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Saoirse's blood dances with iron and trickery, a secret she has managed to sheathe from all faery alike.
Until now, that is.
When Saoirse's cunning and charade is shredded to bits by the malevolent interfering of fa...
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CHAPTER EIGHT
SAOIRSE'S STOMACH CLENCHED AS SHE PEERED INTO THE SILVER-HAMMERED MIRROR.
Carved into the ovular frame were flowers of gemstones; roses of ruby petals and emerald leaves, wisteria of amethyst, bluebonnets of sapphire. Peering into the flawless surface of the mirror, she spied her reflection for the first time in as long as she could recall.
Eyes of molten russet stared back at her with each slow blink, fringed in lashes of ink, wings of fire arching finely over them. She bore a decidedly dainty nose and a roseate mouth, both of which had been gifted by her mother. A riot of dark auburn hair danced over her frail shoulders, tumbling to a length of waves and sumptuous curls to her elbows, dancing with fire and sunlight. Currently, its length was constrained in an elaborate braid, wound through with flowers and glittering with diamonds. Pearlescent skin, typical of Spring fey, enshrouded a delicate, deceptively frail build, and marring it were webbings of iron scars.
Saoirse turned, appraising her appearance, turning a scrutinizing eye to the gown of pale, pale golden dressing her length. Whimsical lace scoured her arms, sleeves billowing to the floor, ribbons and diminutive gemstones fastening it about her body. Flimsy slippers adorned her feet, material glittering beneath the a lazy dapple of light. Everything about her appearance pandered to the Spring Court. From the color, to the flowers, to the apparent docility they wished to permeate.
She dragged a fingernail against the bodice of the gown, a cold, neutral mask settling upon her features.
"Like a lamb," she murmured, brow wrinkling. To be sacrificed to The Alder King.
Her throat tightened at the thought, and the chandelier above her sang a merry tune, as if in response.
The manservant had escorted her to a set of finely-decorated chambers, as if they had been awaiting her all along. Of carved pillars flanking a chiffon-curtained, flower-strewn chamber of soft rose and gold, wealth and luxuries were embedded in every which way there was to look. Spring, though perhaps the smallest court of Elfhame, was likely the most wealthy. Though, Saoirse's nose wrinkled, they paid in spades for it with their vile, wretched cruelty and odious personalities.
A small smirk lined her lips at the thought. Perhaps she was only slightly biased.
She smoothed her hands over the gown again, nary a flinch crossing her features as the corset pressed into her delicate skin. Her thoughts were lost, concerned over the Spring Sourt, and she turned away from the mirror, elaborate plait resting over her shoulder.
Evidently, for their wickedness, they were paying the price at the hands of The Alder King. And you're to stop that price from being paid. At that, Saoirse did flinch, finally. Someway, somehow, she was to persuade The Alder King to free Spring from The Wild Hunt. An impossible task that her father was all too willingly to surrender her to as punishment for her very existence.
