Page 28 of Faking with the Fae King

My hands skim the treetops as I fly over the forest, sending pulses of magic into the plants to heal them and to bind me to this land in a claim far more visceral than any deed, though that will prove unnecessary once I marry Hannah.

Her smile fills my mind, brighter than the sunlight dropping toward the western horizon. In all my years, I’ve been looked at with fear or anger or occasionally lust. I’ve never been looked at with adoration. Here I am, undone by one such glance from a pair of beautiful brown eyes.

I set down in the palace garden, right on the small footbridge where I stood with my betrothed. As soon as my shadow wings retract, I send a wave of healing plant magic washing outward like ripples from a pebble dropped into a pond. The flowers rustle with contentment, and I can feel them growing in a joyful hum that resonates back to me.

“Severin.” Varyn strides out of the palace, the evening light catching on his silver-white hair. “I have news.”

“A baker?” This would be the perfect ending to my day.

“What? No.” His footsteps echo on the wood as he comes to a halt beside me. “I’ve got a list of contestants for the bride trials.”

“Tell me.”

“First off, the gnomes from Kranthall sent a contender.”

I grunt. Their realm is mountainous, with them living in large underground cities. It’s better than Avalon, but it doesn’t have forests such as the one around Ferndale Falls.

Yet gnomes also like to establish mines in every realm. “They must desire a political alliance, in order to mine in Avalon,” I say.

“How better than to marry one of their own to its king?” Varyn nods. “The next is a different story. A wood nymph entered the contest.”

“What realm do they hale from?” Because if it’s a magical realm of Faerie that’s still lush with life, it would provide another place to settle if Earth doesn’t work out.

“Alarria.”

“Ah.” There goes that idea. This wood nymph is from the one realm I can’t live in. Earth is still my best hope.

“They’re looking to improve their standing and rise in the ranks of the powerful,” he says. Then Varyn’s face pinches, which means bad news.

“Out with it. Are these all who’ve entered?” Two might be better than nothing, but it’s still a bit of a slap in the face. In times past, there would have been half a dozen. Where are the orcs, the dragons? It’s as telling who hasn’t joined thecompetition as who has—they don’t trust the shadow fae.

“There’s one more.” He lets out a breath. “Meloria.”

“What? How can this be?” Shock ripples through me. “She’s one of my people. Meloria can’t represent another group of fae!”

“She left over a week ago and travelled the realms until she found one of the dead ones. She claimed it and named herself queen.”

“That’s preposterous! If she wins the bride trials, she’ll doom the shadow fae. We’ll have to leave Earth, and a fully dead realm is worse even than Avalon.”

“I don’t think she cares.” He shrugs. “She’s angry you rejected her.”

When Meloria came to me two weeks ago to propose we marry, I thought it was in jest. We used one another to slake our physical thirsts while under the control of the Dark God but could otherwise barely stand each other. “There was never anything real between us. She’s incapable of any warmer feeling.”

“She’s capable of one.” Varyn’s ice-blue eyes stop dancing with mirth, growing serious. “She’s capable of anger. It turns out Daigan was right. Your little human had better watch her back.”

My jaw hardens. Technically, the trials aren’t dangerous. Also, the contest’s rules forbid me from interfering in any way. Yet the thought of Hannah in danger stirs an unusual protectiveness in me.

Thankfully, shadow fae know how to bend rules. I will do whatever it takes to aid and protect Hannah.

The next evening, the fae contestants and their representatives present themselves to me in a formal reception held in the throne room.

The gnome arrives first, tumbling down the long aisle in a series of cartwheels and flips. She comes to a halt, balanced in front of me on one tiptoe, with her arms and other leg lifted in a perfect arabesque.

Although as short as any of her kind, she’s clearly physically strong, which is the gnomish standard for beauty. Her light-green face is pretty, her white hair topped with a moss cap sprinkled with tiny white flowers, her formal clothes made only of blue birch leaves. The gnomes, it seems, are taking the competition seriously, sending one of their finest.

I tip my head, acknowledging the respect she pays me.

Her representative follows, doing several leaping front rolls to eat the distance without much fuss, or at least as little fuss as a gnome can show. He’s older, with the bottom half of his light-green face covered by a heavy white beard. “King Severin.” He bows, then gestures toward the young woman. “The gnomes of Kranthall present you with your future bride.”

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