Syrano chose a place at the head of the Hall that would put his face roughly sneezing distance from the Eldritch King’s feet once he was on his throne. Taric would have considered it arrogantly close to the dais, but there were three others who were already roughly level, all of whom carried luggage that clearly contained shoes, and all of whom cast fresh hostile glares in Syrano’s direction. Syrano ignored them all as if they were beneath notice.

This close, Taric could see that the twelve pearl chairs weren’t as smooth and simple as they first appeared. Each of them was subtly imbued with a sigil, some of which he recognized as the symbols of significant fae courts. All except the one on the very far end, which was blank. 

As he considered what might be the best way to inquire about it (if it was worth inquiring about), his thoughts were interrupted by a restless shift among the gathered fae. The faces of the court turned toward the back of the Hall, and Taric followed their gazes.

Once more the roots of the Hall arched open, this time framing a young, pale woman with delicate features and hair of spun gold that curled down past her waist.

The Eldritch King’s daughters had arrived. 

Syrano straightened, for the fist time diverted from staring at the throne on the dais. He watched the first princess as she solemnly paraded down the center of the Hall, her white, draped dress practically glowing against the darkness of the obsidian. The gathered court gave her a wide aisle, parting before her as she made a straight line for the dais.

As she drew closer, Taric noticed that she was subtly eying the crowd, though her face was tilted demurely downward. That is, until she was perhaps two thirds of the distance down the Hall. Her face suddenly broke into a beaming smile, and though she quickly threw her eyes down to the floor, the smile lingered. 

More surprisingly, Syrano seemed to be biting his lower lip very hard. Perhaps as if trying to suppress a matching smile.

“So, you and the king’s daughter?” Taric ventured under his breath. Maybe this “challenge” wouldn’t be so challenging after all. Not if Syrano already had a foot in the door, so to speak.

Syrano’s eyes snapped back to the (empty) center throne, his cheeks darkening. “I am not answering the challenge because the winner weds a princess. I am here to redeem the honor of my fallen brothers.”

Ah. That explained even more. Taric nodded sagely. “Priceless. Indeed.” A very loaded prize. Not only the lives of his brothers and the approval of the Eldritch King himself, but the hand of one of the king's daughters.

No wonder so many fae were willing to line up to die for it.

The Eldritch King’s daughters were as beautiful and terrible as all of the rumors claimed, each a uniquely stunning creature. One could almost overlook their array of fangs, horns, antlers, scales, and talons. Almost. Until the center daughter came into view.

Taric felt the air leave his lungs as panic clawed his throat shut. 

The bane shade’s waxen, moon white skin was laced with deep purple veins, her lips the ashen grey of a drowned corpse. Her blind silver eyes drifted aimlessly as her head swayed faintly from side to side, her fine white hair floating as if through water. Her long, bony fingers fluttered in agitation; one of the first signs of an impending death. Unlike her sisters, she was lead forward by an attendant swathed entirely in gossamer white veils.

Taric forced himself to breathe, fighting back the memories of bane shades being used to flush out iron warriors. Like himself. 

But those days were done. The war was over. 

Yet, as the attendant drew the bane shade closer and closer to the dais, and closer to him, the shade’s agitation grew. Her fluttering worsened, a sharp, high keen beginning in the back of her throat. A sound that sent adrenaline thrumming through Taric’s veins.

It’s not you. It’s not you she’s singing for. Taric felt his jaw clenching. Battle after battle, not one had sung for him. Yet.

Taric wrenched his eyes away from the bane shade, throwing his gaze past her, to her other sisters. The latest to enter the hall stood head and shoulders taller than Taric even without considering the spreading rack of antlers crowning her head. Her eyes had the look of a wild thing that had been caged too long, darting back and forth to single out each potential challenger as her tongue absently ran over her fangs. Was she the last? Taric quickly counted, skimming past the bane shade. No. There was one more, gliding in her taller sister’s shadow.

But the bane shade was now nearly parallel, and had to pass by him to reach the dais. All he could see was the pale figure drawing nearer and nearer, her keen growing louder and shriller. Her bare feet no longer touched the floor, dangling as she began to float upward, propelled forward only by her attendant. Just like the watchdogs of the battle field. An odd moaning joined the building shriek as her arms lifted, reaching out as she leaned away from her attendant. Toward Taric.

The instinct to flee nearly caused him to bolt.

“Ignore her.” Syrano’s calm, low voice cut through his panic. “You smell of mortality.”

Taric released the breath he’d been holding and took a new one, fighting back the tide of fear. He couldn’t afford to give in to panic. Not when he’d come so far.

The veiled attendant hurried to usher the bane shade past him and up the steps onto the dais. The shade spun slowly to continue facing him, the hem of her dress gently floating around her ankles. Her empty eyes seemed to stare into his soul.

No wonder her foot suggested she was “flighty.”

It wasn’t until he was able to pull his eyes free of the bane shade’s lidless stare that Taric registered that nearly all of the princesses had taken their places standing (or floating) before their pearl chairs. He skimmed back across the line, speculating which belonged to which pair of shoes. None of them were that ambiguous as to which was which, such as the finned “foot” that clearly belonged to the blue scaled siren next in line to the bane shade. But which one had been the twelfth, elusive pair? The one that had refused to cooperate with designing?

He glanced up as the tall, antlered predator passed close enough that the hem of her skirt nearly brushed the side of his leg. That one was dangerous. But she also definitely wasn’t the twelfth pair; hers had to have been the largest of the feet. So which one -

Time stopped. Heartbeat stopped. Breath stopped.

Her. The last one.