on talking than listening, reminiscing about glory days Ruskin was never around for anyway.

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