Dew curled up under the soft sheets and heavy pelts, not bothering with her trunk by the door, and let sleep take her. Her mind required little persuasion as the day’s events drained her. 

The hinges of her door squeaked. The sound, while soft, was enough to shoot raw fear through her veins. It must have been only a few hours, hardly any time to get proper rest. 

Dew’s heart pounded at the thought of Rhyddid entering. He would take her as he pleased and she would have no choice but to accept. But, the figure slipping into the room was too small to be the Fae. Quiet feet pattered against the cool flooring and Dew recognized the bouncy curls of Efa. 

“Efa? Are you well?” Dew hauled her sister into the bed with her. She wrapped one of the pelts over Efa’s trembling frame. “Did someone hurt you?” 

Efa shook her head and buried her face into the crook of Dew’s neck. 

“Are your hands still sore?” Dew soothed a hand over one of Efa’s, unable to see any injury in the dark.

Efa cuddled closer. Dew dropped the subject. 

Together, they waited out the night. 

Rhyddid spoke truly about his world. The darkness receded into a gray, still too dark for her human eyes to clearly catch anything beyond the few feet in front of her. The dying embers of the fire smoldered bright in comparison. It offered little light though, not even able to chase shadows from the mantle. 

Dew considered waiting for someone to come wake her. However, Rhyddid might not tolerate a tardy human woman in his court. So, she pulled from Efa and slipped from the bed. 

“Help me dress.” Dew pulled Efa with her and rummaged her chest for something fresh to wear. 

Efa declined to change, having already changed her dress from the day before. They found candles by the vanity and on top of the mantle but no matches. The embers of the fire would not light the wick, much to their frustration. 

“Forget it, I will brush my hair and leave it down.” Efa silently dug out a comb and helped her sister brush her curls into something presentable. 

Dew exited the room first to see the sitting room empty. Someone must have tended to the fire since it burned as bright as the night before. The mosaic glowed with the tiniest light of day. 

“You are awake.” Rhyddid appeared through a door across from her own, his armor like a second skin. This time, his helmet was tucked under his arm. 

It only confirmed Dew’s worst suspicions. Her rooms were the queen’s rooms. 

Dew’s eyes danced over his naked face, a bit relieved to finally see something beyond the shadow of his armor. Her eyes caught on the sight of his skin and hair first, both equally ethereal in snowdrop white. Four dark protrusions on either side of his head peeked from silky strands. Some kind of horns, Dew guessed. His ears pointed up sharply just like the others from the hall. Skin stretched over his cheeks and chin, taut and cutting. 

Inhuman eyes watched her. Slitted pupils like a cat’s. Glowing green from the fire. 

Uncomfortable with the sudden silence, Dew tried to grasp onto a conversation. 

“This is your day here?” She glanced at the mosaic window and the fraction of light filtering through. 

“I told you, it is dark here.” He headed for the door.

Dew and Efa trailed behind, holding hands as they wound through the corridors. Guards passed by them, stepping from their path to bow in reverence to their king. Rhyddid made no indication of acknowledgment. Dew, however, politely nodded to each one. 

They entered his throne room from a side door that had two guards on either side. Members of his court loitered in the room, their gossip ceasing as he claimed his throne. 

Dew and Efa kept their distance, letting go of one another to appear as calm and collected as possible. Both of them caught the sight of disgusted sneers slinked their way. 

Throne rooms in Dew’s limited experience were meant to be grand things with ivory and gold and fine silks. These stone walls were devoid of any decoration except low-lit lamps bordering the room. 

An ornate throne of twisted metal commanded the attention of everyone. It lacked the chryselephantine appeal of royalty. Dark twisted branches sprouted from the floor and intertwined to form a pointed triangle, the backing of the chair. Polished pieces of metal melded to the branches and formed the arms and bottom. 

The royal suite appeared more grand than the throne room.

Dew observed the sea of Fae nobles before her. Devoid of armor like Rhyddid, they wore furs around their shoulders despite the warm air. One Fae woman wore a complicated bodice of metal that held a singular pelt to her breasts and let the material hang down. A leather belt wrapped the fur to her back for modesty. 

Dew had never seen such a dress at home. The more she looked, the more she saw leather, furs, and metal accompanying fine cloth on the Fae ladies. Some of the lords wore tunics of only leather, others had cloth with metalwork strapped on for decor. 

One Fae strode forward and bowed low in greeting. He spoke the native language, completely unknown to the humans. 

Dew thought she might recognize pieces of it, but if they spoke anything like humans, the language would have been diluted. The forest and castle held many similarities to home, but at the same time, Dew recognized the differences that split their worlds. 

Rhyddid did not like what the Fae lord said, for he launched himself from his throne with an animalistic growl. His lips pulled back to reveal gleaming teeth. His response came in crashing waves, booming in Dew’s ears. 

Efa flinched at the sound but held herself. 

Rhyddid snapped his gaze to Dew, the fury in his strange eyes smoldering. 

“Your father gave you to me to spare his life.” Dew nodded at his words. She remembered. “You are mine.”

Dew shivered at the ferocity in his tone. She could only nod again in agreement. 

“We will marry,” Rhyddid turned back to his court. “By next week, we will have a queen.” 

Dew felt Efa turn to her but she held her gaze firmly on Rhyddid. She expected nothing less, especially since being granted the queen’s rooms. At minimum, she would be his mistress. At best, his wife and queen. Either way, she would be his to do with as he pleased.