Chapter 1
Castiil
Who the fuck would want to be the High Fae?
He leaned back in his chair and stifled another yawn. His eyes stung with dryness of the boredom that weighed down on him but he forced his face to remain utterly unfazed as his father spoke.
He was furious. Spittle formed in the corners of his mouth. But Castiil couldn’t find a drop of care in him.
The issue had been the same for as long as he could remember.
“Fucking brat thinks we will jump around as he whistles,” he sounded utterly inhuman.
Castiil should care—after all, Orion was his only rival to the throne of the Fae. But the truth was when you have to listen to the complaints about a person, you suddenly become a bit numb. Or at least that was what Castiil told himself.
Orion’s name shuddered their residence at least once a day. His father paid the male more attention than his own kin.
He had never met the male, his father kept him well separated from the Heir of Night Throne and the rest of his family. And if Castiil had to be truly honest, he would much rather pay attention to anything other than the issues of the crown.
A slam of the fist against a wooden table yanked him out of the thoughts. His father’s dark eyes drilled into him, “Am I boring you, prince Castiil?”
He jerked at the title, “No, father.”
“Perhaps meeting the male that threatens to take your place on the throne would finally motivate you to take interest in the political matters.”
A sudden wave of hatred pulsed through him. He was sick of the name, sick of the games, couldn’t they just let it go for a day?
A stream of light escaped through the palm of his hand before he managed to furl his fingers and contain it.
The corner of his father’s mouth twitched. It was a terrifying sight, something animalistic, close to a feral wolf that was about to bite his head off.
“Now you’re listening,” he grinned viciously.
What his father was obsessed with was something he could never achieve. He might be the one on the Throne of Light but he could never become the High Fae. It had been yanked out of his reach when Orion’s father had passed.
Castiil wasn’t sure how the schematics worked—even after all the years he spent studying it. Or at least trying to study it.
High Fae ruled them all, even the Court of Light had as much freedom as they were allowed. Courts came and went, formed and disbanded, now it was only them and the Court of Night. The High Fae came from the Court of Wings, his former subjects forced to find a new home in the remaining courts.
Now it was him or Orion, the last standing court. He understood why his father was nervous, why his anxiety seemed to reach a new peak each day.
He went on to continue his rant about the brat while Castiil slipped back into his thoughts.
The sun had reached its peak by the time his father finally let him leave the study.
“So, what was the session about?” Tyllus drawled as soon as he phantomed right behind Castiil. He knew it was coming, felt the shift in the air, heard the barely audible whoosh of air, but still jerked as Tyllus’ breath tickled his ear.
“Lord Thorneworn,” his father’s voice seemed to shudder the residence once again. “Do not—”
He didn’t have time to finish before Tyllus seized Castiil’s hand and phantomed them away.
It was always strange to be phantomed away by anybody else. When he did it, the world dissolved, then reappeared. With somebody else it felt like being hauled, gripped by the hand, and dragged along.
“You’re hurrying,” Castiil said when Tyllus still kept gripping his arm, moving through the white corridors with a swiftness that was quite unusual for the man whose boots scuffed on the floor all day long. There was a bit of resolution in the walk, a purpose hidden behind it.
Tyllus merely waved a hand and turned another corner. They were close to Castiil’s quarters—walked past the turn that would take them right to the vast golden doorway that seemed to be made of sunlight.
“Where are we going?” He tried again.
Tyllus finally halted. His hand had still not left Castiil who tried not to dwell on the fact. It was just a tunic, not as if he was truly held by the hand.
“There’s a small gather in the rift, thought we might head there after dinner.”
Castiil pulled away from his childhood friend, making him drop his grasp as he took a step back.
Tyllus moved in sync with him, his blue eyes twinkling with anticipation.
“We can’t go to the rift,” was Castiil’s only answer.
His friend crossed his arms, “Why not?”
“My father would bring the Devils to us if we disobeyed his direct order.”
“He came up with that when we were kids. Who knows if it still stands—”
“Then we should ask him,” Castiil crossed his arms too.
“I already notified your mother we would not attend the court’s after-dinner gathering—”
“You went behind my back to speak with my mother?”
Tyllus gestured through the air but it came up empty-handed, meaningless because he had no idea what to say.
“We’re not going. I have plans with my sisters anyway.”
“Your sisters could come with us—”
“They’re children,” Castiil growled.
“They’re of age—have been for quite some time now. We’re going, Castiil. The girls already agreed.”
Castiil started but footsteps sounded down the hallway. He realized the closeness, the way it would be perceived if he would be found standing chest to chest with Tyllus, and pushed away just as one of the guards rounded the corner.
Ayress glanced between them, a gleam of sharpness in his dark eyes. There were a few long heartbeats of awkwardness before the guard interlaced his fingers behind his back and continued his walk without so much as uttering a word. Castiil’s eyes didn’t leave his back as he watched him disappear down the lengthy hallway.
He turned back to his friend. Tyllus’ mouth twisted into a smirk, “Seems like Ayress still has a crush on you.”
“Will you stop with this nonsense? And don’t change the subject.”
“I’m not changing the subject,” he grinned. When he did that, he looked mesmerizing.
Lord Thorneworn had that effect on everybody other than Castiil’s father. He made everybody’s knees buckle with his thick lashes, silky smooth black hair, sun-kissed skin, and mischievous grin always plastered on his face.
Oh, that mischievous grin. How many times had Castiil wondered because of that smile if he wasn’t different than the other boys. Turns out it was Tyllus that was different.
Every Fae in the entirety of the High Fae’s kingdom was stunning, the sight for a sore eye, the pleasure of a thousand sunsets—but Tyllus… Tyllus was something entirely else.
Castiil’s own mother had claimed he seemed otherworldly, ethereal to say the least. Then she proceeded to blush like Castiil had never seen her and practically ran away, his sisters in tow.
“Give me one good reason we should go to this party,” Castiil pinched the root of his nose.
Tyllus clicked his tongue, “I never said it was a party.”
“It’s the rift, Tyllus.”
“It’s a political gathering with loads of alcohol, but a political gathering nonetheless.”
“So that’s your one good reason? Is that it?”
“I can see you’re already persuaded, only want to hear if there’ll be some sweet ladies to woo.”
Castiil snorted with laughter. “Fine, we can go. Let me just check in with my mother. I don’t believe a word from your mouth.”
The High Lady of the Court of Light sat in her parlour as every other afternoon unless he could find her in the study or a library. His sister sat on each side of her, one knitting, the other reading.
He moved soundlessly, his mother only turned her gaze upon him when his scent hit her.
It was always a sight to see her face slowly soften and light up with a small smile.
His sisters raised their heads in unison. Lunaria gave him a long annoyed look, her dark eyes like orbs of the underworld. Runa grinned, her book closed with a numb thud, hiding whatever she was reading.
His mother outstretched a hand to him, “My son.” Her voice turned honeyed. “What brings you here? You should be with your father.”
Castiil waved Lunaria off, forcing himself between her and their mother. “Have you spoken to Tyllus?” The name seemed to cling through the females. He gritted his teeth against the sudden wave of joy that seemed to settle over the room.
“Yes, he has informed me about your plans.”
“When are we leaving?” Lunaria asked.
“Right after dinner—”
“The rift, Castiil…” His mother shook her head and he was caught off guard by the fact Tyllus had told her. She clicked her tongue. “Do not give me that look. At least one parent has to know where you’re off to tonight. If your father finds out—” She looked around, giving each of them a withering look.
“Do not worry, mother,” Runa peeped. “Castiil will take care of us. There’s a small gathering every other week. It’s about time we joined.”
Lunaria bobbed her head, “Every influential lord and lady is there.”
His mother quirked up at the words and turned to Castiil with a gleam of worry in her green eyes, “Do you think he might be there?”
Castiil was about to shrug when Runa spoke, “He doesn’t attend any gathering or party. At least that’s what the ladies-in-waiting have told me. Not since the death of their father, anyway.”
“And how do the ladies-in-waiting know such things?” Their mother looked outraged.
“They like gossips,” Runa shrugged.
“I heard it’s healthy,” Lunaria shot her a wicked grin.
Before their mother could speak, Castiil asked, “Will you cover for us, mother? I wasn’t sure whether to attend but considering that every Fae that means anything will be there, it might be of use. There’s no point in hiding from them.”
“They will talk, what if it finds its way to your father. He’ll be furious.”
“It’s the rift—it won’t. Trust me.”
She heaved a heavy sigh, full of concern and worry. But he knew by the sound of it, she would allow them to go. She couldn’t really stop them either but Castiil wouldn’t want to deceive both of his parents. It was different with his father, but his mother—it always weighed on him afterward, he would come clean within a few days.
She took his hand, squeezed it gently, “Be careful. And take care of these two heathens. You have permission to punish them should the occasion arise.” There was a bit of mischief hidden in her voice and Castiil tipped his head back to let out a loud boom of laughter.
“Mother,” Lunaria gasped.
“You misbehave like children, you will receive the appropriate discipline. This is your brother’s first public appearance outside the Court of Light, I hope you will take it seriously.”
It dawned on Castiil then. He thought it would be an evening full of entertainment, but it might very easily turn into something he was not entirely prepared for.
He left her mother’s parlour with a heavy heart, with an edge of anxiety twisting his gut. Runa followed him out, sensing the change in his mood, and stepped into his escape path so he would have to face her.
“Castiil, don’t let this get to your head. It’s a rift, from what I’ve heard, most of the Fae that attend can’t remember their name for days. It’s a rave.”
He leaned against the wall, letting the coolness of it calm him. “What if we walk in and suddenly it’ll turn into something else?”
“Then we’ll leave. Nobody can force us to stay. We will phantom right away. Don’t be a coward.”
“A coward?” Castiil hissed.
“I know how you feel about these public things, you have avoided them for years. But this will be young Fae that just want to relax. Trust me.”
Trust Runa. Tyllus might’ve laughed at the words. But her face was sincere, soft, and lovely. He could swear she let a bit of light seep through her deep skin to seem more gentle.
He bobbed his head, ridding off the thoughts that made his stomach plummet down. Runa didn’t push him, only gave him a quick squeeze of a hand before she sauntered back into the parlour, the white fabric of her dress flowing on the phantom wind.
