Page 13 of This Prince Is Not Charming

“That’s the spirit, my girl.” Father put his hands on my shoulders and gave me a little shake, completely missing the sarcasm in my voice.

Another scream echoed from somewhere outside, and I winced, guessing another crown had appeared. I looked at Cillian, and he was staring at me—at the shiny golden object over my head.

I gave him a small shrug that made the corners of his lips quirk. This all had to be a mistake. I couldn’t marry Cillian. I couldn’t leave my father. I couldn’t be queen.

I let out a long breath. “Maybe some vinegar wouldn’t hurt after all.”

I’d try anything to get this stupid crown to go away and make life go back to normal. But I had a feeling that after this, things would never be the same.

CHAPTER 8

Cillian

“Marriage trials?” I asked the table full of council members. “What are the marriage trials?”

“That’s what I’d like to know.” Wolfe’s voice rumbled across the room as he leaned back in his chair and crossed his muscled arms, lips twitching under his full beard.

A huge book was splayed out in front of Fargus, and he looked down at the ancient text. “We haven’t seen these trials since the days of Fairwitch,” he said.

Fairwitch. The leader of all the godwitches and also the godwitch most likely responsible for our castle’s magic.

At Fargus’s mention of Fairwitch, a few of the Fair Folk in the room stiffened. The Fair Folk had a long, contentious history with the leader of the godwitches, and many of the faeries in this room had been alive when Fairwitch reigned over the land. Ambrose, one of my council members, actually growled, shoving a hand through his thick blue hair.

“Fargus, explain.” I pinched the bridge of my nose.

He cleared his throat. “Fairwitch invoked marriage trials for kings and queens across the continent to ensure they found the strongest match possible. The marriage trials pit contestants against each other in a series of challenges, each challenge judged by Fairwitch. Contestants would be eliminated during each round, and by the end of the marriage trials, whoever remained won.”

“They won a marriage?” I asked.

“They won power.” Fargus closed the book, dust rising in the air that he waved away with his wing. “It appears the castle is continuing with Fairwitch’s tradition and has decided to use the marriage trials to find you the strongest queen among us.”

“Godwitches be,” Wolfe murmured.

Unbelievable. I’d finally found a wife and was about to get married and give the castle a queen, and it just couldn’t be happy. It had to interfere, to remind me that I had no actual power. I was just a pawn it had chosen, a puppet whose strings it continued to pull.

I may not have wanted to marry Siobhan, but at least it had been my choice to do so. Sort of. The council technically put her forward as my best choice, but I’d agreed in the end, knowing it had been the only path forward.

“What happens to those who lose the trials?” Wolfe leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. “Are they in danger?”

I thought of Ceri, and my spine straightened.

One of the oldest Fair Folk cleared her throat, twisting a strand of her long silver hair around a finger. “These are not trials steeped in danger. Fairwitch was often much more interested in strength of character, strength of loyalty, strength of morals. They actually started the trials to ensure the kings and queens across the realms were matched with the best possible partners.”

“Did the Fair Folk ever participate?” I asked.

One of the faeries hissed while Ambrose stared stonily ahead. All the humans in the room shot each other unsure glances.

“What is happening?” I asked.

Ambrose cleared his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing, speaking in that same lyrical accent that belonged to all the faeries. “The Fair Folk weren’t allowed to marry.”

“One of the many reasons Aoife the Warrior Queen led us in rebellion.” Fargus looked over at Ambrose, whose jaw ticked. “Sorry,” my adviser said quickly.

“What’s wrong?”

“Aoife was my . . .” He trailed off like he didn’t know what to say, and I didn’t know what to say either. “She was mine,” he finished.

Was. So she’d died. “I’m sorry,” I said.