Now, the stonework shows the subtle wear of centuries. Its edges are softened by time, carvings dulled by wind and rain. The main approach is a broad avenue lined with ancient trees, their branches arching overhead to form a living canopy. The palace gates are wrought iron, intricate and formidable, flanked by statues of past rulers and legendary beasts. Today, since a summons has been sent, the gates are open. I wonder, for the millionth time, why I am doing this.
The last time I was here, Ellisar’s steward told me that Ellisar didn’t want to see me and never to come back to the palace again, on his orders. I debate if it will be better or worse for me if I ignore the summons as I walk through the gardens toward the palace. The gardens, once meticulously tended, now hold a mix of cultivated beauty and wild overgrowth, with statues scattered throughout. I glance at the statues and wonder how many of them are there as a form of punishment.
“Are any of them actually statues? Or all of them punishments?”
It is one of our King’s favorite things to do. Displease him and you may spend a few centuries out here with the pigeons. The overall impression is one of both awe and melancholy: a place of power, but also of secrets and sorrow. I keep trudging forward until I reach the steps. I stop, nearly ready to turn back. I stand outside for a moment, not wanting to climb the steps. I ask myself why I even bothered coming.
My last visit here was unsuccessful, and I want to avoid a repeat. I was told never to return. Sighing heavily, I climb up the steps and step inside. I plod along through the palace, heading for the throne room, where Ellisar presides over the Fey court. Inside, the palace is a labyrinth of grand halls, echoing corridors, and high-ceilinged chambers. The floors are polished stone, veined with silver and gold, but the luster is dimmed in places where thousands of years of foot traffic have taken their toll.
Tapestries and murals depicting Fey history and myth adorn the walls, their colors faded, but their stories are still potent. Light filters through tall, arched windows, casting shifting patterns on the floors and illuminating dust motes that dance in the air. The air itself carries a faint chill, as if the palace remembers too many sorrows. Some corridors are lined with statues. These are nothing more than silent reminders of Ellisar’s wrath. The furnishings are elegant yet functional, emphasizing Fey's artistry and craftsmanship, with carved wood, inlaid tables, and delicate glasswork.
Yet, there is a sense that the palace is more a fortress than a home, its beauty edged with caution and the ever-present threat of the king’s displeasure. Since I’ve come this far, I might as well see what the court’s doing today. “Ugh! I am so not in the mood for this.”
It looks like I am the main business for the day. I almost didn’t come after what happened last time I was here. The throne room is designed to impress and intimidate. It is vast, with a vaulted ceiling supported by columns carved to resemble ancient trees entwined with mythical creatures.
The floor is a mosaic of autumn leaves in gold, copper, and crimson, echoing the Fey love of the changing seasons. All of this is done in various gemstones. At the far end, atop a dais, sits Ellisar’s throne. It is a massive seat of black stone veined with silver. Its back rises high and is crowned with stylized flames. The throne itself is both beautiful and forbidding, a symbol of absolute authority. Behind it, stained-glass windows depict scenes of Fey triumph and tragedy, their colors casting shifting patterns across the room.
The walls are hung with heads of fantastical beasts, banners, and shields. All these trophies of past kings’ victories and reminders of the current king’s power. The air is heavy with magic and expectation; courtiers gather in nervous clusters, their voices hushed. When Ellisar presides, he does so from above, looking down on all who enter, his presence magnified by the grandeur and the latent menace of the space. I knew I should have listened to my instincts. I’ve always had a good sense for avoiding danger.
The court herald calls out my name. “Yávi? Mairi? Andún?, step before His Royal Majesty, King Ellisar Wynric.”
I grit my teeth and cautiously step into the lion’s den. In the case of Ellisar the Asshat, it would be more accurate to say the cockatrice’s den. He has a habit of punishing those who displease him by turning them into statues for a few centuries and placing them in the palace gardens as decorations. Of course, that’s assuming he doesn’t opt for a more permanent punishment, like beheading.
He looks down his nose at me from his dais on the throne. “Yávi? Mairi? Andún?, you have been dueling too much. We are not pleased with this.”
That one sentence is all it takes to turn my carefully concealed, smoldering resentment into a roaring inferno of rage. As far as I am concerned, he can take his royal we and choke on it. I wish bitterly to be able to shove it somewhere else in his anatomy, preferably wrapped in razor blades. My eyes narrow, and I make sure that my voice is loud.
I also make sure that it carries over the chatter by spinning a bit of magic into it when I speak. I must observe some forms of proper courtly conduct, even though I’m certain that everyone here can smell my rage by now. I bow and start my response. “Your Majesty, I have been hunting those who sold our own people to the nightmares that stalked our border for food. If they wanted to survive, they shouldn’t have been rounding up entire villages of our people and selling them to those creatures. Do you have any idea what they were doing with all of them? Sorting them by age and gender, then charging admission into the rape pens.”
I secretly wonder if he wasn’t one of the ones visiting the pens or maybe profiting from them, but I dare not say that aloud to anyone. Ellisar the Asshat growls at me in fury. That man growls at me in front of the entire Fey court. With that kind of loss of control, I can’t imagine how he’s remained king. Growling like that signals impending violence. Ellisar wouldn’t dare challenge me, especially after seeing who I’ve been dueling. I decide to bait him a little more.
This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.
It doesn’t seem like I have much to lose at this point. “Why are you protecting those Lawless scum who sold our people for food, like I would sell a herd beast for slaughter?”
The whole court suddenly falls silent, so quiet I can hear some of the heartbeats nearby. Ellisar the Asshat still reeks of rage, but there’s a hint of fear now. Hmm... He is protecting them and doesn’t want anyone to know it. We can all smell his fear, so now the entire court is aware as well. “You haven’t punished any of them or even tried to stop them. You won’t let me duel them. What else can I call it but protecting them? Please enlighten us, Your Majesty.”
I see many others in the court nodding in agreement. Despite what the king believes, I still have supporters at court. I also notice streams of my brothers and sisters from the border war slipping into the court. As former soldiers, they have equal standing with the pampered lordlings that Ellisar likes to surround himself with. He has to let them speak. My heart warms at the support. If we still followed the Old Ways, I’d challenge this bloated windbag for his right to rule right now. I’d take his head and his crown with it.
I think he reads this in my face or from my scent. I have no fear of him because my rage is too great. He sees the support gathering here and grinds his teeth, chewing up the words he was thinking of and swallowing them. Ellisar the Asshat is now almost apoplectic with rage, but beneath that is the rising stench of his fear. Fear that grows as my supporters keep streaming in; so, he tries a different tactic, attempting to rally his own supporters in the ever-changing court. “You’ve taken so many that it’s hurting our population growth. We don’t produce so many in a single generation.”
My anger intensifies from an inferno to a volcano, even as I shake my head in denial of his claims. I struggle to keep my composure so I don’t shift. I am sure that the entire court, maybe the whole building, can sense the rage radiating off me. I see some beginning to back away from me because my rage is strong enough now to trigger their own. “I have saved far more than I’ve taken. Surely losing entire villages to those vile cretins also hurts our population growth, does it not?”
I pause and look around. I see nods of agreement, so I carry on. “That’s a practice I’ve put an end to. To be blunt, Your Majesty, no one who sells their own people to be food for those nightmares deserves to live.”
Mutters of agreement ripple through the crowd, and Ellisar the Asshat is now on his back foot, so I press my point. “You know well, Your Majesty, that the more those creatures eat, the more they breed. The more they breed, the more of them come here looking for food – for us - so they can eat us. Fey are their preferred food source. The rest of us are much safer without traitors like those in our ranks. The three hundred and eighty-six I took are certainly fewer than the total from all the villages that those traitorous bastards rounded up, raped senseless, and then sold off to be devoured by nightmares. Our border areas are still depopulated. That’s likely to be more than my duels.”
Much of our border area still remains depopulated, despite Ellisar offering free lands. Ellisar the Asshat stands up, face red and spittle flying. “YOU LIE!” he screams, launching into a furious rant for which I have the simplest answer. “Your Majesty, were you not present when I swore my First Oath? You know I am Lawful Fey and cannot lie, or my magic becomes forfeit. I can prove I am not Oath-Broken.”
As proof, I summon my magic—a tiny ball of fire floats in my hand. It starts as pea-sized, showing my control, but I let it grow to the size of a peach before dismissing it with a flick of my hand.
The court turns to glare at Ellisar, who flops down on his throne, red-faced and sweating. One by one, my battle-scarred siblings step forward, confirming that they also saw these things. Everything feels so charged now, almost as if a thunderstorm is about to break in the court. A male I don’t recognize pleads for the court’s indulgence. He is tall and powerfully built. I don’t know this male, but he’s obviously one of us. I can tell by how he moves. There’s a certain economy of motion and lethal grace shared by all of us who survived the border wars for any length of time.
The scent coming from him screams pure, black rage, even more intense than mine, as he gazes at the king. He holds his gaze on the king for a long moment before beginning to speak. Ellisar barely restrains himself from cringing on his throne. The scent of the king’s fear slightly intensifies as this male starts to talk. The king looks at him and becomes very quiet, yet still furious, as judging by his expression and his smell. This unknown male recounts his story with gruesome and exacting detail. He was a survivor of one of those villages.
He was a boy hiding in the woods and witnessed exactly what happened to his sister and cousins, including the arrival of the nightmares to feed. He describes it fully and in sickening, excruciating detail. It is horrible, but those things have always been awful. I could never understand willingly feeding anyone to those things. Some members of the court look and smell as if they will soon be sick. He names those who did this to his village and asks the scribe to check the record of my duels.
The scribe runs through the list, and the names he’s given are found in the records of my duels. Before the king can accuse him of lying, he summons his magic, and a swirling ball of water floats in his hand. With a nod to me, he turns and leaves. I notice he failed to bow or ask permission. That male probably would've spat on the king if the king had tried to force a show of respect. The king is quiet now; his rage has drained away, but the smell of his fear remains. Others come forward. Some I know, and some I don’t. They tell their stories and give the names of those they believe are responsible for these atrocities.
Every time the scribe checks, those names appear on my duel list. My research into uncovering them was thorough. I may have been overly cautious in choosing my targets, but I know myself. Killing an innocent would have destroyed me. All three hundred eighty-six of them were demonstrably guilty of every single crime I accused them of. I accused them when I called them out and challenged them to a duel. The flow of people coming forward to testify doesn’t seem to be slowing down. If anything, more keep flooding in, and the court is becoming crowded. People are shifting around to make space for those rushing in.
The king grows impatient and waves the rest of them off. “Why didn’t you petition me to deal with this?”
I can’t stop myself. I snort in derision and glare at Ellisar. “What makes you think I didn’t? I tried many times, but your steward refused to let me see you. I was physically tossed out of your palace and told not to come back before I stopped trying. You can’t imagine my surprise when I received the summons to attend today. I almost didn’t come because I couldn’t imagine why I’d be summoned back after being told never to return here on your orders, Your Majesty.”
Now the steward is pale-faced and sweating. I think everyone in the building can smell the steward’s fear. He will be the scapegoat our king sacrifices to cover his own role in this travesty. I turn, looking at the packed court with more still streaming in. I see my battle siblings, and I call out to them. “How many of you, my brothers and sisters, tried to do the same for the same reason? Step forward and let his Majesty know your number.”
Scores of my battle-scarred siblings step forward. My gaze bores into the king, and he seems to shrink from it.
Question for you:
- Would you respect her ruthlessness, or fear it?
- Who do you think will challenge her next?
Do you respect her ruthlessless or fear it?