“Solls.” He clinked his glass to mine before I could say anything and downed the entire cup in one swallow.
His throat worked, the muscles in the column of his neck as sculpted as the rest of him. When he finished, he set his cup beside mine. “Is there anything else you would like to get off your chest? Any other words of hatred or anger for me?”
My throat bobbed, my lips dry from his matter-of-fact persona. “No,” I finally said. “I think I’ve made my point. For now.”
“Then we’ll need you to begin training your magic first thing tomorrow. We can start—”
“Wait.” I held a hand up, then brought my glass to my mouth and drained half of it. The liquid burned in my throat, cutting a path like fire. Wincing, I set it back down. “How long will training take?”
He shrugged. “That, Ilara, is up to you. Affinities can take weeks, months, or full seasons to train. All fae are different, and each fairy dedicates themselves to mastering their affinities in different ways, but I suggest you devote yourself to this. We don’t have full seasons.”
“Do we have months?”
“We do. For now.”
“What does that mean?”
“That means that at the rate our continent’s orem has been dying, we have approximately one full season until it’s completely vanished.”
“Really? It’s that bad?”
“It is.”
“So I have twelve months.” Blessed Mother, that would be the biggest undertaking of my life.
“Correct, unless our orem dies at an increasing rate. At the territories’ current stores, there’s enough food to last the continent until next winter.”
I drained the rest of my glass, and flames burned down my throat so vehemently that I coughed. Suppressing another cough, I said hoarsely, “I hope I can actually do what you’re asking.” If I couldn’t, we would all starve.
“You’ll be able to.”
“You sound so certain of that.”
“Because you can. This realm has never seen an affinity like yours. I imagine its bounds have no limits.”
“But you said your mother’s like me.”
His eyes shuttered. “She is. Her magic is as powerful as yours, but her affinities are different. She can’t create orem.”
“Where is she now? Does she really have black hair too?”
“I imagine she’s in her wing, and yes, her hair’s also black.”
For the briefest moment, I pictured Prince Norivun as a toddler standing by a female with hair the color of onyx. “What are her affinities?”
“That, Ilara, is for her to share. But while your coloring is identical, that genetic anomaly doesn’t extend to your affinities, merely the rareness and strength of them.”
I quickly poured myself another glass and took a heavy drink. The room spun slightly when I set it back down, but at least I didn’t cough again.
“You’re nervous.”
I gave him a side-eye. “You seem to be in the habit of reading my emotions.”
“It’s something I do with everyone.”
I studied him, frowning. He had a beautiful face—firm lips yet full. A strong nose. Deep-set eyes that were so piercing and such a million shades of blue that I was reminded of glittering sapphires. And his chin with that cleft in the middle—it gave him such a rugged appeal.
His face was utter perfection, yet it was entirely blank.
My forehead scrunched together when I remembered our conversation about empathy. That had been weeks ago, on my flight into the capital. Somehow, someway, the prince did have empathy within him. His comment about my anger confirmed that since he was so in tune with others’ emotions.
Yet, he still killed so easily. Even knowing how it ripped families apart.
So what exactly did that make him? A true monster? Since he understood the pain he was causing others? Or did he live with regret daily that he hid behind a mask of slate?
I hastily took another drink. “I can’t say that I can read your expressions. Your face is about as expressive as a blank wall.”
“Thank you.”
“It wasn’t a compliment.”
“To you maybe not, but to me it is. It’s preferable if you don’t know what I’m thinking.”
“Why?”
“It’s not of your concern. But what is of your concern is training your affinity.”
I frowned, then took another drink. Blessed Mother, there wasn’t enough alcohol in the realm for this discussion. How could I be having a conversation with the fairy who’d murdered my family, while said fairy was also telling me I needed to save the continent, all while I was contemplating—in a quickly-growing-drunken state—if said male felt regret for all that he’d destroyed?
My fingers shook when I relinquished my glass. “I’m going to disappoint you. You might as well know that now. I’m not strong enough to do what you’re asking, and I’m still entirely doubtful that I have an affinity that can create orem. Only the gods can do that.”
“The gods and you. That courtyard”—he pointed to the glass doors—“was completely without orem when I brought you to this room. I’ve had it evaluated numerous times by very powerful scholars, and they all reached the same conclusion. No orem existed anymore in that soil. Not for millees beneath the surface. Not even a trace. That land was dead, yet within a matter of weeks, you’ve brought it back to life.”
“But I didn’t do anything.”
“You did. Your affinity created it.”
“Maybe your scholars are wrong. The orem could have been there and just needed coaxing to the surface.”
“I’m not wrong, and my scholars weren’t wrong.”
My hand shook when I picked up the glass again and drained the last of it. A dizzying feeling swept through me. It didn’t help that it’d been hours since I’d eaten. I gripped the ice bar harder, the counter cool yet not cold. The magic swimming through it didn’t allow the surface to actually freeze a fairy.
I thought about the garden here, then my garden back home and the bounty that it’d produced this summer. I’d pulled an endless vine of acorlis just last month. I thought it’d been luck, but what if it hadn’t been?
Blessed Mother. I was actually considering what he was saying.
“I suppose it’s . . . possible,” I finally said.
A small smile ghosted the prince’s lips. “You’re coming to accept what you are.”
I glowered. “I didn’t say that. I simply said you could be right that the garden didn’t have orem. I didn’t sense any either when I first arrived.”
His smile broadened.
Not liking how smug he was looking, I bit out, “Why didn’t you just tell me that you thought I could create orem when we first met? Why did you keep it a secret and let me worry about what was being done to me?”
His smile vanished. “I’m sorry, for what I made you feel, but I couldn’t tell you. It was too risky.”
I reeled for a moment. He’d just apologized to me. Shaking that off, I asked, “What do you mean?”
“You’re too powerful.”