Page 24 of A Bride for the Winter King
“Are you a history buff, Sixteen?” Poppy asks, jolting me back to reality.
She was in the last batch of blind dates—number 48—and I haven’t seen her since the welcome speech.
Aster wrinkles her nose as she searches the ceiling for an explanation. “What is that?”
Poppy quiets down and chooses her words carefully, but not the way you whisper when you don’t want anyone to hear, no. The vibrant shade of her flushed cheeks and the rush in her breaths hint that whatever she’s about to speak of is forbidden—or taboo. “Back then, there were not two but three types of Fae. Light Fae bloomed from the Sun, Spring, and Summer Courts. Darklings brewed from storms, winter, and shadows and out of blood-drenched, red soil.” She takes a measured pause. “Last but not least—beads of mist coalesced over the tropical mountains of the Islantide. The Mist Fae worshiped Kahlee, the goddess of chaos, destruction, and transformation. They were incredibly fast learners, mind readers, and engineers that could merge disparate seeds of magic.”
Aster wrinkles her nose. “But High Spring Fae can often yield darker magic.”
Poppy lowers her voice even more. “I’m not talking about the way a talented High Fae can become proficient at two or three schools of magic. Not like Seth, who’s an amalgam of light and dark. No, the Mist Fae created technology that allowed themto melt down magic in its purest form and forge it into jewels, bestowing immense power upon their wearers. At the height of his power, the Mist King had so many of these jewels embedded in his skin that he rivaled the Gods themselves.”
“What happened to them?” Aster asks.
“All the Mist Fae were slaughtered after the war, and their jewels were supposedly destroyed. But legend says a handful managed to avoid execution and went into hiding. And now, their descendants walk among us, waiting for a chance to strike back.” Poppy races through the last part for effect, her fingers extended in front of her like claws.
Daisy huffs, clearly not buying Poppy’s story. “That’s fantasy. Mist Fae have been extinct for centuries. The only remnants of their religion were the Tidecallers, and even they must have died out by now?—”
“Mm. Ladies?” A staff member motions for us to hand off our stuffy cloaks, his arm outstretched.
While the four of us were chatting in a huddle, the other brides switched out their winter boots for heels and touched up their appearance, and we quickly do the same. The distraction leaves us at the back of the pack, the others now much closer to the stage, a sea of strangers now standing between us and the hosts.
I squint at the Fae men and women that streamed in while I was admiring the ceiling. “Who are these people?”
“About three hundred courtiers have the honor of attending the Yule ball in person to get an exclusive first-look at the contestants,” Poppy says. The rumples of her blood-red gown lick the floor, her figure enhanced by the steep bustier.
I finally shrug off the heavy fur cloak, and Daisy snickers. “A wedding dress, really?”
The white dress Seth forced me into earns me frowns and grimaces from my peers. He insisted on this specific dress, thehalter neckline and laced train perfectly ordinary, and I thought everyone would be wearing a similar one.
But that’s not the case. No one else is wearing a vintage wedding dress, and I press my lips together.
“She’s certainly bold, that one.” Poppy shoots me a baring look from beneath her long lashes, her voice still full of intrigue. “I wonder if this has anything to do with her resemblance to the dead queen?”
“What are you talking about?” Daisy asks a little too loudly, the courtiers around us now ogling my dress, too.
Poppy wiggles her perfectly plucked eyebrows, her cheeks rosy and glowing. “Oh, yes. Lori here is a ringer for the dead woman we saw this morning.”
Aster shakes her head. “Really? I didn’t notice.”
“Of courseyoudidn’t,” Poppy says. “So, spill. Are you related to her or something?”
Before I can tell her it’s none of her business, Paul taps his microphone and smiles widely at the crowd from the little stage in front of the DJ. “Esteemed guests. Lovely brides. The time has come to kick off the Yule ball—sorry again to everyone watching us at home for the delay.” He slides a scroll from his jacket and raises it in the air. “I have here the names of the brides thatdidn’tmake the cut. If you hear yours, please exit the ballroom through the left. Members of our staff will be ready to escort you home.”
My fist curls at my side.
“Heidi Clyde. Michelle Solinsky…”
Paul reads from his parchment, and whispers explode across the ballroom. It’s a humiliating way to deal with eliminations. The discarded women are forced to walk off under the watchful eyes of the cameras. A recipe for drama. The names are read in no particular order, which means none of us is safe until the very end.
“And the last bride to be eliminated before the Yule ball is…My-Loc Huynh.”
In the end, Daisy, Aster, Poppy, and I are all safe, along with two other Spring seeds.
Sarafina joins her fellow host on the stage. A sparkling white Charleston dress with long fringes and silver sequins hangs from her slender body, a feathery headpiece tied around her head. “Now, let’s admit love isn’t all that blind, and welcome the Winter King to the inauguration ball,” she says on a mischievous grin.
A spotlight sparks to life to reveal the location of the Winter King. He leans casually against the wall at the back of the ballroom with his hands tucked in his tuxedo’s pockets. The perfect image of jaded youth—completely different to the poised army leader I saw—but it’s a dangerous illusion.
His irises shine with the resplendent glow of seawater caught in crystal, hinting at the immense power brewing beneath his royal facade. His platinum-blonde waves combine runway-chic with the nonchalance of a royal who knows he’s the most powerful man alive, and the devil-may-care glint in his eyes could turn me to ice if he so desired.
