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“If that’s what you can call it,” I reply. “I managed to offend both upon meeting them.”
“Heard about that.”
“From the pixies?”
Ken chortles. “Das Celyn didn’t appreciate you nixing their title.”
“Das is a title?”
“Of high standing—it’s a term of respect, a title of honor,” he calls over my shoulder as I browse the clothing options.
“Das Celyn implied they weren’t High Fae though.”
“They’re not. Das is a title reserved for Low Fae. It’s a renowned title earned through years of unwaveringly loyal support and service to the royal family.”
“Are there others with that title?”
“A few…yes.”
My brow scrunches as I finish throwing on my clothes and braiding my hair. Exiting the bathroom, I sit on the edge of the bed while Ken pokes around, inspecting things nosily.
“So some actually choose to serve the prince?”
Ken laughs, and it’s a hearty noise. “Some are forced to serve as punishment for crimes committed. But for others, like Das Celyn, it’s a lucrative position. Not only for them, but for their family.”
It’s hard for me to comprehend why anyone would want a life of servitude. Perhaps I can’t imagine it because Dovenak is utterly opposite. All servants are forced into their roles, purchased from the Trade.
“There’s a hierarchy,” he says. “We have Royal Fae such as Prince Rainer at the top—also technically High Fae. Below them we have the regular High Fae who don’t come from royal lines or hold formal titles. Then we have the Low Fae who’ve been bestowed with the Das title, followed by the remaining Low Fae.”
“That’s—” I think of something to say “Are the classes based on how much magic one has?”
He nods. “Low Fae are born with less powerful magic than the High Fae. The Das title offers Low Fae an incentive to rise through the hierarchy through hard work and loyalty. It’s not something I expect you to understand. But it would be kind of you to use the title, regardless of your understanding. It’s important to fae like Das Celyn.”
My cheeks heat. “Of course.”
I naturally assumed Rainer was cruel, that he forced his servants into servitude. It never struck me that some of the faeries, like Das Celyn, choose to work here.
It makes me wonder what else I was wrong about.
Rainer’s words about Fern, about assuming to know the story there, echo in my mind.
I’ve seen a side of him that is…harsh, yes, but also kind. It’s confusing. He appears torn between cruel indifference and unwanted empathy. I can’t help but wonder if maybe there’s a deeper meaning to my dream last night. Perhaps it’s a message to trust the prince.
I break my fast with porridge, courtesy of a tight-lipped Das Celyn, slurping it down in a very unladylike manner. Ken and I sit on the chaise before my room’s unused fireplace. The entire time, he watches with humor playing on his lips. He laughs at almost everything I do, but not in a cruel way. It’s lighthearted, entertained.
In fact, I find it contagious and much appreciated given the gravity of the last couple weeks.
“You look like a miniature, blonde version of me in that getup, little human.” His grin widens, his teeth practically blinding me.
“This is surprisingly comfortable,” I say, palming the soft fabric of the tunic. I’m dressed in brown leather pants, a cotton tunic, and boots of my own. My curls are pulled back into a braid to keep them out of my face. I’ve always been fond of my dresses and skirts, but these pants are much more efficient for moving. It feels… more natural to me.
“Good. Because we’re about to get very uncomfortable.” I give him a puzzled look and he barks a laugh. “You’re working with me and Viv today. Some basic training drills.”
“Training? Me?” My heart beats quicker at the prospect of leaving the room and doing something.
“Yup.” He leans forward, bopping me on the nose with a beefy finger. “Time to put some meat on those bones, little human. Get that strength up.”
“Why do you care about my strength?” I ask skeptically. I find it hard to believe they’d want to train me simply to help me.
