Page 67 of Of Bargains & Betrayal

The sprite grimaced.

“Um. Not exactly,” they said, a little too slowly. “They like…flowy things.”

I looked at my legs and then back at the sprite, sighing as the realization hit me. “These are pants for a man, aren’t they? Infantry?”

My short time inside Grimmoria’s dungeon was muddied at best, but Gallan had spent enough time in my cell for me to appreciate his uniform—I was a soldier at my core, after all. I’d also seen the same pants on several Elixia members at the initiation.

Hell, Gallan had been wearing them that night, but I clearly had been too busy being sick or ogling his bare chest.

I was just embarrassed it took me so long to realize why the overly practical garment seemed a little familiar.

Eilir let out a frustrated squawk. “I was working on short notice, princess!” They clamped their hands on their nonexistent hips and fixed me with a stare. “For just a second, can you not appreciate that I ventured into our barracks in the middle of afternoon training and found you a piece of clothing that not only fits, but is clean and has no holes or patches?”

I flashed the sprite a smile. “I wasn’t complaining, you know?”

They scoffed and flew into the bathroom. “Could’ve fooled me.”

Putting my feelings into articulate words wasn’t always my specialty, but, goddess, I appreciated Eilir. It had been maybe a week since I’d met the sprite, and yet, I felt like I’d known them my entire life. Maybe under different circumstances, I would’ve taken alarm at that, but being foolishly optimistic was holding my precariously frayed seams together.

What harm could a friendship with a denizen of the woods be when I’d almost just lost my life, seen the lives of my countrymen lost, and been forced into an engagement with a broody dark fae king who was the son of the other dark fae king I’d thought I was being forced to marry instead?

Highly unusual times.

“So, my dinner with Maksym,” I called out to Eilir as muted clattering traveled from my bathroom. “Any words of wisdom you’d like to impart on me?”

Another couple of clinks and clanks followed before the sprite zipped out with a small pot in one hand and a decorative hairpin in the other.

“Oh, I have a few.” They placed their bounty on the vanity and motioned for me to sit. I did, watching in the mirror as the sprite started raking its thin, branch-like fingers through my hair, sweeping bits back from my face. “First, you should just call him Max. I think he’d like that.”

I huffed a laugh. “I think it’s a little early for that.”

The last thing I felt like doing was doling out a term of endearment for the King of Grimmoria during our first dinner alone. We may have been bound by our bargain, and he may have kissed me. Twice. But that didn’t mean I was any closer to the man than when I barged into his war room and brokered that bargain.

“Fine,” Eilir scoffed. With half my hair gathered back, they slipped the pin in place with a shocking amount of ease. “Second, don’t ask him about his father or any of the years that led to the late king’s…demise.”

I narrowed my eyes at the sprite’s reflection, but little good it did with how they were focused on fussing with bits of my hair. “Why? I know Maksym killed him. He seemed to be quite proud of it when he told me.”

Eilir fluttered around and sank on the edge of the vanity, fixing me with a look that peeled me open. “Have you never worn pride as a defense, princess?”

“No, I—” I coughed right over the knee-jerk defense that almost shot out of me. “Okay, so your king has…parental issues. Got it.”

“Not my king,” Eilir sighed, as if I was a child they’d just had to repeat something for the dozenth time. “But that brings me to my third piece of advice.”

The sprite was quiet for long enough that I said, “Which is…”

Eilir pursed their thin lips and opened the small pot they had brought from the bathroom. It was one of many dried bits of cosmetics I had found, but as they swept the tip of their finger over the cracked and crumbling white substance, it softened, emitting a light, sweet scent.

They motioned me to lean in, and they dabbed bits of the scented cream behind my ear and onto my wrists, whispering, “Please don’t ask about his mother.”

I’d heard Eilir feign many tones of voice over the last two days, but the sadness they delivered that statement with was palpable.

I’d assumed Maksym's mother was dead, after Eilir confirmed it was her room I occupied, but I knew nothing else. “How long ago did she pass?”

Eilir sighed. “A very long time ago.” They closed the small pot of scented cream and stewed on those words for a few moments. “I don’t think Max was even in his twentieth year when she was executed.”

My eyes widened. “Executed? Why? Was there…unrest, or…?”

Eilir shook their head. “No, it was for heresy. She…claimed she saw things to come. Damning things.”