Ayre

Grimacing from the day’s ride, I accept the offered hand and make it a point to ignore the vulpine grin as I step out from the cart. It takes a few moments to adjust to standing on solid ground again. “Thank you. Amari, if I remember correctly?”

Amari bows low, her tail even managing to not look out of place in a gesture that should be foreign to her. “It flatters me to have my name remembered despite the brevity of our interactions. The pleasure of having served is all mine, young Princeling.”

I decide I don’t like the way she is exaggerating her every formality, but try not to hold it against her. There are far too many of my siblings who would be delighted to hire help that spends half as much time fussing over decorum and presentation as Amari does.

My armored protector follows behind me, exchanging hardly more than a glance with Amari.

Unlike me, the two of them are dressed practically according to their vocations.

Astraea stands resolute in her parade armor. Black gemstone plating combines with loose crimson fabrics. The half cape and other fabrics are all short enough to not get in the way, but long enough to look stunning when a breeze passes through. Or at least I think so.

Her lilac skin and horns are unusual pairings to my nation’s colors. But so far this has only ever come up as a novelty throughout her accompanying me as my protector.

The white furred Amari on the other hand is associated with nothing but trouble. Shrewd to a fault in conducting herself as a merchant, she is currently adorning herself in a many-layered outfit seemingly chosen to maximize the number of pouches and space for belts.

It is not that Amari has done anything wrong so much as she is yet another example of how meticulous her long lived kind can be. If there is a way to put an age to her features, I am not aware of it.

Being of a hardy seafaring folk separated from ours by salty expanses of water, Amari hails from a land that has never had to worry about being subjects of Vylian conquest.

Noticing my stare, Amari’s vulpine grin only grows. Her long snout makes it easy for stray smiles to come off as predatory.

I am quick to avert my gaze, wondering what I should have expected from someone who takes an interest in trading for the spoils Vylia reaps.

By comparison, I am wearing hardly more than black wrappings that bind my chest and legs. Atop that, a small crimson shawl emblazoned with the Vylian standard depicting bird talons crushing the blade of a sword. My dark breeches cut off at the boots. With an exposed midriff, arms, and back, I can’t help but feel like a piece of meat to be shown off under Amari’s gaze.

As if sensing my insecurities, Amari verbally pounces. “What is the matter, Princeling? Shall I offer you more presentable garments in which to greet your future lovers?”

“That won’t be necessary, Amari.” I turn a good scowl on her before committing to approach the gate on foot.

“As you wish, young Princeling.” She says, letting the topic drop.

My dolls remain perched at the carriage’s front seat. I make sure to signal to Selescia that their presence is not needed at this time.

Judging by the number of weapons carried by the curiously sharp eared Lunarian Watchers pouring out from a stone gate, I decide it is best that my dolls not factor into our first impressions.

For some reason I do not imagine the masked utilitarian guards will appreciate the finely tailored dresses and artistic interests of my court assistants and blood dolls. Fia and Selescia are many things, but I would not expose them to even the potential for violence if I can help it.

Whether the Watchers arranged to greet us are aware of it or not, I have been promised to a pair of Lunarian Seed Seers beyond those stone gates. The Castellan’s will shall be carried out, regardless of how I might feel about the matter.

It is finally time to see what kind of reception awaits us.

Each Watcher is adorned in a mask that prominently depicts a gemstone eye. Despite there being otherwise no holes in the mask for vision, there is little doubt in my mind that their gemstones are keyed to provide an enhanced vision of some kind.

In this instance, the gemstones work largely like my blood. Drain a population of something unneeded, focus it into those who watch for external threats. Where I might be more potent on an individual level, their masks are backed by an entire nation ensuring a steady supply of charged stones.

For all I know, Watchers could be named such that anything beyond what is necessary to serve their role could be bled out of them. This could be all they are considered good for, which might make them irritable.

I can relate to that much at least.

Gemstones on the other hand are widely considered precious within the empire for their quality of being a container that is altered the slowest by the strong emotional resonance of what effects are stored within them. This allows them to remain reliable tools for longer. Astraea’s armor wouldn’t be cut from gemstones if it was going to mutate on her while she is wearing it.

Each masked Watcher to step out from the gate is taller than the one that precedes them. They are quick to fall into a regimented formation of two rows in support of ten heavy bolt throwers.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

I am… not enthusiastic at the idea of having weapons crafted to fell oversized monsters pointed at me.

Heedless to the weapons that would punch through her armor and the next person or two standing behind her, Astraea confidently takes the lead. “Proud Lunarian Watchers, we mean you no harm. I, Astraea Wyrmsbane have merely come to escort my Noble charge Ayre - the Fourteenth of her Unholy Brood, into your care.”

“We’ve not heard word of any such arrangement.” Comes a reply from one of the masked Watchers leveling weapons at us.

I step forward, setting a hand on my protector’s shoulder. “I can handle this.”

Astraea eyes the other hand I use to grip my chest with concern. “Is that really necessary?”

“My mother’s blood cannot be feigned.” I say, my voice devoid of any emotion on how I might feel about that fact. My fingers dig into the fabric of my chest wrap. Fingernails grinding against flesh stirs my heart into motion.

I circle wide as I approach, demanding the oversized weapons trained on us to split their attention.

“That’s far enough!” Cries a tall green haired Lunarian standing in the backline with a spear in a ready position. He gestures to a Watcher at his flank with a scaled gauntlet. “Fetch a Grove Tender or one of the Seed Seers. If there was some miscommunication, I need to know.”

Impatient to again be surrounded by the safety of walls, I bark out a rebuttal. “That won’t be necessary.” My voice deepens as my heart begins to race. “Just shoot me if you’re so concerned.”

Thankfully, no one immediately follows me up on that offer. Losing a limb this early would be… inconvenient.

The referenced Watcher, with a light red hair coloration, follows orders by disappearing beyond the stone gates.

I take it as motivation to continue. “So long as you avoid the heart, there will be no reprisal for attempting to fell one of my mother’s brood.”

The green haired Lunarian’s mask turns to me. “Why have we not heard of your coming?”

I muster up an affronted scoff. “Because I was just the opening gift in an ongoing exchange between our betters. Frankly, I don’t matter. What does, is that I know you’ve been struggling to meet your Moon Wrought Implement and Gemstone quotas, have you not?”

One of the Watchers utters a curse.

A booming voice echoes out from behind the mask of the green haired one. “Thorned Watchers, stand down! I’ll verify this one personally.” The apparent Watcher in charge strides up to me, spear lowered but very distinctly leveled in my direction. “Black sclera, pallid and sunken flesh. You’re a Prince of something alright.”

I offer the Watcher a view of my fangs. “How kind of you to notice. I take it you’re in charge?”

“Thorned Watcher, Second Seed.” The green haired Watcher’s response is curt.

“Not in charge then.” I point out. “Where is your First?”

Green eyebrows furrow just above the mask. “In the absence of a First Seed, I serve as the High Watcher. No one gets in or out without my saying so.”

We stare at each other until it becomes clear that there is a distinct lack of any intent to let us in. Which is fair. Morganth would have promptly beheaded me for such a remark.

Amari coughs in the background. From her lungs, it sounds almost like a warning bark.

Right, time to be unpleasant then. “Green hair, long misshapen ears, all artificial no doubt. Do they just let you have the job they created you for, or did you actually earn your place?”

That gets an instant reaction in the form of a raised spear, poised to thrust at my heart. Aiming at anything less would be a lethal mistake on his part.

His shouted words are immediate. “Hold your tongue! I know what you are, depths-spawned wretch.”

“Oh good.” I say with a predatory purr. “Then I’ll have you know that I’m enjoying my time here on the surface. While I recognize that you find the idea of my presence distasteful, you can trust that the feeling is growing to be mutual.”

I do not leave him an opening to reply.

My next words are hissed with all the venom I can muster for this conversation. I advance, the distance between the spear and my torso narrowing.

“I know about the production problems your lot are having. The Castellan needs this problem hunted down and slain just as much as you do.” My words earn me a hint of hesitation, so I press the advantage. “Well? What is it going to be? Play along with the allied pieces on the board? Or do you want to be the one that convinces the Castellan that playing nice is too much trouble?”

These Watchers greeted me and mine by leveling bolt throwers at us. I know they understand the language of threats and violence.

But how will they respond to having those same threats turned back upon them by a representative of the Castellan’s displeasure?

Truth be told, this is my first time serving in such capacity. I can only speculate on the kind of effect my words will carry. Personally, I am hoping that this Watcher is more worried about his head rolling than mine.

I only just secured exclusive rights to my own personal blood dolls and Sworn Blade by claiming a station above Fifteenth of the brood. Each and every one of my companions is someone I have grown quite fond of, Astraea included.

All three would be wasted or ruined by my other siblings.

A few more tense moments pass before the High Watcher sees reason.

“Thorns! By order of the Second Seed, open the gates!”

Having gotten what I needed, I let any further harsh words on my part go in favor of something that recognizes the situation for what it is. "Thank you for accepting my presence as an uncomfortable compromise, High Watcher."

Again those furrowed green eyebrows. When he speaks, his voice hardens to deliver a threat. “Don’t feed on my people, Seed Prince.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.” I say as I step past him. “My blood dolls are more than adequate to sustain my needs.”

Astraea falls in step behind me while Amari guides the hulking cloth bound husks pulling her carriage through the now opened stone gate doors.

The moment the doors have closed behind us, Astraea rests a gentle hand on my shoulder.

I take that as my cue to allow myself to drop my guard. All at once my vision loses focus as the weight of drawing upon my bloodsucking parasite eases off my chest. The change in biological processes demands a few moments to steady my breathing.

“Hey. It’s okay. It’s over.” She says in an attempt at a calming voice, succeeding only in sounding far away.

I shake away her hand so that I can writhe within my own flesh, free of any outside influence. Only once my vision clears do I turn to look up at Astraea.

“I’m fine.” I declare.

“You’re not.” Astraea says, her expression softening. “Ayre. You are not the role forced upon you. I feel I must stress that you are more than what your station expects of you.”

I freeze.

Such words could never bring comfort. Not to a miserable wretch like me.

The weight in my chest, normally unnoticeable when not called upon, suddenly becomes unbearable. It is an unwanted addition, a parasite, and a reminder…

My life is not my own. Not entirely. I need only glance at my hands to remind myself that not all of me has made it this far.

“You’re right.” I say, my voice cold and distant. “I am not at the point where I can stand meeting the eye of the wretched creature you speak of that awaits me in the mirror.”

In truth, I am only about half the Prince that I should be. The rest of me is grafted together from the remains of my sister, Lenore.

All courtesy of the blood sucking parasite perched atop my heart that marks me as royalty.

The how and why is not even for me to know. I know only that the specifics must remain a secret, even from Astraea. Instead I accept the cold comforts offered to me by the second woman to whom I owe my life, wary of what might happen should we become close.

Astrea kneels at my side, her voice falling to a whisper. “For the first time in your life, you are far from the watchful gaze of the Castellan, her Executioners, and your siblings. You are allowed to just… not be fine.”

I shake my head until I find that I cannot stop shaking in other places.

It is better this way, I should think, that my love be sold to strangers to shore up an alliance.

I made the mistake of loving a sibling once.

Lenore deserved better.

“I’m fine. Better than fine, really.” I say, lying through my teeth.