Page 142 of The Forbidden Fae King

These portals were once a gateway to the cities, castles or keeps in Strathia, and connected the royal court to the entire kingdom. Their destinations are engraved into each arch. My eyes fall on the portal that leads to Appleshield Castle and the image of its partner in the unkempt region of our gardens, covered in vegetation.

Niall catches my line of sight and gives a soft laugh. “I know you have an extraordinary amount of magic, Keira,” He gives a pointed look to the simple orb that still rests in my hand. “But it would take a team of priestesses to open one of those portals now. Maybe it's not even possible anymore.”

The prince leads us into a room with a small meeting table, andimmediately sits at it, gesturing for us to do the same. It must be his personal space. There are books and scrolls strewn everywhere.

“Did you have any success with him today?” Niall asks eagerly.

I shake my head. “Apparently, my pretty little head shouldn’t worry about politics.”

“Shame,” Niall says, the tension coiling up in his shoulders. “I thought you might have more influence on Finan, to get him to pay more attention. Maybe try to be more subtle. Diarmuid, how are the card games going? We need you to be one of his favorites.”

“Wait, there was one thing he said.” I hold a hand to my temple as I think. “He said it's the job of advisers to make the petty decisions. He means running the kingdom.”

Niall writes notes and I watch him with pity. Here is a man who loves his people, who would be a good and just ruler, but is passed over because of his birth order.

He fears his brother will burn the kingdom to the ground with his apathy, and is desperately trying to take preventative measures.

Except, he has no power at all.

“Okay. Okay.” Niall rubs his eyes. “That's good to know. We can expand our little group of Finan’s guardians. Influence who ends up as his advisers when he ascends. I don’t fully trust half the men in that role at the moment. Neither does father, but he believes it is good to have our enemies close and hear their thoughts.”

“Does he not listen to you, Niall? Would you not be the best adviser for your brother?” Diarmuid asks.

“Gods no. Half the time he brushes me off as the little brother that knows nothing, and the other half, there is a viscous gleam in his eye like he sees me as a threat to his ascension.” A muscle ticks in Niall’s jaw.

The blood turns to ice in my veins. If Finan could harm his brother from jealousy or a threatened ego, then I do not know my betrothed at all.

All of this is pointless. We will never have sway here. I cannot save this realm from Finan, and neither can Niall. I am enduring this man I somehow agreed to marry for no good reason.

I cannot help Aldrin from this position.

I cannot unite our people.

I don’t even have mastery over myself.

The position of influence I thought I could work my way into will never come, that much is clear. I give Diarmuid a long look. Bitter disappointment turns my lips down and he sees exactly what I am thinking.

The pinch of his brow tells me Diarmuid has come to the same conclusion. Becoming Finan’s queen is not worth the great sacrifice to myself.

Anxiety ripples through Niall, as his gaze darts between us. “What I am about to tell you is not to leave this room. I fear my father’s health is on the decline and we may not have much time to reign in Finan. To either make him a capable king or have competent, ethical advisers around him who will rule in his stead.”

That statement is the last piece of the puzzle that makes it all so starkly clear.

Finan’s queen doesn’t really fit into that equation, in the same way that King Willard’s doesn’t. Niall sees me as a pleasant accessory to Finan, as someone who might soften him or have a small effect from whispering in his ear.

It is Diarmuid he wants.

Chapter 36

Aldrin

Irun my hand through my hair, but my fingers snag on the knots. When was the last time I even brushed it? Cyprien is talking and talking, agitation showing in the taut lines of his shoulders and his jarred hand motions, but I can’t focus on a single thing he is saying.

I am so fucken tired. I wear a soul deep, weary fatigue like a cloak.

I am an utter mess, physically with crumpled clothes that smell of sweat and stubble across my cheeks, and emotionally.

Half the time I cannot even think straight.

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