Page 13 of The Shadow Fae Rhapsody
He throws my broken body into the air. Someone catches it. I recognize him by the acrid scent of his perfume.
“Yes, this is the brat,” Governor Graysen confirms, his voice stripped of all pretense. “I got you now.”
My hair stands on end at the expression on his face. It’s the look of a person who delighted in bringing pain upon others.
“Please… don’t hit me anymore,” I beg him.
Air leaves my lungs when he suddenly kicks me. I fall to the ground writhing in pain. He keeps punching me, leaving no air for me to breathe. “This is for every single time a fucking Wiolant disrespects me in my own house,” he tells me.
I curl into a ball to protect myself.
The governor grapples my head to remove the helm. Despite his struggle, the clasp below my chin holds firm.
“What the fuck is this? Take it off,” he demands.
I shake my head. Not out of defiance, but because I really don’t know how to unclasp it. I feel the impact before the pain as his heavy boot lands on my hand.
“Not so proud now, little Wiolant?” he asks. There is glee in his voice. He’s enjoying this. The governor likes hurting me.
“Enough!” the fae demands.
“What have you done, you nimwit,” the fae snaps in anger. “Now how are we supposed to send a letter to her uncle?”
The fae lifts me into his arms to inspect my broken hand.
Graysen’s face turns pale white like a ghost. “She’s just a child. It’s not like she can write anyway—”
“You fool,” the fae chides. “She’s not an illiterate kid from your village. Children in the capital can read before they turn five.”
How would a fae know that?
As if he can read my mind, he leers to me. “Isn’t that right, little Princess?”
The tinge of cruelty in the question makes me scared. So scared. I lower my gaze to the ground quickly.
Then I suddenly remember Oscar, Loren, and all the knights in the twelfth division. They’re all gone now. And it’s all because of this fae. My sadness morphs into anger.
I punch the fae straight in his face.
The wooden mask and I both fall to the ground. I stand up to look at the fae dead in the eye. But I am not looking at a fae at all.
Why does this cloaked figure call himself the Shadow Fae?
Before I can formulate my next thought, the governor slaps the back of my head over the insolence. Pain ripples through my temple and I nearly black out.
“It’s fine. She’ll be dead soon,” the figure dismisses, picking up his fallen mask to wear it again. “You have several days before the Wiolant’s cavalry arrive in Varyndor. I’m sure they are expecting a report from their twelfth division by the time they arrive in the war camp.”
The fae’s voice drops lower as he passes a satchel to the governor. “Use this quill to forge a letter. It copies the handwriting of the people who have used it. I’ve stored all the input from the bastard knights of Völundr.”
I don’t even want to know how he got them to do that.
“Enchanted faerie items sure are useful.” Governor Graysen gives a mirthless laugh.
I keep myself small and quiet through their entire exchange. I don’t want the governor to slap me again. It’s painful. I think I chipped a tooth on that last hit.
“Rainer Wiolant is sharp… perhaps it’s best if we don’t manipulate something from his niece. It may come out as inauthentic,” the strange, cloaked figure contemplates.
“Yes. I agree,” the governor says quickly, glad that his earlier mistake is quickly forgiven.
