YIELDING TO THE WICKED FAE

The Imperial Carriage jounced violently over the cobbled border of the mortal world, each bump shaking loose another tear, another silk embroidered pearl, and another layer of my deeply fraudulent royalty.

For eighteen years, I was Princess Avaline: beloved jewel of the empire, grandmaster of the harp, and the undisputed favorite of my father, Emperor Malakor.

My days were spent being pampered with bath oils made from squeezed rose petals and listening to court poets compare my midnight-dark hair to silk woven from starlight, while praising my piercing blue eyes and impossibly flawless skin. As it turns out, that otherworldly beauty wasn’t just good luck—it was literal Fae genetics.

When court ministers finally questioned why I could accidentally turn the royal guard’s spears into solid milk chocolate whenever I threw a tantrum, my mother, the Empress Dowager, finally caved.

I was not the Emperor’s biological child. I was the product of a brief, scandalous fling with a diplomat from Willowmere—a mythical realm floating somewhere between a shimmering fever dream and an overpriced botanical garden, where the trees whispered gossip and the moss had better skin than most mortal aristocrats.

My stepfather, displaying the true, unyielding depth of his paternal devotion, immediately declared me a national security hazard and liquidated me to Willowmere. His diplomatic genius? Marrying me off to King Zephyrus of the Fae.

The King was legendary, ancient, and according to court whispers, so old that his personal sigil was a dried-up raisin and his spine creaked louder than a haunted tavern door.

“Father, please!” I had thrown myself at the Emperor’s polished boots just hours before, weeping with the tragic grace only a spoiled royal could muster. “I don’t even know how to use my Fae magic! I only know how to levitate delicate tea cups and summon minor glitter storms!”

“Nonsense, Avaline,” the Emperor had sneered, carefully stepping back to avoid getting my tear stains on his velvet slippers. “You’re building international relations. Think of it as an extended, permanent, un-cancellable vacation. Besides, the King is a classic. A true vintage.”

I turned to my older brother, Prince Cedric, the crown prince who used to fight off terrifying golden retrievers just to protect my honor. “Cedric! Tell him! You promised you’d always protect me!”

Cedric adjusted his pristine silk cape, took a deliberate step away, and pulled out a small pocket mirror to inspect his hair. “Look, Avaline, I love you, but my advisers says being associated with a half-mortal, half-pest illegitimate Fae really damages my ‘Chosen One’ brand. The approval ratings in the northern provinces are already dropping. Have fun in the woods, though!”

And so, thrown out by the humans for having magic, and shipped to the immortals to be a trophy bride for a living fossil, I sat in the carriage as the shimmering wall of Willowmere swallowed us whole.

My tiara was crooked, my mascara was running down my flawless cheeks, and I was fully prepared to turn the entire Fae court into milk chocolate the moment I arrived.

My only companions on this journey into exile were my two personal maids, Pippa and Beatrice—along with two ruthless elite guards assigned to me by my dear brother, Cedric. Pippa and Beatrice had the wide, innocent eyes of doll-faced orphans, but behind those angelic smiles lay assassins capable of snapping a soldier’s neck with a silk ribbon before breakfast.

“How could the Emperor send you here?!” Pippa wailed, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief while subtly adjusting the hidden dagger strapped under her petticoat.

“And worse—not even as a consort, but as a concubine!” Beatrice sobbed hysterically, her tiny hands balling into fists that could easily shatter marble. “The sheer disrespect to your flawless complexion!”

Being demoted from legitimate royalty to a lower-tier royal concubine was, strictly speaking, a diplomatic slap in the face. But as our carriage finally lurched to a halt in Willowmere, I realized the Fae didn’t even care enough to slap properly.

There was no grand brass band, no carpet of woven orchids, and no shimmering parade of ethereal nobility. Instead, we were dumped in a cramped, damp courtyard that looked like an afterthought of the royal architecture. The welcome committee consisted of exactly three bored-looking Fae servant girls and a head maid who possessed the posture of a broomstick and a face like a dried plum.

The head maid looked over my midnight-dark hair, my piercing blue eyes, and my ruined mascara with supreme unconcern. She didn’t bow. She didn’t even offer a polite fake smile.

“Don’t expect the King to summon you,” she droned in a voice colder than a winter frost. “There are over six hundred women residing in the Inner Palace. Most of them have been waiting since the last century. You are simply Entry Number Six Hundred and Three.”

I bowed my head demotimately, hiding the massive sigh of relief that nearly escaped my lips.

Six hundred women? Perfect.

Having grown up in the imperial court of the human world, I was intimately familiar with the absurd, bloodthirsty reality of royal harems. My stepfather’s zenana was less a home and more a battleground of political gladiators in silk dresses.

I had seen enough poisonous tea ‘accidents,’ mysteriously slippery marble staircases, and suspiciously frequent ‘unfortunate illnesses’ to know how the game worked.

In a mortal harem, women fought, poisoned, and plotted over every crumb of the Emperor’s attention, turning childbearing into a high-stakes blood sport where miscarriages were practically a political strategy.

If King Zephyrus had six hundred wives, it meant he was far too busy managing his ancient joints and buried paperwork to bother with me. Being completely ignored by a thousand-year-old monarch was the greatest gift my stepfather had accidentally given me.

“Understood,” I replied, maintaining a tone of tragic submission.

The head maid sneered, clearly expecting a spoiled imperial outburst, before turning on her heel to lead us to our quarters. Behind me, Pippa and Beatrice exchanged subtle, terrifying glances, already calculating the structural weak points of the courtyard walls and plotting how to discreetly eliminate anyone who dared cross us.

I smoothed down my rumpled gown. The mortal court had tried to discard me, and this magical realm expected me to wither away in obscurity. But if the women of Willowmere thought I was just another fragile flower sent to die in the harem’s gilded cage, they were about to learn that this half-Fae princess brought her own thorns.

Our assigned quarters were located in the far, dusty corner of the Inner Palace: a “simple” residence by Willowmere standards, which meant it was merely a single-story pagoda built from bioluminescent moon-stone, draped in shimmering starlight velvet, and surrounded by a modest garden where the roses hummed soft lullabies when the wind blew.

It was modest, charming, and blissfully far away from royal politics.

For the first time in weeks, I sank into a bed stuffed with cloud-sprite down, wrapped myself in silk sheets, and prepared for a glorious, uninterrupted night of decadent, un-princess-like sleep.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

The noise didn’t just break the silence; it ripped through the courtyard like a lightning bolt inside an iron kettle. I jolted awake, hit the floor with a thud, and tangled myself hopelessly in five layers of midnight-blue silk.

“What in the mortal realm was that?!” I gasped, clutching a bedpost while my tiara slid down over one eye. “Is the palace under attack? Did someone drop a tray of brass goblets?!”

Pippa burst through the heavy wooden doors, holding a pair of gleaming steel daggers in a reverse grip, while Beatrice followed calmly behind, casually wiping a questionable crimson smudge off her knuckles with a silk napkin.

“Your Highness, good news and bad news!” Pippa panted, her wide innocent eyes sparkling with manic adrenaline.

“Start with the bad!” I scrambled up, frantically trying to untangle my ankles.

“The King is dead!” Beatrice announced with complete serenity. “Apparently, His Ancient Majesty’s heart finally decided eighty centuries of breathing was quite enough, and he expired precisely twenty minutes ago.”

“Wait—how is that bad news for me?!” I blinked. “I never even met the man! I’ve been in this kingdom for less than twelve hours! I haven’t even unpacked my rose-petal face oils!”

“Ah, that brings us to the traditional court policy,” Pippa piped up, raising a finger cheerfully. “The Regent’s personal guard has already surrounded the entire Inner Palace. According to ancient, highly revered, and supremely enlightened Willowmere tradition, all six hundred of the late King’s wives and concubines must be buried alive alongside His Majesty in the Great Royal Catacombs to serve him in the afterlife.”

I froze. “They’re going to what?!”