Page 7 of These Vile Hearts

But then my curse reared its ugly head, and I quickly pushed everyone away. With Tam, it was more of a violent shove. Of course, as fate would have it, he would later wind up beholden to me as my guard.

“I tried to woo a barista girl I haven’t met before—”

“Well, that’s—”

“—but then I found out she has two little sisters she takes care of because her mother has cancer.”

Tamarind grimaces. “—Oh. Yeah, no, that one won’t work.”

“No. I may be a monster, but I’m not ademon.” I laugh, but it sounds closer to a sob. “There’s a rumor that Evodia hired a mortal wine pourer at Magesté, though. Could be promising.”

Tamarind and I discuss my foolish pact so frequently, it’s started to sound like we are merely conversing about another blood nymph sighting and not my hunt for a mortal victim to fall in love with me.

Nearly a year ago—after the gruesome death of yet another lover I accidentally let get too close—I dropped to my knees before my brother’s throne and tearfully begged him to make a heartwood pact with me so I could be rid of my curse.

At first, he pushed back. Denied my pleas. A heartwood pact is not something to go into lightly. All angles must be examined. All potential pitfalls must be analyzed. Fae magic is never straightforward, after all. He assessed me for a long moment, puzzling it over until his shoulders slumped and he conceded. “If that is what you wish, brother.”

The memory of Durian’s hands wrapping around mine is almost tangible now. My wrists tingle with the recollection.

“From the roots of my tree to the tops of my branches, this I swear to thee,” he’d chanted in a low voice. “Make a mortal fall inlove with you before the Sylveris Solstice—to speak the words and mean them—and you will be free of your curse. And should you fail, you will spend a year in the Bloodwood Tree. From my heartwood to my bark, ring by aged ring, this binding pact I make with thee.”

Heartwood pacts demand a balancing of the scales, a consequence for a failed pact that is the opposite of what the pact maker would get if they were to succeed. For a prince who wishes to be uncursed so that he can safely have friendships and lovers andconnection…exile in the Bloodwood Tree is quite the counterweight.

My blackened heartwood tree looks like a delicate rose compared to the Bloodwood Tree, a sentient prison enchanted by druids during the first Sylveris War. The execrable tower feeds off fear, and any unlucky soul who lands themselves inside its bones finds the edge of their sanity within days. Back then, it was meant for prisoners and foes from other forests. Now that there is a treaty of peace between the two kingdoms, it’s used for Redwood traitors and treasonous dryads. A bit harsh of a punishment in my opinion, but my heartwood is tragically soft in areas such as this. It’s why I would make a terrible king. Memories of my weeklong stay within its core haunt me like an angry specter. An icy chill skitters across my skin.

When I made that pact, a year seemed like plenty of time to get a mortal to fall in love with me. But it seems I underestimated my own morality. There were too many reasonsnotto sentence mortals to death by my curse. Like them caring for younger siblings, or being exceptionally kind, or having a dog named Bingo.

A line of dryads and arborfae snakes along the interior of the citadel. They stand on bridges and pathways and spiral around the earthen platform grown on the tightly woven branches within the ring of trunks, waiting to have an audience with their beloved king.

I pass and they cringe away, as if being near me could infect them with my malevolent taint. Young Castor would burst into tears at their hatred. Now I throw my head back in a show of madirreverence, cackling at their fear. I scare myself sometimes, but it’s better than being laughed at.

The inside of the throne room is nearly a hundred feet tall, with various chambers branching away from the center. Alcoves, crisscrossing catwalks, and verandas offer countless places to disappear during an event. I found each of them when I was a broken boy hiding from the crowds, and I later returned with lovers when I learned how to wear the mask of the cursed prince who tasted of danger and heartbreak.

Most fear me, but a fair few thrill seekers flock to me. After all, to love me is to court Death. Melodrama is another symptom of my curse, I’m afraid. Surely it’s not just how I am.

The Sovereign Tree infiltrates the throne room, asserting its dominance. The throne is carved out of the tree itself. And upon the throne sits my antithesis: King Durian Sempervirens. Every bit the light to my darkness, with his perfect golden hair, fair skin, and elegant horns, smooth as sanded wood and wrapped in golden leaves.

“Castor,” he says as I take the stairs two at a time to sit in the second throne dwarfed by the majesty beside it. “Was the hawk slow in reaching you?”

“Not at all. I’m just late.” I wave a hand at the waiting line before him. “Please continue. I’m only here to make you look better.”

Durian’s guards stare disdainfully down at me, sneering at my wrinkled silk shirt, half tucked into my trousers, void of a velvet doublet or leather vest. It’s almost as though I do not care to impress them.

All Idois care what people think about me, but they don’t have to know that.

Two woodlings—squat creatures the color of redwood bark with black eyes and blacker teeth—waddle up to the dais, offering me a flagon of auric wine and an empty goblet. I take both, pouring myself a generous helping to get me through another morning listeningto my brother dazzle his subjects with his smile and charm while I sit to the side speaking in puns and riddles no one appreciates.

At least there is wine.

A man comes forward carrying a small sapling—a young dryad that looks like a human infant with bark-like skin that will slough off as they mature. He holds the hand of another that appears to be no older than two. The little boy squeals and tries to toddle away before the man grabs the back of his trousers. “Good morning, Your Majesty.” He attempts a bow but fails as the sapling standing beside him tries to climb onto his back. “Apologies. Er—”

Durian offers a broad smile. “Why have you come to Court today, good sir?”

“Your Majesty, my name is Quince Croft. I’ve come because my partner is very ill. I am afraid he does not have much time left with us. We’ve been to the healer in the Rose District, but the prices are steep. We are unable to afford the draft she has prescribed. I am here to ask for the Crown’s help and mercy.”

Durian nods as the man speaks, smile rooted in place. “While I do not typically interfere with the business of Redwood healers, I can see that you are a loyal caretaker to these two young ones. Where some may have turned to illicit means of acquiring what you desire, you came to me. And an honorable act such as that should be rewarded.”

I take another gulp of wine, emptying the cup and refilling it from the flagon.