STERLING

By E. D. Lee

"I think I hate you because I love you."

A captured Prince, an intriguing female and a rivalry that started it all. 

Rist has lost everything. His home, his title, his family. Or so he thought. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ella Lee
• Release date: Nov 25, 2023
• ISBN: 9798989331819

Book preview

A PreQUel NOVellA

TO the FrOsted

Fae Series

STERLING© Copyright <<2023>> E. D. Lee

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This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organisations, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For more information, email [e-mail]

Don’t forget what you’ve accomplished in so little time. Sometimes, all it takes is four days to create a masterpiece.

Trigger Warning- This book contains graphic and adult material. This book is a DARK FANTASY. There is explicit and sexual content that may be unsuitable for certain ages.

As cold as Frost,

As sharp as a Thorn,

As vicious as a Storm.

Prologue

He couldn’t believe his eyes.

Her trembling hand firmly grasped his as the bolt sunk directly into her chest, a rasping cough following that shattered everything inside of him with a single sound. She half rotated towards him, face gaunt.

Everything had slowed in a matter of seconds as the King of Gaerith pulled the trigger of his lion-headed crossbow and sent the feathered bolt flying across the distance. At the very last second, Corvina shoved her mate behind her and shielded him with her own body before the arrow could take his life as well as hers.

Now, her once vibrant eyes danced with pain, her mouth falling open as crimson spread throughout her cobalt dress, eating away at the colour that Crispin loved so much on her.

Crisp- Silver-streaked blood dribbled from the corner of her lip as her body gave out. He swiftly caught her, his dirty sword clattering to the soaked bridge beneath them. He was caked in his father’s metallic life force, seeping through the cracks and leaking off the edges. It poured into the space between Frost Palace and the connecting lands, creating what he imagined to be a river of unjustly split blood.

Wrong target, but my words hold true. King Oberon wickedly cackled from the other side, handing over his massive monster of a weapon to an armoured guard off to his left. The entire thing was gilded from head to toe, as was the Gaerith sovereign who bore it.

Obscene, horrible, ruinatious.

Corvina! Crispin screamed with everything inside him, his own hands shaking violently. He brushed the loose hair from her face and wiped the silver-streaked red away from her full mouth as he cradled her. They sank to the broken stones together, something burning and breaking within his lean chest.

Golden light that blinked like a firefly as it tried to stay alight inside his ribcage. He felt the snap of a resonating chord that thickly wrapped around his heart, mind, and soul as her life began to fade away.

The mating bond was breaking.

NO! He cried into the air, the rampant battle continuing around him. Each sound became one, blurring into a jumbled mess of war noise. But it didn’t matter. None of it did as his mate lay in his lap, dying.

Corvina reached up to his pale face, blanched at the sight of her clutching the bolt that protruded from her high torso. My darling, She whispered as she stroked his chin. "I was already dying. You knew that we didn’t have much time left. At least this way, I made sure that you still have time. Time to find Rist, to repair the broken bond between you after he left."

No, He shook his white head, refusing to listen to her. She wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t going to die. She wasn’t going to die. You’re fine, you’ll be alright.

Corvina wheezed his name, the full title sounding wretchedly wrong.Crispin-

"Don’t talk about any of that shit right now. Focus on getting better, on healing. Because you’ll be okay." Denial ripped through his words like the shredding talons of a vulture. Neither dared to pull the bolt out, knowing that her blood would spurt like a fountain if they removed the only thing keeping her life force within her.

No, love. I won’t be. She didn’t stop her tender administrations. "But you will. In time. You’re stronger than you think. I know you can handle the world when I’m gone." Scarlet dragged onto his face from the trail her thumb was making downwards.

He didn’t care.

"Stop it, STOP IT, STOP IT. Crispin keened out, wailing tears pouring out of his winter day eyes with tremendous force. STOP IT."

He rocked his wife back and forth, pulling her tightly to his chest as if he could save her by making her a permanent part of himself. Her legs scrunched into herself, bare feet showing the dirt and gore from the bridge between every toe.

"Crisp, listen to me. Heartbreak laced her high voice, and he did for a moment, looking through his blistering tears to her. I need you to not let this moment define you. I need you to find a purpose, a reason to live once I’m gone."

Her mossy eyes lost a shade of brilliant green, dulling slightly as she examined his face. As if she were memorising each panel and curve for the afterlife, for whatever awaited them beyond death.

He wanted to follow her.

Please don’t speak like that. He’d already lost enough. He couldn’t bear to lose anymore. Not with his father’s decapitated body only a few feet away, the head lost to the ravine below the bridge. Not with his mother collapsed behind him, gone from the moment the Fae King died.

His brother was the only one left, and Crispin hadn’t heard from him in nearly two years. He couldn’t lose Corvina.

The golden bond between them splintered, cords flying off in every direction. His chest burned, ached, and he desperately tried to hold onto it, to anything. Between the gap in their heads, through the space that connected them, Crispin firmly planted his feet and grasped the gilded string as he refused to let it wither away into nothing but dust.

Crispin. She said sharply, coughing up blood. It splattered all along her rich skin. Her stained fingers were iron-clad on his chin, the only strength she seemed to have left. Never let that light inside of you dull. It is wonderful, one of the things I love most about you, and I want you to promise me that you will live again.

He didn’t answer, hearing the metallic click of armoured feet in front of him. He didn’t need to look up to know who it was. It didn’t matter. Nothing did.

I promise, Corv. He whispered, letting his filthy and sweat-ridden forehead fall against hers as she closed her eyes. I love you.

As if that was the last thing she needed to hear, a breath escaped her lips. Her last breath, and her body went limp in his arms.

Corvina was gone.

And the mating bond shattered completely.

Glass broke into a thousand pieces inside of him, sharp edges cutting into his soul, heart, and head. He felt each plink of blood as the golden light died out, and he was left feeling completely numb, hollow, bare.

His breathing became ragged, his chest heaving with each passing moment that her skin faded, her touch became cold, and her head rolled. Everything warm, light, and happy within him began to fade, withering away like life when winter’s brutal, miserable fingers of frost swept across the lands.

Corvina…. Crispin sobbed, unable to control the floodgates of silver that poured out of his eyes. He couldn’t control the hollow scream that erupted from his throat as she became nothing more than a beautiful ragdoll in his arms, broken.

The sound cleaved through the realms.

The fighting and the world paused as his shattered sound filled the air. It echoed into the canyon below them as he wept. Another tore free, and he didn’t want to care anymore, didn’t want to feel. As if there were another option. To reach inside oneself and flip a switch that controlled that sort of thing. And in that moment, he wanted to feel nothing but numbness.

When the third ripped from him, it held less agony than the first two, exhaustion and sheer desperation cleaving the air. His windpipe felt raw, his waterline was acidic, and his heart was nothing more than an unbeating muscle that pumped silver in his chest.

Enough. Oberon said, as if bored. Take him.

Strong hands gripped either side of his shoulders, hoisting him up and yanking him away from his dead mate. He didn’t try to struggle or fight. Didn’t try to escape as they pulled him to his feet and began to back away from Frost Palace.

Nothing mattered anymore.

As the King shouted some illegible words, magic fizzed in his ears like a soft popping. He heard a portal open and the clash of blades and screams of those dying around him as the fighting started up again. He felt his feet moving and his body being pushed towards the portal. And as they took him away, Crispin never tore his eyes off her.

Not when they forced him through the portal and the tallest spire of the palace was barely perceptible. Not when the white bridge vanished, and he could only see a cobblestone path that led to a large village. And not when he was shoved into a cell, bitter manacles clapped around his wrists.

She stayed in his mind.

When even his magic no longer sang to him of frostbitten fables and blizzardy ballads, he remained upright in his cell. When they changed the food and water that he ignored, and his eyes ached from crying, he didn’t care.

He did not want to care.

He didn’t move for three days and three nights. He only sat against the farthest wall of the largest cell in the dungeons of Gaerith, the mortal realm. He didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. Especially not King Oberon’s, who came down often to try to break his spirits.

His spirit was already broken.

Through pathetic taunts, dripping sarcasms, and pure, undiluted laughter at his state, Oberon tried to break him past the point he’d already fallen from. So when the King left him at last, bored with his futile attempts to rub his slaughtering victory in the Prince’s face, Crispin, at last, cared.

His head lifted up, staring at the ceiling.

Water dripped from cracks and stones shoved roughly together, and a seeping cold seemed to linger. Steel bars surrounded him. It was dismal, at the best description that he could pull to his achingly empty head. Dripping depression took form in the shadows that lingered in the steel bars of the cage he sat in, dampening the once golden hay below him.

Here, he would wait.

For what, he didn’t know.

But a tiny ember was still burning inside his chest, from where the mating bond frayed and fractured.

He was utterly empty.

So when that ember hissed, dancing wildly in the smallest movements, he knew it wasn’t over yet.

So Crispin would wait.

One

Rist pulled his dark head up from the ship’s riggings as he heard the sound that splintered a fraction of his soul. It was male, desperate, depleted. It yanked on his tough heartstrings and forcibly tugged him into motion as he slunk off of the wooden railing. He wrapped the coarse rope around its designated part and knotted it, eyes focused on the hor izon line.

Nothing appeared to be amiss, but the unshakable sensation that something was wrong was enough to send him moving.

Head towards the coast. He commanded his quartermaster as he made for the bow of the large boat. We’re sailing home.

Portalling in waters was another matter entirely, but with a well handed toss after shattering the gem, a massive one could open up and allow the Windsong to glide through it without issue.

Another scream tore through the air and he wasn’t sure if anyone else heard it because it echoed throughout the caverns of his mind, cleaving down to the very start of his soul.

Set sail and get the men working overtime to make it in half the time it usually takes us. Rist instructed his first mate as he entered the front of the massive ship. With his long gait; it was easy for him to make it in less than ten minutes.

Yes, Prince. The male saluted him and found the quartermaster who commanded the wheel. Often, Rist steered the ship himself, enjoying the spray of salt on his face. But as the third, hoarse sound erupted, he couldn’t help but handing it over.

Because he knew that voice, knew who it belonged to. And wherever Crispin was, something horrible had gone down. Something that he could have prevented if he’d stopped his cowardly charting and joined the war.

Rist swallowed as he planted his foot upon the edge of the boat, staring towards the horizon. Murky waters splashed against the hull as they sailed through the sea without issue. He fingered the portal gem in his pocket and withdrew it, studying it closely.

When the ship was far out enough to sea that no eyes could make out the whirling circles that created the travelling enchantment from the continent, Rist slowly brought the jagged rock to his lips before uttering, Daaerin. His fingers closed around it and snapped the containment as the spell ripped free.

The Prince coiled back and threw the stone with all his might. It burst into a blinding flash of sapphire and aquamarine as it hit the air. The magic sizzled to life all around them as the Windsong aimed directly for the center of the portal as it opened. He remained at the bow, the figurehead of the ship under him of a siren holding a snowflake to her unbound breasts. The powder blue sails rippled in the wind that instantly picked up as the magic of his mother sputtered, sucking them in towards it.

And when they entered the large circle, he knew that whatever it was that caused his brother so much agony, meant that he could no longer avoid the Fae War. So Rist accepted his fate as they entered Daaerin, and the portal sealed around them.

It was time for him to do his part.

The Start

Six Years Later

Two

Crispin knew he was bein g watched.

It was the eerie sensation that tingled down his curved spine, left ghosting butterfly kisses of long lashes along his skin, and the complete silence in the chittering cells. He wasn’t asleep, but he didn’t feel like trying for as long as he knew he was being watched.

He immediately felt the pair of unfamiliar eyes drilling into his back, even if the sense was only one of mild interest instead of morbid curiosity. His shoulders faced the locked cell door as he lay on the stone floor, coldness seeping into his ice-melded bones from the chilling temperatures of Gaerith.

Not that he minded the cold.

Quite the opposite in fact.

But compared to the lush snowfall and the stunning array of crystal icicles that dripped from his ancestral home, the winter here was brutal and savage.

Much like his keeper.

Every night, the rattle of a groaning spirit shivered past his tiny window as fat flecks of powder drifted by. Each ongoing year only added to his misery as the seasons grew longer and brisker. The summer before had hardly been a season, a short two months before plunging the mortal realm back into a brisk, white world.

And unlike the usually chilled eyes of his captor, the ones he currently felt seemed oddly… warm. His Fae senses alerted him to that, trying to decipher who exactly watched him.

It wasn’t the guard who clutched his spear tightly and snored lightly in the corner, his mouth wide open as drool leaked from the sides. The King would have his head if he found him slacking off on night duty. It wasn’t like Crispin would tattle though, considering he rarely spoke anymore.

That took effort, which he did not have.

But the intrusive eyes that bore into him did not possess the same sharp intuition nor the prideful prowess that Oberon observed him with. This seemed… prickling, intriguing, playfully curious.

Young.

At last, he turned over to see what it was.

Crispin didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t the little boy who was staring at him. He couldn’t have been older than three, with hazel eyes that glistened grape green in the fickle sconce light.

Dark brown hair with strands of black had been closely shorn to his oval head, with feminine features that had only just begun to come in. A thick fill of prettier lashes than any girl, a jawline that could cut thread, and perfect tiny eyebrows that arched every so slightly.

Who are you? The boy asked meekly, setting down his candelabra. There were three currently melting stubs precariously placed in each of the golden settings, and it looked nearly as big as he was. Wax dripped to the floor with each slow lick of the fire, but the boy didn’t seem to notice or care.

Something akin to amusement danced inside of him, an emotion stirred up that he hadn’t felt in ages.

Interesting.

"Who are you?" Crispin responded with his own question, wary of the young newcomer. He’d never seen him down here before, which implied a sense of danger. And yet he felt compelled to speak at long last. His voice was hoarse from disuse.

Cierian.

The little Prince, then.

Hello Cierian, I’m Crispin.

His heart twanged in agony at the sight of a dark-haired boy, softly reminding him of his own brother. Where Rist was though, was a continuous question without an end. He hadn’t seen Rist for years, not since the male stormed out of the palace. A fight with their father had led him to his wits ends at last. Something that Crispin knew was inevitably coming.

But when the war struck out in full force, his brother hadn’t returned. And now, almost six years of rotting away in this stinking dungeon, there was still no sign of him. Crispin thought that maybe Rist assumed he was dead like the rest of their family.

Their father- felled by a monstrous golden blade. Their mother- her heart had given out the moment her husband died, falling with him then and there.

And his beloved wife, Corvina-

Crispin shuddered at the mere thought of his mate. Every day was agony without her. He looked down at his filthy fingers, rubbing his thumb over the dirt-flecked digits as if he could still feel her oily blood running over his hands as he attempted to stop it. He traced the silver band on his left hand, the diamond dulled after time had not been kind to it.

But she died there, and he had been carted away to this miserable cell with chains that felt wrong and the simple straw bed in the corner. Each day, he whispered that he loved her into the air, letting his lonesome declaration be carried away.

My father said I’m not to be down here.

Cierian pulled him from his thoughts, fiddling with a stuffed toy at his side. A pretty red robin with beaded eyes and a hard beak. Stuffed with plump goose feathers, no doubt. The talons held tiny threads that looked as if the creature was coming unravelled.

Crispin lowered his head, the no longer silken hair falling over his shoulder from the time without a haircut. So why did you disobey him?

The little boy’s face tightened into a sour expression. Because he is mean. I have no friends because everyone fears him and my mother is too pregnant to play.

His tiny fingers tensed on the toy.

You thought visiting your father’s prisoners was a better idea than listening to him? What if I were dangerous? Crispin leaned forward, tucking his legs underneath him as he got a better look at the young Prince.

Comfortable sleep clothes and tiny ruby slippers adorned with golden thunderbolts and cream clouds.

You have chains. You can’t hurt me. Cierian used the toy bird to touch the cage’s bars, running it along every one he could reach with his stubby arms. The sound clattered softly but not enough to wake the guard.

Tink.

Tink.

Tink.

Are you afraid of me? The Fae asked curiously, tilting his chin slightly like a cat would when stalking a mouse.

No.

Not a meek mouse, then.

Amusement now quickly streaked past like a fiery comet inside of Crispin. Why not?

The boy shrugged. You don’t seem like a monster.

Crispin showed no sign of displeasure. Is that what your father told you I was? A monster?

He supposed calling him a creature of nightmares would be a good way to stop the curious heir from accidentally wandering down into the forbidden levels of the castle. But sometimes, children yearned to seek out the beasts that filled them with fear. To see what really hides in the shadows and lingers on the edge of blackness.

A mistake that Oberon clearly miscalculated when he warned his son of the dungeons and the vicious monster he kept in crystal chains below.

Cierian stopped hitting the cell with the robin and nodded. He said that he had a powerful and evil monster in the dungeons and that I wasn’t supposed to go near it at any cost. But I got lonely and wanted to see for myself.

For a child of three the boy communicated excellently in complete, understandable sentences that sounded more elegant than half of the males Crispin had encountered. He supposed that was the life of a royal though, skills that other children would deem useless, honed into Princes and Princesses from the time they were born.

Do you often sneak down here? There was a part of his lonely heart that warmed to the child before him, the pure innocence on his angular face that made him open up to someone at last. And it felt good to speak, even if he were conversing with a child. His voice was sore from years of disuse, and his throat ached as his tongue tried to remember the correct way to move.

No, but I always wanted to. My mother caught me trying to sneak down here a month ago and scolded me for it. She bribed me with this toy bird and spent hours with me instead. Then she got too pregnant and stopped playing with me all together. He tossed the toy beyond him, not caring where it landed. But I grow bored easily.

And so you decided to see what monster your father held captive. Crispin watched him pull the candelabra forward, the warm-hued flames illuminating his face better as the Prince stared at him. Red mingled with orange tinged with yellow, the faintest spark of blue licking the wax-coated wick.

It had been a while since the Prince had felt an ounce of heat, and the feeling radiated all over his permanently prickled skin, soothing the ice in his veins and licking over his ivory bones. He held his hands up to it, enjoying the warmth that poured through the cracks of the cell.

You don’t look like any monster I’ve ever seen. He drew closer, standing further on his knees to peer into the cage. Cierian moved the flames closer, cleverly understanding. Are you one?

Perhaps. Crispin chuckled lightly, You’ve seen many monsters, then?

The boy fell quiet, and Crispin felt the anticipatory dread knotting in his stomach. Cierian fiddled with the melted beads of wax that hardened once they reached the floor, pulling them up and rolling them around in his pale palms.

Cierian, what do monsters look like? The Fae asked softly, shuffling forward.

Kings who wear the title of father. He responded hoarsely. His fingers pressed the waxy ball down until it became flat, moldable.

Anger roiled in Crispin’s mouth, over his tongue, around his canines at that. Does he hit you?

The young Prince shrugged, not meeting the prisoner’s piercingly blue eyes. Only when he drinks.

You know, my father wasn’t the kindest either. Crispin sighed and let his back fall to the stone wall, recounting how his father and brother fought. It would seem we share that in common, little heir.

What did yours do? Cierian stopped fiddling with the mess he’d made and reached for the plush robin once again.

He dragged a hand through his dirty hair, hating how it felt. He wasn’t physically violent but liked to yell at my older brother often. Rist could push our father into fits the likes of which I’d never seen before.

The bird became closely clutched at the boy’s lean chest. He wore a long white shirt, with baggy trousers that were too big for him. One slipper was hovering close to falling off his tiny foot. Do you still play with your brother? He wiggled that foot, watching the backless shoe teeter.

Crispin shook his head. No. I don’t even know where he is. My father scared him off, and he left, which was better for him in the long run.

Because even with Rist’s talents when it came to sheer violence and bloodletting, he would not have survived the King. And as a result, there was one person left in the world who could reignite the beacon of hope he barely kept alive. Perhaps that was what he’d been waiting for for so long.

Leaving. Cierian rocked back and forth on his knees, contemplating that word over and over again. Maybe I’ll do the same one day.

Crispin’s huff of laughter was pure, true. And it felt so good. Perhaps it would be best for you as well. But please, pay a visit to the monster in the cells before you leave for good if that’s what you decide to do in the end.

I’ve decided you’re not a monster after all.

The words slashed through his chest, warmth pouring in like summer sunlight in the middle of the day after nothing but dreadful, dreary rain and the treacherous, grey clouds that came with it.

He could barely get the words out, his throat clogged with emotion. I’ll keep that in mind, like a badge of honour, young Prince.

If I go, I promise I’ll come say goodbye. He smiled up at the captive Fae male. We’re friends now, and that’s what friends do. He tucked the toy under the crook of his arm.

I’m glad you think so.

I hope your brother comes back to play with you. The Prince stood at last, wobbling as he picked up the heavy, golden candelabra and rotated towards the stairs. Goodbye, Crispin.

Crispin allowed himself to smile back, a genuine reaction to this child, who was nothing like his father. I hope so too.

An unlikely foe became an even more unlikely friend as a new sort of warm light began to glow from within him.

Three

Rist hated this place with a passionate loathing that nothing else could compare to except perhaps his dislike towards his father. The towering stone castle ebbed darkness and oozed despicable things, sending oleaginous sensations to his core. As he stared up at it, he reconsidered h is choice.

The men in the tavern said that Oberon hauled a Fae Prince back here as his prisoner, and considering who was left, it had to be his brother. If they were right, and the mortal King did indeed capture a royal during the Fae War, then that meant Crispin was here, somewhere in the castle. And he’d bet good money that it was in the dungeons, wherever they might be.

What are you standing around for, soldier? A white-haired female barked at him, unusual yellow eyes narrowing at his dumbstruck expression as he took everything in.

In all of his travels in the Fae realm, he’d only stepped foot into Gaerith twice. Once to see what all the fuss was about. And that had been before the war broke out, and danger lurked in every corner for anyone with a hint of immortal blood in their veins. The second time was after he dropped General Thorn back home and wanted to sail far away from the war once again.

That’s when he’d heard the screams, a year and a half later. For the next two, he’d spent sailing around the coast of the Fae realm looking for a place to dock and unboard as he searched for his brother. Gaerith’s men were everywhere, forcing him to stay aboard the Windsong, unable to tear through the lands. Some days, under the cover of nightfall, he’d summoned his wings and flown about the lands, circling for any sign of white hair.

Nothing.

He’d found nothing.

Which was why he was here.

Standing before the looming castle with the wrought iron gates, an officer of the guard stood before him. Rist straightened his spine, still growing. He’d continue for a few more years yet. His face hadn’t fully filled in, and his voice was still higher than he expected it to be.

I was looking for the army. To join it.

She scoffed, crossing her arms over her small chest in vexation. "Do you think the King allowed just anyone into his ranks? You’ll have to prove yourself, boy." She eyed him like a slab of meat, taking his body into consideration.

Tell me what I need to do.

Rist had never been one to follow orders, especially when they came from his father. But if it meant finding and freeing Crispin, then he would do whatever it took to get them both out of there and home at last.

He’d portalled immediately home after hearing the men in the tavern, only to find horror all over the continent. It was empty, devoid of any of the mortal army. Rist had ventured back around the coast to find his home littered with bodies. Corpses burnt in piles all around the once grassy fields that had been watered with silver and red blood. The air was pungent and reeked of decay, leftover rot that the fires hadn’t burnt away.

There was no sign of life anywhere.

But for over two weeks, Rist carefully buried every body he could find, intact or not. Including that of his mother, his sister-in-law, and the decayed remains of his father.

With an additional glob of spit into the latter’s grave.

He mourned the two females in his life, wondering about his previous fiancée and her brother, about the general who risked his King’s anger when he left with the Prince. If any of them lived, or if they too had been killed while he’d been off lollygagging around the world.

Rist had tenderly placed recently plucked snowdrops from a nearby push that seemed to offer life, even when death surrounded it. He dropped two flowers on both of their graves before heading for the palace that grew from the grey mountains. No white capped them, as if even the prominent season of Daaerin was sorrowful.

When he had reached the barred doors that led into the palace, it took all of his might to hoist the nailed beams of wood off. They were all tossed into the ravine with a grunt for each one. Then he entered at last, searching for the item he’d come home for.

A portal gem.

So that when he wanted to return for good, he could.

He pocketed two for good measure.

He kept the gems safely tucked away in an inner breast pocket. It was a secure warmth that kept him going, kept reminding him why he was here in the first place instead of drinking himself into a stupor in Daaerin to wallow in his lonely immortal days.

Something that Crispin would have done.

Good answer. It won’t be easy, so don’t expect ass kissing of any sort, just because you already look the part of a natural-born fighter. The female soldier in front of him impatiently awaited a response, urging him to speak.

With the way she held her shoulders back and her rigid posture, he automatically felt she imposed a higher rank than just ‘soldier.’

He immediately snapped into action. I don’t. Everything is earned through hard work, by proving oneself.

Good answer. Follow me. She flipped around, hand falling to a gold-hilted sword at her hip. The cold sun hit it, illuminating the gaudy pommel. It was ovalesque, with a small, flat circle atop it.

Rist hated gold.

It was a colour for those who wanted to dive into their amassed piles of money and swim around the cold metal for a lap or two. It was the colour of prideful and greedy men who wanted nothing but power, and only for the wrong reasons. It made perfect sense why the mortal King loved it so much.

Do you have any knowledge of combat? Any sort? Hand to hand, long distance, melee? She sighed, following the cobblestone road up to the castle with its U-shaped walls that rose high, like a prison.

Rist didn’t take a moment to answer. Yes, to all. Including archery, as well as riding.

His father insisted on