Chapter 2

2

The wedding of the Darrowlands heiress was like something out of a fairy tale, the ones they told little children before bedtime. Even a green, half-orc groom didn’t ruin the vision—if anything, it only enhanced Molly’s wonder at the whole day. He certainly cut a handsome figure up there, beneath the trellis festooned with wisteria blooms, looking down at their heiress like she was everything good and sweet in this world.

Molly and the other barmaids of the city, drafted to help serve the hundreds who’d come to see Lady Aislinn marry her blacksmith betrothed, had sighed with the romance of it all. Lady Aislinn’s gown, the crystals dripping from her hair, the way she smiled without reservation up at her groom, all of it made even Molly’s heart melt a little.

Now, though, it was time to work.

Opportunities like today didn’t come around often. The Darrows were compensating all staff handsomely, even the temporary help like her, and Molly looked forward to adding the handful of coins she was set to make to her secret store of funds.

She’d been growing the little trove since arriving at her uncle Brom’s tavern, knowing that someday, she wanted to start out on her own. No one was going to come and sweep Molly off her feet—fairy tales didn’t happen for barmaids. So she saved the coins patrons slipped and flipped her before her uncle could make them disappear, preparing for the day when…

Well, when something happened.

As she often had to remind Uncle Brom, she was very grateful for him taking her in. She loved her little cousins—Brom had managed to father five of them between two wives and a mistress—and even loved the tavern itself. Were the patrons loud and handsy? Sure, but they were also lively and often generous. It didn’t take more than a wink sometimes to earn a little tip.

But gratitude didn’t mean she wanted to stay in that tavern forever. She was six-and-twenty and had spent more than half of her life already overseeing her uncle’s tavern and motley brood.

Molly wasn’t sure what else was out there for her—nothing, Brom liked to insist—but she wanted the opportunity to find out. And that required money of her own.

Brom had of course protested her leaving the tavern to work the wedding instead.

“Who’ll look after this place?” he’d complained.

“No one’s going to loiter here when it’s the heiress getting married,” Molly reminded him as she’d left that morning. “I’m sure you can manage the one lost soul who wanders in.”

“But the little ones—”

“Already staking out good spots.” Probably to then sell on their claimed places for a hefty profit, no doubt. Cherubic as the young ones were, they had the shrewd mind of their father.

She’d left Uncle Brom blustering. That was the way to deal with him, for if he was given an inch, he took a foot, as all the women in his life had found out. It was no accident that all of them had left him and no woman in Dundúran would marry him.

Today, he didn’t matter, though.

True, she was working just like any other day, but getting out in the sun, seeing the beautiful ceremony, and taking part in the happiness of the whole city put some jaunt in Molly’s steps. She and the other servers kept the thirsty wedding guests happy as the ceremony came to a close and people began to meander through the courtyard or form a queue to congratulate Lady Aislinn and the new Lord Consort.

Molly flashed her best smile—and her fantastic set of tits—as guests walked past. More than a few extra coins landed on the table she manned, and she was sure to wink and bid them come back for more.

It was a game she and a patron played—just enough flirting and flash of skin to keep them enticed but not encourage more. She’d been working tables and serving drinks since she was a girl of thirteen. Her womanly figure had come in much sooner than most, and to survive, she’d had to learn to use it to her advantage.

She still harbored deep insecurities over her body—her tits often garnered too much attention, and her backside had gone round and her belly soft with the thick tavern foods she ate most days. Patrons, men, sometimes took her curves as invitation to grab and grope. She’d become adept at dodging or rebuffing, knew when to flirt and when to drop her smile, but that didn’t always save her from grasping hands.

It was why, despite her thick thighs, she wore trousers rather than kirtles most days. And why she’d ended up cutting her hair to her shoulders. Not as easy to grab.

Molly didn’t like being grabbed.

Still, for the special day, she’d donned her best kirtle and prettiest blouse, with sleeves she’d embroidered herself. The garb was all bright colors, meant to attract attention, and left the top swells of her breasts exposed. She felt safe serving from behind a table, thinking the worst of it would be a sunburn to her tender tits.

She wasn’t prepared for her peace of mind to come under threat.

Turning from the last patron to the next, Molly nearly jumped a foot in the air when she saw who stood at her table.

The fae.

There he stood, the ghost of her uncle’s tavern. With his impressive height, he positively loomed above her and her table, those dark eyes with their black sclera boring into her with all the intensity of an eclipse.

Fates, something had to be wrong with her, because when he looked down at her like that, something inside her quivered—and not with fear.

Molly didn’t know why, but over a month ago, just as suddenly as he appeared before her now, he’d arrived at her uncle’s tavern, looking lost.

Every patron had gone utterly silent, as if death itself had entered. The fae looked them over with those unnatural eyes, his thin mouth drawn into a perfectly straight line. Covered from shoulder to toe in a cloak blacker than night that seemed to move like shadow, he’d had mercy on them only after agonizing moments of tense silence, taking a seat at the back.

Molly had been the first to recover, forcing her feet to move and take his order.

“Whatever you recommend,” he’d said in a voice smoother than water that made Molly’s toes curl in her old boots.

Men weren’t supposed to sound like that. Like promises made over pillows, warm amber syrup over griddle cakes, and spicy bonfire smoke, all in one.

He said little else, merely sitting in the back for about an hour before leaving. His mead went untouched, and a neat stack of coins had been left on the tabletop for her.

And so it went, a visit every few days. He said very little, even if Molly wished he’d say more. One word from him could hush a room full of rowdy men, which always gave Molly a thrill.

Seeing him here now…

Of course he’d be here, he’s friends with the groom. And had fought alongside Lady Aislinn last winter. And was now a landholder of the Darrowlands.

Molly wasn’t sure how long she stood there gawping at him but hoped it wasn’t too long to be rude—or that at least as a fae, he wouldn’t know the difference.

Smiling wide to hide how her belly fluttered with that something, she said, “Hello again. I don’t have your usual here, that’s two tables down.”

“Hello,” he said in that way of his, not slow but not hurried either. Measured. “Whatever you have is fine.”

“Maybe you’ll care for cider more than mead,” she quipped, a gentle poke at him never seeming to drink much of what she brought him in the tavern.

He reached for the tankard she offered, and Molly couldn’t help noticing that his hands were ungloved. She didn’t think she’d ever seen his fingers before and noted the scars on his knuckles.

A fighter.

She also couldn’t help noticing the faint black pattern just below his pale purple-gray skin. His veins. There were prominent ones tracing up his neck, with fainter, spidery veins spread like a root system across his cheeks and forehead. It’d taken her a few visits to figure out they weren’t faded tattoos or markings but veins.

It maybe should have disgusted her, horrified her, even. Just the opposite, though.

His large hand fell over hers to take the tankard, lingering for longer than necessary. Molly knew a lingerer when she felt it, but unlike other times, she didn’t efficiently pull her hand away.

She lingered, too.

“What I care for is that you are the one to offer it,” he said, those thin lips pulling back into something of a smile. It revealed elongated eyeteeth— fangs —which should have been terrifying.

A blush marched up Molly’s neck to heat her cheeks.

“Oh…”

She’d heard it all, every line and compliment, but somehow, in that voice that was deeper than mountains and oceans, she nearly melted.

Get hold of yourself!

Her fascination with the fae served no purpose—and he was holding up the queue.

But once more, just as quickly as he arrived, the fae bowed his head. “Good day, miss,” he said with grave politeness. “Until next time.”

“Farewell,” she managed through her stupor, just as he turned on his heel to head off in the direction of the large castle stables.

Next time, he’d said. There would be a next time.

Molly’s heart fluttered with excitement as she dared to think the most outrageous thing she’d ever thought.

What if…he comes to see me?

A sharp elbow caught her in the ribs, and Molly startled, looking up to see a grinning Jennet beside her. Another barmaid, for a tavern down the way, and one of Molly’s friends, Jennet waggled her fair eyebrows.

“What was that? ”

“Nothing,” Molly grumbled.

“More importantly, who was that?”

“No one.”

“That the fae they’ve been talking all about? With the unicorn?”

“Yes.”

Jennet’s grin grew insufferable. “And?”

“And nothing. He comes to the tavern sometimes, is all.”

“Do they eat?”

Molly opened her mouth to scoff, of course they ate, but then…

He never had. Not in front of her, anyway. Despite coming to a place where food, and especially drinks, was plentiful.

She blinked, which only made Jennet grin wider. “Uh-huh.”

Before she could argue, more of the barmaids hurried over to ask about the fae who’d come to her table, and it was all Molly could do to beat down her incriminating blush.

It didn’t matter if the fae ate or drank. It didn’t matter at all what he did. It was no concern of hers. She was probably a curiosity to him, look at the human with enormous tits, how fascinating, that was all.

He had no reason to give her a second glance, none at all. She wasn’t remarkable. She was just Molly, orphan, barmaid, human, with a handful of coins to her name and that was all.

Even the life she dreamed of having, one full of family and home and warmth, didn’t rise high enough to warrant notice from someone like a fae. Especially one that carried himself with more elegance and poise than every well-bred noble in the Darrowlands combined. She had no reason to think other fae carried themselves differently, but his perfect manners and precise deportment just screamed aristocrat.

Human nobles hardly looked a barmaid’s way, unless they were looking for a fun time while out carousing, so why would a fae?

As the barmaids tittered and gossiped, she began refilling tankards a little too aggressively, cider spilling over the rims. She made herself take a breath, to refocus. Spilled cider didn’t get her extra coin.

It didn’t matter what the fae thought.

Molly was Molly—granted, one who’d be a little richer after today—and that was perfectly all right.

But what if…

The stables were a quiet refuge from the crowded courtyard outside. Allarion walked into a haven of sweet-smelling hay and the content whicker of horses.

Drawing the tankard to his nose, he took a curious sniff of the cider Molly had given him. It was a pleasant mix of bitter and sweet, notes of apple and molasses combining with the fermented tang of alcohol.

Allarion couldn’t remember the last time he’d drunk something. With magic as their sustenance, the fae had no need. They grew no food, and what animals were reared were used for wool, leather, or milk for soaps and tinctures. He wasn’t even sure if he had the internal structures necessary to imbibe. To be sure, his mouth had to go somewhere, but it’d been so long since…

A peal of laughter brought him round, and with another sniff of the cider, he left it behind on a haybale. What he’d wanted was a moment with Molly, and he’d gotten that and more. He’d seen the way her pupils dilated when she saw him.

He scared her just like other humans, but with her there was…something else. Something tantalizing.

Hope was a painful, dangerous vice pinching his chest.

Perhaps his luck would hold just a little longer to see this last plan fulfilled.

Delving deeper into the stables, Allarion followed the sound of girlish laughter and equine nickering. He wasn’t at all surprised to see the princess drawn near the paddock where Bellarand had taken up court.

The unicorn so enjoyed visiting Dundúran for the simple reason that he craved all the castle horses gathering round to treat him like a conquering hero. Unicorns always garnered fear and respect amongst not just two-leggeds , as Bellarand called them, but all animals. As the only unicorn for hundreds of miles, it seemed Bellarand enjoyed the more varied company of the castle horses.

Not that Bellarand would ever admit to it, of course.

As he neared, Allarion saw that his dread-mount was performing one of his favorite tricks, drawing symbols in the ground with the sharp tip of his horn.

“I see you are already acquainted,” said Allarion.

The princess’s four guards jumped, their hands going to their hilts, but Princess Isolde merely turned her smile to Allarion.

“Indeed. I think he’s spelling out his name for me.” She nodded at the scratches in the paddock dirt.

His incorrigible steed most certainly wasn’t spelling his name but something far ruder, not fit for young princesses’ ears.

It’s funny, the unfunny steed insisted.

It’s really not.

Bellarand picked up his head with a huff and shook his long mane of silky black hair. Princess Isolde gasped and sighed with appreciation, which earned her a series of pleased head bobs.

I like this one very much, declared Bellarand through their bond.

You like all females.

They appreciate a fine form and shiny coat.

Allarion resisted rolling his eyes—an entirely human gesture Ravenna had picked up as a youth and passed along to him.

“May I formally introduce the stallion Bellarand the Black, Your Grace. Son of Buecella the Bold, grand-foal of Vortigern the Unmerciful, and dread-mount of the northern reach. He is pleased to meet you.”

Bellarand made a show of dipping into a bow, extending his foreleg and bowing his long head.

This one’s a princess of two-leggeds?

Yes, so behave yourself.

That earned Allarion an irritated ear flick, but if Princess Isolde suspected the volleying between rider and mount, she didn’t let on.

“You have honored the people of the Darrowlands by coming to their heiress’s wedding. All I heard was utter delight amongst the crowd when your name was announced.”

Princess Isolde smiled fondly, though there was a bright sharpness to her eyes when she turned to consider him.

“My mother has grown quite fond of Lady Aislinn through their correspondence. It was nasty business, that uprising by her brother, and my mother wanted to show her support, even if she couldn’t be here herself.”

“Do you often travel through Eirea, Your Grace?”

“No, never.” Her eyes lit up with delight. “This is my first time outside of Gleanná.”

“Ah, I see. A grand adventure, then.”

“Not so grand. Dundúran isn’t terribly far.”

“Perhaps not, but it doesn’t take going far from home to have a grand adventure.”

The princess smiled wryly. “I suppose not. And I do quite like it here. There are so many interesting things to see and people to talk to.” That gaze focused on him again, and Allarion recognized a clever being far older than her years assessing him. “I would’ve traveled much farther to see a fae and his unicorn.”

“I’m glad we could make your journey worthwhile, Your Grace.”

“A lone fae—I’m not sure anyone’s ever heard of such a thing.”

Allarion grinned politely, which just made her guards shudder. “My reasons were quite extraordinary, I assure you. But you need not fear, they have no chance of following me here.”

“How mysterious. I hope you will tell me someday.”

“Perhaps, princess.” He considered her a moment before asking, “Did your mother send you to show her support and perhaps to see these otherlies coming to the Darrowlands?”

“No, but my father did.” Another wry grin. “He’s fascinated by your arrival. Half-orcs could be expected, I suppose, since they are half-human, too. Even the harpies make some sense, as they never truly left the human kingdoms, just stayed in the fjords of Caledon. But a dragon? A fae? He’s understandably curious.”

“I see. Well, I hope you will have a long letter to write him with all your news.”

“Very long.” She turned her smile back to Bellarand. “I’ll have to spend a whole page on such a beautiful creature.”

Bellarand preened, tossing his glossy mane.

Yes, I like her very much.

You are entirely too susceptible to flattery.

And you are no fun.

Probably not. Although, this little parrying with the princess did give him some pleasure. Her quick mind was evident, and with a little polishing, her skills as a politician and diplomat would be unrivaled.

“He’s pleased to hear it, princess. He’s glad to have met you.”

A look of wonder overtook Princess Isolde’s face. “Can you talk to him?”

“Of a sort.” He tapped his temple. “We speak through a bond, forged by magic in our minds.”

Her mouth opened in awe. “Fascinating! You must tell me all about it.”

Allarion smiled. “Someday, princess.”

The sound of heavy drums perked his ears, and he turned to listen.

“First, though, I think you’ll want to see this.” Offering his arm, he led the princess back through the stables after she said her farewells to Bellarand.

“Are those drums?” she asked as the heavy beat began to build.

They made the courtyard, emerging into saturated, late-afternoon sunshine. Much of the crowd in the courtyard gathered near the center, where space had been cleared for dancing.

“It looks like the heiress has had her way.” When the princess looked up at him curiously, he explained, “The orcs are doing one of their mating dances.”

Her eyes sparkled with interest, and together they rejoined the crowd, eager to see the new lord consort dance for his bride.