Yara cleared her throat, feeling the gazes of everyone in the room on her. “Ahem. Excuse me?”

“A dance, dear Yara,” the prince repeated. 

“Devesh…can I be honest?” she asked, putting on her best display of doe eyes she could. “I—I don’t know how to dance very well.”

“Please, call me Dev,” he said, smiling lightly. “I would love to show you the ropes, so to speak.” 

“It’s fine, I—” she said.

“I apologize for the interruption, but it is customary for the bride and groom to have the first dance before the festivities go into full swing.”

There it was. Their tradition. Her fears had been all but confirmed. She couldn’t do much but reluctantly agree to the terms. 

“A short dance couldn’t hurt anyone.” She laughed nervously, despite her best efforts. 

“Exactly,” he said. “Follow my lead.” 

He gently took her hand, then led her to the center of the crowd. They formed a circle around the pair. 

Yara glanced around. All the fae folk were floating, smiles plastered on their faces, while Dev was on the floor with her. That made her wonder—why was he not flying? Was it a show of respect? Or a sign of derision? Was he denigrating her lack of flight? Or perhaps he was impotent…

“Yara, my dear,” Dev said, his smooth voice piercing the veil of her thoughts. 

“Oh, yes,” she said, snapping out of it. “Let’s begin.” Our dance to the death, she added mentally. 

Dev smiled, the corners of his eyes creasing a bit. 

They flitted around the room like graceful butterflies. Yara had put in so much effort into playing her part, she had forgotten to account for the white lie she had told about not being able to dance well. 

“It seems you’re a rather skilled dancer after all,” he whispered softly as he leaned in close. He smelled of elderberries and lilac, his scent almost intoxicating. “So modest of you.” 

“Y-yes, I misspoke,” she said. “I’m not accustomed to fae styles of dance—is what I meant to say.” 

Dev spun her around so that she landed in his arms, leaning back as their dance came to a surprising, yet satisfying end. She breathed hard, staring up at the ceiling, trying not to get lost in her thoughts again. 

Her dance partner brought her up gently, their faces close together now. 

“Good work, princess Yara,” he said. “You’ve truly left an impression on these fine folk.” 

She looked around the room, shocked that their eyes were all still on her. She felt like a specimen under a human’s microscope.

With a wave of Dev’s hand, the crowd cheered, then scattered away as they enjoyed the start of the festivities. Diminutive fairies came flying in with platters of drinks, handing them out to one and all. 

One of them floated over to Yara, offering her a drink with a silent nod. She looked at the fae, which was just about two feet tall, and nodded in return, tentatively grabbing hold of the stemmed glass. 

She inspected the liquid as she swished it around in its container. It was of a golden hue, somewhat sticky in consistency, she surmised from how some residue stuck to the sides of the glass. 

During her research on fae poisons, she had come across an extract from a special type of flower that grew in the Deep Woods. It was a sticky, sap-like substance that was clear to milky white in color. Ingestion of the sap could lead to loss of muscle function and paralysis. 

She brought the glass up to her nostrils, taking a quick sniff. It smelled like…saliva? No, something sweet, a hint of a floral undertone. Perhaps the drink was laced with the venom of the lacresnake, known to cause severe nerve damage and possibly death within minutes. The venom itself was rumored to have a sweet scent to it. 

Whatever it was, she wanted no part of it. She considered inconspicuous places to hide her drink when Dev appeared in her periphery. 

She straightened up immediately, pretending to take a drink, ensuring the liquid went close, but didn’t quite touch her lips. 

At that moment, a burly fae flew by, his muscular arm bumping into her drink and knocking her glass a bit higher than she had intended. 

The moment the drink touched her lips, her spine tingled with apprehension. 

She felt the sweetness on her lips, the slightly stickiness of the concoction. It must have been that sap—there was little room for doubt. 

This is it, she thought. Dear Illuminated One, I know I have never prayed to you before, but if you are listening, I will devote—

She blinked, registering the familiar taste. 

It was honey. The wildflower variety, probably. Sweet, mellow. Definitely not poison. 

“Oh, miss princess Yara princess,” the big fae said, his expression filled with worry. His voice came out several pitches higher than she had expected. “I apologize for the mishap. I swear I won’t do it ever again.” The amount of sweat beading from his face was enough to fill a bucket. He seemed unnecessarily worried about the whole encounter, which amounted to nothing more than a slight mistake. 

“No worries,” she replied, regaining her internal composure. “It was just an accident.”

His face paled as Dev looked his way. “P-please, Prince Dev, have mercy on a poor old soul.” 

Dev didn’t respond, staring sternly at the fae. After a few tense moments of silence, he spoke. “Relax, friend. You’ve made your apology to our dear princess, and she has accepted it. Please, continue enjoying the festivities.”

“Thank the skies above that you’re nothing like your father,” he said, sighing in relief. “If something like this had happened to King Oberon, I would’ve lost my head.” 

Dev glanced across the hall at a fae in the corner that craned his neck. He smiled, speaking a bit louder than usual. “I’ll second your sentiment, Olson. Thank the skies for King Oberon. He surely is a good father, and he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” 

Olson’s face paled again as he realized his error. “Yes, Oberon is truly a splendid example of an ideal every fae should follow. You should strive to be just like him.”

“Mhm.” Dev held the smile on his face as Olson fluttered off slowly. 

He turned his attention to Yara afterward, his smile completely erased from his lips, replaced by a thin line. 

Leaning in, he kept his voice low as he spoke, “Keep your wits about you, dear Yara. The whispers I hear are favorable, at least in this room. Outside of this hall, however, lay many enemies-in-waiting.” 

“Seems the war isn’t quite over,” she whispered back. 

“It may be many decades yet before we see a true peace.”

“You need not worry for me, sixth prince of the fae. I’m a capable elf.” 

“I don’t doubt your skills.” He let out a slight chuckle. “The only reason I was able to touch you at all was because I moved my hands slowly.”

“Huh?” She kept herself from giving up her stoic expression. Did he know about the protections she had in place? 

He subtly guided her to a more secluded offshoot of the room, behind a pillar, before continuing. “You haven’t let up on your personal barrier since you stepped foot into Lucinia.” 

“No, I—”

“I wasn’t making a judgment. What I want to say is—it’ll do you no good against an illusory bullet.” 

“What? Why would—”

Then it dawned on her. 

He was right. An illusory bullet would rip through her magical barrier in a matter of seconds. The barrier was meant to stop physical projectiles, blades, and common elven magic—the three foci of fire, water, and earth. The only reason she had been using her barrier so frequently was because she had been in training, going against precisely those scenarios. It would have proved near useless in an actual war against fae that used a wholly different strain of magic. The elves still had not figured out a counter for it, other than outright killing the offending party with fire spells. 

An illusory bullet could rip through trees with minimal effort—a fleshy body, even less. She had traced burn-less wounds in casualties brought home from the battlefield, just like in some of her sisters and cousins, well, at least in the bodies of those that were able to be recovered.

“As you’re probably thinking, it rips through physical matter like paper, and its non-physical properties allow it to shred elven defenses. He glanced over her shoulder, as if he were checking for eavesdroppers or other gossipers. “But I wouldn’t suggest you rid yourself of your barrier completely. A fae’s most debilitating weakness is iron, and fae on assassination missions carry iron blades.” 

“To assassinate whom, exactly?” What was his plan here? To lull her into a false sense of security? Or was this his way of making conversation, however grim it was? 

“Other fae, of course. Elves too, in the war, but we have been killing our own kind long before we turned our focus to elven kind.” 

“Are you insinuating my enemies will come after with blades rather than magic?”

“I’m simply letting you know of the multiple avenues our enemies may take.”

“Our? How bold of you, Fae Prince. We’re not even officially wed and you’re talking about us like we are an item.”

“Slip of the tongue, I fear. I have a tendency to get ahead of myself sometimes.” 

“Whatever your expectations of me, just know that we will not be sharing the same bed on our wedding night. I am not the type of woman that fools around with a strange man she’s just met.” 

An expression came across the prince’s face that she couldn’t quite discern. 

“Of course not. This marriage, political or not, will be dictated on your terms and your comfort, miss Yara.”

“I do not need your reassurance. Nor anything else, for that matter,” she said. “Let us treat this as a marriage of convenience, even though it’s mostly an inconvenience for me. There are a million other things I’d rather be doing.”

“Yes…you must truly feel much sorrow in your heart—being so far from everything you’ve ever known. This place is not like the backwoods tree-huts you are used to.” 

“Excuse me?” 

“I meant no offense. Elven architecture seems to be decades, perhaps centuries, behind even the most basic of fae constructions.”

“Snark like that is what I expected from a haughty prince. I’m glad you’re not wearing that polite mask of yours any longer. I like this a little better.”

“I’m glad I do not need to mince words with you. I figured it’d be easier for the both of us that way.” 

“It is.” 

“Let’s continue on with our ‘celebrations,’ yes? We still have a few pleasantries to exchange before we can continue with the terms of the peace treaty.”

“Which are?” 

“I am to be wed to you,” he said. “And you and I must complete a pilgrimage to the Elder Wyrd Tree.” 

Her eyes widened. 

“We will be the first from either side to set foot into hallowed territory that hasn’t been breached in one-hundred-and-sixty years.” The flower on his lapel twirled slowly, and he touched it softly. 

“The two of us, alone?” 

“Yes,” he said. “We have no information on what has changed in the last few decades, only that we must commune with the tree.” 

“Can a fae do that?”

“Of course. The tree is a cornerstone of our culture, just as it is in yours.” 

“Huh, interesting.” The history books had always marked the ability to commune with the Elder Wyrd Tree as a uniquely Elvish trait. That the fae wanted the tree for its fruits’ cultural significance and not its ability to connect us with our ancestors. 

“Now let us feast until half-night!” someone declared from the crowd, and Prince Devesh chuckled slightly.  

“Shall we?” the man asked, his eyes glittering with the fae folk’s signature stardust. 

A celebration that went on for twelve hours? While the other tales of the fae had not rung true so far, the one about them dancing the night away might have had some merit to it.