Snowred Series Book 3: Vulkin
Author
C. Swallow
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Chapters
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Book 3: Vulkin
FAYE
I’m the laughingstock of Alma—I have two fathers and a mother. No one else has three parents.
My mother, Ellie, the queen? I love her dearly, but she is a wreck of a woman. She’s sweet but irreparably infertile after me, and I wasn’t a son, so…no heir.
The kingdom is in jeopardy.
My fathers? Infamous King Snow and the Red Warlock Whittaker want me to marry.
The only problem is that my family is considered somewhat evil, and the whole kingdom feels suppressed by their unstable tyranny.
The taxes are high, for one thing.
For now, the rival Kingdom of Desentol is coming to negotiate a bond.
But it isn’t a prince they are willing to give. Only a high lord, who they claim will rule in the prince’s name.
The high lord was meant to arrive tonight.
Meant to.
He didn’t.
No one could find him.
My potential marriage is seemingly falling through the cracks.
We’re still waiting while the plentiful feast grows cold before us in the throne room.
“Where the hell is this suitor?” My father by blood, Whittaker, stabs a cooked chicken breast with his fork a little too hard, and I hear bone break as he whispers curses at the empty seat opposite me. “We don’t even know his name, Ellie.”
I glance at my mother, who has been quiet since arranging this. Now she drinks some ale and clears her throat. “I tried my best.” Ellie lays down the goblet and holds my hand, petting it protectively.
I feel Snow’s silent glare across the table. My second father—the King of Alma with white hair, piercing blue eyes with a gleam of red—he also has a temper when it comes to stupidity.
Snow glances at me, and only then do his eyes soften just a little. “I probably killed him and didn’t even realize.” Snow snarls quietly, like a wolf, raising a brow.
It is a clear joke—but Ellie gasps as Whittaker laughs loudly, embarrassing the rest of the company.
High Elites are here to help make me seem beloved and held in high regard. However, I’m pretty sure my family could not be more hated for their haughty attitudes.
Snow is mean, Whittaker overtly frivolous, Ellie bad mannered—at the worst times.
I am the only daughter who has the world on her shoulders—because it feels at times as if the people of Alma only tolerate their king, warlock, and queen because they enjoy me.
I am polite, courteous, and tutored in all the fine arts of dancing, poetry, and music. I am a fine princess and a fine catch.
And yet, despite my pedigree and skill set, I can’t find anyone to match me.
I’m desperate in some ways for love, hoping a man can save me from the fate of carrying a kingdom on my shoulders in my future. If I could run away from it all, I would. I’m not interested in ruling one day, although I know I could if forced to do so.
I’m much more interested in private, solitary activities. But I guess that’s a luxury. Yes, you could call me spoiled. I’m not denying that.
But the cost of having everything material means being weighed down by expectation from everyone else. There is no such thing as normalcy.
Speaking of duty…a female High Elite speaks up from the feast. “If you are nervous to be wed before you’re infertile, Princess Faye—know it’s okay to be free. I have been free all my life—it’s heavenly. To submit to marriage is disastrous if you wish to remain happy.”
Madame Alice tells me this with a sly smile—she’s extraordinarily old and frail. The only one confident enough to speak against my crazy family.
“Inappropriate much, dear Alice? Faye will marry—and she’ll marry very, very rich, worth her weight in diamonds,” Whittaker says in my defense, and I sigh.
“He, whoever ‘he’ is, isn’t coming to this feast,” I say. “I’m not hungry. May I be dismissed?” I look at my mother hopefully.
Ellie gulps. “If you need the air, go…but come back soon? I’m sure he’s just late.”
“You don’t even know his name,” I whisper back, feeling embarrassed. “Yet you planned this?”
“I’m sorry, Faye,” Ellie says, drinking more ale as she explains. “The Desentol influence is far greater than Alma… I had to concede to their strange negotiations, or they would choose war over a peaceful alliance.
“They value having never lost a battle or war. They have chosen a great high lord…um…a gifted soldier as well. He is said to be gifted with dark magic like your father. It’s a rare trait.”
Whittaker drops his fork and loses his smile as a sudden silence descends over the whole dinner. “This is news to me,” Whittaker says, leaning past me to look at Ellie, who frowns at him.
“I knew you wouldn’t take it well to hear he is likely some kind of warlock,” she admits.
“What kind of man is he?” Snow asks carefully. “Ellie. Details.”
“I was tasked with this betrothal, it is my business,” Ellie says, lifting her chin and trying to appear confident. “I chose a man like I would have, if I had the choice when I was younger. Gifted with luck. Not cursed. And he is given the opportunity to treat Faye well—through a proper courting process. It will ally us all and bring strength to both our kingdoms.”
“A high lord is not—gifted—a prince or king is gifted. Desentol is insulting us,” Snow growls. “He is not punctual, if at all. He is clearly drunk and fucking some whore in the town down the road.”
“Snow, please, you’re making it worse.” I kick my chair back and stand, trying to hold in my tears at the humiliation. “I don’t even care anymore—I’ll just grow old and die alone, rather than go through all these fucking feasts waiting for the right one. Fuck this.
“I am probably cursed. I wish everyone would stop trying to force this fate on me. I’m tired of being guided, I want to make my own decisions now. This is the last feast and the last failed courting I will attend!” I have a mouth on me too, sometimes.
Whittaker chokes on his wine at my swearing, but it’s intensely sarcastic. I know he secretly enjoys my foul mouth making the High Elites uncomfortable.
Snow shuts up, but just flares his nostrils as I storm off.
All eyes in the hall watch me closely as I depart. The high lord with no name will not concern me anymore. I want to be wed—but I am done with disappointment.
