Page 146 of Of Curses and Courtship

“Just you.” My father looks over his shoulder. “And your betrothed.”

“Forget me, I guess,” Tibalt mutters.

I opt not to take my old friend seriously. My father is grave—even more than usual—but there’s something else. I can’t remember him carrying himself with so much life, even when I was young. For the first time since I’ve known him, he almost seems… excited. There’s a hint of hope behind his sharpened gaze.

It doesn’t take long for me to recognize where he’s taking us—the infirmary. The times I’ve visited are far and few, even with my dear Spark in the ward. It is a dark, dreary room, and it still lacks the life I would prefer, but…

Many of the cages are empty. There are still a few common fae in place. Some are in bed, some are still caged, but none snap or snarl.

“The curse,” I whisper. “It is truly?—”

“Yes. The fae have healed.” My father shakes his head. “We mustn’t forget what has happened to the others. Many died,but many are free now.” He turns to face me. “They are free because of you, Emyr. Tell me, son, what did you do?”

Ophelia stares around the room in wonder.

“It wasn’t me,” I say. “It was Ophelia.”

Our freedom is her success, not mine. It was her magic that ended the sorceress. She may think I’m her savior, as she jested, but she’s the one who saved us.

Ophelia’s face turns as bright as the sun. Her lips part, and her gaze shifts between us.

“By gods…” my father mutters.

“Tell him what you did,” I say.

“I—I found the sorceress who cast the curse.” She clears her throat. “It was my stepmother, and… I took her magic from her. When there was no more magic to take, she withered to nothing. Her power was the only thing keeping her alive for a hundred years. Mortals don’t live so long, you see?—”

A smile twists onto my father’s face. “Don’t fret. I know the length of a mortal’s lifespan.”

“I suppose you do know about mortals.” I cringe, thinking of my father and the sorceress. “How did you love that woman? She’s wretched.”

He stares into one of the cages. “She was not a sorceress when I met her. She was kind and sweet, and anyone would have adored her. Heartbreak ruined her, that is all. I did not deserve her.”

“You’re too kind,” Ophelia says.

Kind is never a word I would use to describe my father, but perhaps heartbreak took a toll on him as well. He may never recover from it now that his lost love is truly gone.

“I appreciate those words,” my father says.

“Your kindness is beyond words.” Ophelia shifts on her feet. “But I’ve not been entirely honest with you, Your Majesty.”

My brows furrow.

“Any fibs you may have told, you have more than made up for them when you saved our palace,” my father says.

“The secret I’ve hidden is not a small one. I am a halfling.” She holds her head higher. “The prophecy—it said I would be the one to bring ruin to the kingdom, and perhaps it was correct. Emyr, your sole heir, nearly died trying to save me.”

I clear my throat. “She is being harsh on herself, Father. You must understand?—”

My father turns away. “The funny thing about prophecies is that they’re often half-right or fully wrong. They are written by people, after all, whether mortal or fae or someone else. Mistakes can be made. Misunderstandings can be had.”

“And lies can be told,” Ophelia says. “The sorceress professed to have written the prophecy herself.”

“Ah…” My father nods.

“More of her manipulation,” I mutter.

My father clears his throat and walks forward. “I’m surprised you have not asked about?—”