Princess of Thorns

“Stay, Aurora,” she says. “You are a queen now, and your life too important to your people to risk it fighting battles that are already won.”

Queen. I hadn’t stopped to think, but she’s right. Ekeeta is dead, and I am heir to the throne. This castle belongs to me. This city, and every soul in it, is mine to command. I suppose the thought should fill me with satisfaction, or triumph, or some similar emotion, but all I feel is a great weight settling on my shoulders, nerves clawing at my insides, and a terrible, creeping certainty that I will find a way to do everything wrong.

“Will you help me, Janin?” I ask as the rest of the Fey fan out across the throne room to douse fires, dismantle altars, transport our prisoners, and … dispose of the bodies. “I want Ekeeta to have a proper burial. She’d changed. If not for her, the prophecy would have come to pass.”

“Of course,” Janin says. “I’ll make the arrangements.”

“And, Janin,” I say, stopping her before she can move away. “Can we put together an advisory council? With elders from the mountain Fey and the island Fey? And some of the resistance leaders from the city, and there’s an ogre I trust, too, if she’s still in the castle.” I take a deep breath, silently hoping Nippa is alive and well. “Her name is Nippa. She said there are other ogres who opposed the priest’s plans. I don’t want them punished and I … I’m going to need help. I can’t do this on my own.”

Janin smiles and her blue-green eyes shine. “You will be a good queen, Aurora,” she says, catching my chin between her fingers. “Never doubt it.”

By the time I’ve sorted out who should be imprisoned and who should be freed, found Nippa and had her attend to the fresh wound on Jor’s neck, and helped the Fey clear the throne room of the dead, it is dark and a group of curious human men in servants’ uniforms lurk in the doorway.

I learn that they are the lamplighters, wanting to know if business should continue as usual now that nearly every ogre in the castle has fled.

“Yes,” I say. “Please light the lamps, and let the rest of the staff know they are safe. No one will be harmed. Anyone who wishes to stay is free to; anyone who wishes to go can go.”

“Why in the good lands’ would we want to go, my lady?” The man who speaks is old enough to be my grandfather, with a full gray beard to prove it, but his smile is as giddy as a child’s. “Long live the true queen of Norvere!”

The rest of the men take up the cheer, making me blush. I’d expected my people to be grateful to be spared the fear of losing their loved ones to the ogres’ hunger—the ogres only consumed criminals, but their version of what classified as a “crime” ranged from murder to stealing an apple from a cart—but I hadn’t expected such an unabashedly enthusiastic reception.

My father wasn’t a beloved prince and my grandfather’s choice of an ogre for his third wife left many of his subjects feeling betrayed, but apparently my people are ready to treat me as my own person, a person they believe will right the wrongs of the last ten years and before.

I still don’t feel like a queen, but I swear at that moment to do everything I can to be worthy of my people’s faith, starting with providing them with a brave and good-hearted king. I will persuade Niklaas to marry me. Even if I have to promise never to speak to him again after we say our vows. I will save his life, and my own, because I can’t imagine living my whole life without him.

It can’t be too late.

It is my last thought before I fall asleep in the corner of the throne room, curled up next to Jor on a blanket someone brought when we refused to leave the makeshift war room or each other, filled with gratitude for my brother’s life, and determined to make things right.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Four Days Later  Niklaas

What do you pack for your final night of human life?

A brush? Rosemary ash? A flask full of barley liquor and a hammer?

Every item I pick up, I drop. Finally, I leave the clothes and supplies spread out on the bed beside my pack and cross the carpet to the window to stare down at the garden, stabbing at the open wound festering on my heart one last time before I go.

She’s still there, sparring with Thyne. They’ve been at it for nearly two hours, his hands wandering over her body as he adjusts the angle of her staff or steps in to give her a boost when her boneless monkey flips bring her head too close to the ground. Aurora is determined to regain as much of her former fighting skill as possible without being fairy-blessed, and her dear old friend Thyne has been all too eager to help.

He’s just waiting until I’m gone, until the sorry oaf Aurora pities so much she’s begged him to marry her ten times in the past four days has turned into a bird, and then he’ll offer his shoulder to cry on and his hands will be free to wander wherever they like.

I saw the way she looked at him that night in the throne room, the way she threw herself into his arms with a sound like she was dying of pleasure to be there. She loves him. She might love me, too, in her way, but I would never be happy sharing her.

Even if I could trust her, even if I could forgive and forget …

But I can’t. Every time I think of the way I kicked her awake with my boot, I want to be sick. I hate myself for the way I treated her. Janin assured me it was magic no man could overcome, and that the darkness hidden in fairy blessings is the reason the Fey stopped gifting human children, but it doesn’t matter. I still hate myself, and Aurora, and Thyne. I’ve barely said ten words to the ass, but oh how I hate Thyne.

Imagining that fairy bastard with Aurora in his arms, kissing her tears away with his girly-soft lips makes me want to punch something.

So I do, slamming my fist into the wall beside the window hard enough to split my middle knuckle and send blood oozing from the busted skin. I stare down at the damage, but I can barely feel it, let alone work up the energy to fret about it.

What does it matter if I’m hurt? This body will only be mine for one more night.

A night I won’t be spending here. The fairies, aside from Thyne, are good people, and Jor has become a friend, but I can’t stay. I won’t share my transformation with anyone. I will find an i

“Niklaas? Can I come in?”

I turn to find Jor at the door, looking quietly concerned. He’s a quiet sort of boy, a thinker and a pla

“Come in.” I force a smile as I cross to the bed and begin shoving my things into my pack. I am determined to keep up a happy front; I won’t ride out of this city boohooing into Alama’s mane.

Aurora kept her promise to retrieve my horse. I’m not sure how she managed it, but Alama and Button arrived yesterday, delivered by Crimsin and a group of young exiles who had fled the Feeding Hills after Aurora and I left and been in hiding in the borderland woods ever since. Aurora was thrilled to learn Crimsin was alive, and Crimsin more than eager to start her new life in the capital.