See Me

K.T. Swagler

Chapter One

When she was a child, Isoria let herself believe in a world high above the clouds. A place meant only for her. Where time would stand still, and her life would end. Each night, when darkness fell, she would lie in bed for what felt like an eternity of night, drifting away from thought and time to that special place in the sky.

“What would you do up there?” her cousin, Ochoa, had once asked her, back when he was still a boy and not a great king of this world.

“I’d sleep,” she’d said, rubbing her eyes raw. “Until I’m not tired anymore.”

However long it took.

She would rest her heavy head upon a cloud, and the soft bed would mold itself around her body like a blanket, holding her close forever.

Ochoa smiled, revealing a small dimple just above the corner of his mouth. It was a rare sight those days, when the weight of Ochoa’s future was pressed onto his shoulders. Now, he let his smile linger. It was one of the most beautiful spectacles of Isoria’s life—her cousin’s happiness.

He was her king, even then. The great infante of Equena.

“And how would you get to this bed of clouds?” he asked.

“I’d fly there.”

Ochoa’s smile vanished. He took a forceful step away from her as though she might indeed sprout wings and launch herself into the sky.

“You mustn’t speak like that, Isoria,” he hissed, the color draining from his round cheeks. “Never let anyone hear you say something like that again. Do you understand?”

Isoria nodded, her gaze falling to her feet.

She never mentioned the clouds again, neither to him nor to her cousin, Katalina, when she grew old enough to join Isoria as her bedmate. But the desire to sleep forever in the sky never left her. Each night, Isoria would lie beside Katalina for hours on end, the younger girl’s elbow stabbing into Isoria’s ribs, her scrawny Equenian leg thrown over her hip. It was the only time anyone ever touched her. Isoria savored each uncomfortable moment before her mind drifted into the clouds.

This imaginary bed in the sky was the only place she ever wished to be—not in her uncle’s court, nor later with the guardians of her wardship, nor when she returned to court as a woman to live under Ochoa’s cautious gaze.

Certainly not here, in the heaving carriage hauling her beneath a mournful sky in an unfamiliar land.

She wished she were there now. Asleep in the clouds.

“If we do not get off this wretched road soon, I think I may die. Do you imagine it’s much farther?” Katalina’s voice knocked Isoria from her daydream like the incessant trilling of a bird in the morning. Though what she’d been thinking of left her with a heaviness in her heart, Isoria regretted the loss of her reverie, the only kind of dream she ever had.

She looked at her cousin now for the first time in several hours. Katalina sprawled across the upholstered bench opposite Isoria, her long legs stretched out in front of her. She’d removed her hood, and her long hair, the color of rain-soaked soil, draped over her shoulders.

“I don’t know,” Isoria sighed, peering through the window again. Her eyes drifted over the thick hedgerows lining the road and the vast fields beyond. The slight rise and dip of the brilliant green earth was like the swell of the ocean. But it was not the sea, Isoria reminded herself, grateful to be upon land at last, even one so rough and foreign as this.

It had taken over two weeks to cross the Changeling Sea from Equena to Hafland, and though the conditions had been ideal for such a journey, Isoria would be happy if she never saw the open sea again.

Katalina made a noise, a quick exhale through her nose. She craned her neck, trying to see down the road in front of the carriage, hoping to catch sight of the Equena ambassador who was due to meet them at any moment. Then she huffed again, chewing one of her fingernails.

“Just speak,” Isoria said wearily.

Katalina’s eyes snapped to Isoria. “How can you possibly think this is a good idea? King Thomas is not expecting you for another month. Surely he will find it tactless to surprise him like this?”

A rush of nerves battered beneath Isoria’s skin. She pressed herself deeper into the cushion behind her, as though the softness might stifle her racing heart. As she did, she visualized a delicate cloud wrapping around her, protecting her from the strange ways of the world.

“If it were up to me, I would never have departed so early and unannounced,” Isoria said. “This is how the Hafland court is run. They prize pageantry above decorum.”

“But what is the purpose?” Katalina turned away from the window and raised her dark brow. “He has agreed to marry you. Indeed, you are nearly married by contract already. Sneaking into his castle in disguise and acting out some silly spectacle… are you not embarrassed?”

Isoria looked away, hiding a frown. If only her life could be so simple, so clearly defined. She had endured twenty-five years wishing for such an existence—one where she didn’t have to fear the judgment of others, especially those who might love her if only they could see past her inescapable, damning flaws.

Isoria was determined to please the king of Hafland by any means necessary. Katalina could never understand Isoria’s burden. Though Katalina’s own marriage had been arranged since the moment she was born, she and her new husband were deeply in love. She did not realize how lucky she was to have joy follow her everywhere she went.

“It seems ridiculous to me,” Katalina muttered. “He saw your portrait, and he chose you to be his bride. How much more convincing does the man need?”

Isoria’s limbs and eyelids grew suddenly very heavy, just as they always did when she thought about the portrait.

She’d stood before the court painter for hours, hardly able to breathe beneath the layers of her black velvet gown. The Hafland king instructed the man to record every detail of her face, along with those of several other women across Valenne, so he could choose one as his next bride. The painter accomplished this goal with some impertinence. He put his nose so close to Isoria that she could smell his acrid breath. All the while, he struggled to conceal his disgust with what he saw in her.

By the time he finished, the portrait's resemblance to her was nearly impeccable.

It was too perfect.

What could Ochoa have offered the court painter to convince him to change it?

Isoria watched from the darkened doorway as he made the alterations, the tremendous weight of shame pressing her into the ground. He tempered the auburn tones in her hair and eliminated the slight emerald in her hazel eyes. As Isoria took one last look at the painting, she observed a woman who was not herself, but the undeniable kin of the revered Ochoa II, with dark brown hair and eyes.

Wholly Equenian.

Undeniably human.

Now she had a chance.

Isoria didn’t deserve Ochoa’s loyalty. She was lucky to be alive, let alone loved by her cousin. This journey had become the greatest honor of her life, and not just because the king of Hafland had selected her portrait over all the others. For the first time in a hundred years, she would bring Equena and Hafland together. For the first time in the twenty five years of her life, she would fulfill her duty to her king and country. She would be a queen, respected and admired and treasured at last.

“Do you think it’s true what they say?” Katalina continued, drawing Isoria once more from the depths of her mind. “About the ghost that haunts him?”

Isoria sighed, rubbing her temples. “Katalina, you’re tiring me.”

“You’re always tired.” Katalina waved her hand dismissively. “I’m only imparting what the Hafland people say about their king. The ghost follows him everywhere. It finds him when he hunts, when he dines, even when he beds his women.” Katalina grinned, slipping from her bench to sit beside Isoria. “Do you think it’s one of his wives? A man cannot leave so many dead without one coming back to torment him. Do you think it’s one he beheaded?”

“Enough,” Isoria hissed, turning away from Katalina once more, struggling to keep her eyes open. Her exhaustion grew inside her along with a sudden dread creeping up her spine. She focused her gaze on the rolling hills outside the window, cursing her cousin’s dark humor that always went a step too far. “Please don’t say things like that.”

“Isoría,” Katalina said softly, pronouncing her cousin’s name in the way only her closest family ever did. But this was all the comfort Katalina could provide. She did not try to convince Isoria that she had nothing to fear in her unknown future and unpredictable new husband. Nor did she offer any physical comfort. Isoria was painfully aware that Katalina did not even reach for her hand.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Isoria whispered, grasping for the only solace she could find. “I do not know how I would manage this new life on my own.”

Katalina shifted in her seat. Isoria looked around to find her cousin had turned away, as though suddenly afraid to meet Isoria’s gaze.

“I must confess, I should not have come at all,” Katalina admitted, running a hand along the bodice of her gown, “in my current state.”

Isoria moved as though to grip her cousin’s arm but dropped her hands into her lap at the last moment. “You’re not!”

Katalina grinned, chancing a glance at Isoria.

For a moment, neither woman spoke. The truth slowly settled over Isoria, engulfing her. Katalina should not have made this journey. It was yet another debt of loyalty Isoria could never repay. She tried to smile. “I can't believe Alonso let you travel when you're carrying his child.”

Katalina laughed. “He does not know! I hardly know it yet myself. I have not felt it move, but I have not bled.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice, though they were still alone. “I need time away from him, anyway. He has driven me nearly into the grave with his delights. He has quite an appetite. Any more, and I fear I’d lose my ability to walk.”

Isoria forced herself to hold her smile as a familiar pang of jealousy struck her. She was silent for a moment, grateful Katalina could not see the images racing through her head. She was so desperate for the feel of someone’s hands on her skin that the thought of Alonso’s lewd passion nearly made her knees shake.

When it was clear Isoria would not respond, Katalina sighed, returning to the topic of her condition with much less enthusiasm. “It’s too soon to tell Alonso, of course. I may jeopardize the child’s life journeying across the world, but I will not risk speaking of it too soon and forewarning the Fae.”

Isoria sighed, rubbing her eyes. “First ghosts, now this superstitious nonsense.”

Katalina opened her mouth to argue, as though to insist having no baby at all would be better than a changeling child to toss into the sea. But she hesitated, eyeing Isoria with sudden wariness and wringing her hands together. “I will tell Alonso when I return… as I must soon.”

An unexpected ache seared in Isoria’s chest. It was as if someone had taken a hot iron to her heart. Before she could stop them, tears rushed to her eyes. But Isoria could find neither the strength to stop them, nor to courage let them fall.

“The other women will remain in Hafland and stay by your side,” Katalina said, the corners of her mouth quivering as she fought back her own tears. She gestured outside the carriage, where the rest of Isoria’s household followed on horseback. “And I will return to you as soon as I can. I swear it.”

Isoria closed her eyes as exhaustion finally overwhelmed her. She tried to call upon the comfort and safety of the clouds, wishing they would capture her, swallow her whole. But she could never escape the pounding of her heart.

“Isoria,” Katalina said firmly. “You will not be alone.”

“Kat,” Isoria choked, her throat tightening around the truth. “I’m afraid.”

“Ochoa will not let Thomas hurt you—”

“It’s not just that,” Isoria said, pressing her lips together before speaking again. “What will they think when they see me? What if they believe I’m—”

“Do not even say it,” Katalina snapped, straightening up. Isoria recognized the fear that flashed across Katalina’s face. Suddenly, she felt just as she did when she’d told Ochoa she would fly into the sky to be among the clouds. The lump in her throat squeezed tighter. It took all her strength not to close her eyes.

“Listen to me,” Katalina whispered. “You have a chance at last to free yourself from the doubt that has haunted you. Do not bring it with you into this world, cousin. You have been chosen by King Thomas himself. You, Isoria, are going to restore Hafland to the might it once was—and all of Valenne with it. But none of that is ever going to happen until you make peace with who you are. Do you understand?”

Isoria swallowed. Before she could respond, the sound of men’s voices penetrated the padded walls. The carriage slowed.

Everything she wanted to say to Katalina burrowed itself back inside her. The truth remained as it always did, locked in her heart. Dread, uncertainty, loneliness… it all rested there, alongside her wish to be in the clouds, to be free of this world, her body, and her life.

Forever.

***

From the moment the women entered the castle, Sylvan knew.

They flowed into the towering fortress through the servant’s gate on the ground floor, one after another, their voices hushed, wholly unaware they were being followed. If he wanted, Sylvan could tear the ribbons from their hair, claw their gowns from their shoulders—just as he’d done to countless unwary guests of the king’s court.

He resisted, resolving instead to creep silently behind them.

As though they could sense him, their whispers slowly diminished. One of them looked around in the darkness, her eyes flashing in the light of the two lit tapers attached to her tall headdress. She looked right past Sylvan.

The black mask she wore was shaped to perfection, too flawless to be human. The candles illuminated the delicate gold leaf carefully set around the eyes and across the forehead.

The women were dressed as Fae—unexpected entertainment for the king.

The Equenian ambassador guided the women up the dark staircase of the north tower. Three, four, five stories high. When they stepped into the light, the performers were allowed only a moment to arrange their skirts and hair. The ambassador drew one woman aside at once, whispering in her ear. The girl was clearly nervous, though a gold mask concealed her face. She adjusted it with shaking hands before briefly touching the gauzy hood concealing her hair, as though checking to make sure it was still there. But this was all the preparation she was permitted.

When the ambassador approached the door to the king’s private dining hall, Sylvan’s pulse quickened. The door was solid oak reinforced with wrought iron, added by the king in recent years under the guise of decoration. But Sylvan knew better.

“Your Majesty,” the ambassador cried, heaving the heavy door open and throwing his arms wide. His announcement captured the attention of nearly a hundred people on the other side of the door. “A special delight from the king of Equena.”

The women frolicked inside after him.

Sylvan followed, unseen.

 The gray sky that had plagued the city all morning had finally cleared, and the midday sun illuminated the dining hall, its light filtering through dozens of windows set into the stone fortress. Sunlight reflected off an enormous crystal stallion in the center of the room—the first gift of alliance sent by the Equenian king. The women approached the statue, circling it once in respect to their homeland before progressing toward the high table. The king watched them with interest, rubbing his thick golden beard. Though Thomas tried to hide his unease, his eyes brushed over the room to each of his guards standing at the iron-fortified doors. No matter how many precautions he took, Thomas was always expecting trouble, and he had Sylvan to thank for that.

Even now, Sylvan felt the familiar thrum of excitement in his chest. It sent a rush of blood to his fingers. What a precious opportunity he found himself in to put his own mark on this performance. Silently, he thanked the foolish ambassador for yet another chance to destroy the king’s pleasure.

Sylvan slinked closer to the statue, running his hand along the glass, bracing himself against it. It took only seconds. As the sun gradually neared its peak in the sky, his senses erupted. The crystal became steadily cooler against his skin. He pressed his hands harder against the sharp edges, letting them dig into his palm, savoring the power of the sun.

It had taken ten human men to set the statue in place, but with the sun at its peak, Sylvan could destroy it with a single thrust. He’d been planning to do it ever since it arrived. This was his chance to show Thomas just how destructive he could be.

The Equena women twirled in front of the high table, prancing in a circle. At the center, the girl with the gold mask was caught among them. The others pushed her about in controlled, staged chaos. She was playing the most important role in the performance—an innocent human captured by Fae.

“I pray thee, gentle king,” The Equena ambassador enacted his part in the folly, stumbling over his lines as he dipped into a bow. “Show mercy upon this poor woman. Save her from the grasp of these demons.”

Sylvan barely heard the ambassador. He steadied himself against the statue, delighting in the surge of power in his arms.

Thomas should know better by now.

Sylvan waited.

The king rose from his seat to approach the women. The Equena ambassador gestured for the woman in the gold mask to kneel. She dropped at once. With one fluid motion, the ambassador tore the girl’s mask from her face, along with the veil covering her hair. Her tousled waves tumbled down her back, her gaze fixed on the polished floor.

Suddenly, Sylvan recognized who she was—the woman from the portrait.

The king’s new bride.

But she did not look as he remembered. Her brown hair shone slightly red in the sunlight, and her copper eyes flashed green, as if tarnished with age. Her coloring was subtle, but unmistakable in the glory of the sun.

Without thinking, Sylvan stepped out from behind the statue.

As though her attention had been unexpectedly caught, the girl peered quickly over her shoulder, and her eyes locked onto Sylvan.

The ground lurched. He felt that rush of blood in his veins again, only now, it was like a flood of icy water.

He took an unintentional step forward.

The girl’s eyes widened in fear. They took in every inch of him, from his overgrown, ember-red hair to the scuffed toes of his boots.

It wasn’t possible.

Before Sylvan could take another step closer, the girl tore her eyes from him.

Every nerve in Sylvan’s body thrashed beneath his skin. The sun had reached its summit, but this rush was unlike anything he’d ever felt before. He scurried through the compressing crowd with ease, so used to their ignorance of his presence, no matter how many times he’d destroyed their days. It was as though something had awakened inside him—a desperate craving. It pounded in his head, writhing through his entire body. He didn’t care if she only looked at him in fear. He needed her eyes on him.

But the girl did not return his gaze. Instead, she looked up into the king’s face.

Thomas took one look at her and recoiled. In a single instant, the entire hall fell into perfect silence. The king towered over the girl, the broad shoulders of his stocky frame heaving.

As though she could sense what was about to happen, the girl tried to scramble away, one hand raised to shield her eyes, the other held before her in a feeble attempt to protect herself.

It accomplished nothing. The king lunged at her, seizing the girl by her hair.

“Pixie witch!” the king spat, his eyes wild. He flung the girl away from him to one of his guards.

The girl screamed, fighting against the hands forcing her arms behind her back. “I’m not—” she sobbed. “I’m not one of them.”

Everyone in the dining hall had risen to their feet. Several of the king’s courtiers were at his side, urging him to collect himself. The Equena ambassador had fallen to his knees.

“Please, Your Majesty,” he cried, grasping at the golden trim of the king’s robe. “She is Isoria de Fortes, your bride.”

Thomas did not hear him. His eyes were feral, unseeing, as if his vision was clouded by memories of every demon Fae that had left its mark on his almighty reign. He advanced on the girl, drawing a dagger from his belt.

Cries of alarm echoed throughout the hall.

Everything was exactly as Sylvan liked it.

This was the damage he usually left on the world.

But a pressing silence fell over Sylvan’s ears. He moved without thinking through the muted blur of disarray. Once again, he rounded the statue, pressing his hands into the crystal flank. Just as a guard forced the girl’s chin high to expose her thin neck to the king, Sylvan closed his eyes. Power tremored through him from his chest to his fingers. It took only one violent heave.

The statue tipped. Those closest scattered, screaming, covering their heads. The guard holding the girl tossed her aside in his haste to escape harm. She fell. The sound of her head striking the tile was the only thing Sylvan heard, even as the statue crashed down behind her, shattering into a thousand pieces.