Page 19 of Wench

To Rían’s right sits a woman broad as a hearth, her skin the shade of sunbaked clay, her arms corded with muscle. Vines wrap her forearms, living bracelets that twitch and bloom as she speaks. ‘Aife of Thornmarsh,’ she says, her voice low and even. ‘We keep the bogs, the reeds, the waters that mortals drain and poison. I would see her gone, and yet . . .’ Her dark gaze softens, eyes flashing gold in a pulse that makes Marian stumble back a step. ‘There is steel in her spine. Perhaps it is worth tempering.’

Opposite her, a fae cloaked in feathers clicks their tongue, tilting their head like a crow. Their eyes are pale yellow, unsettling against the green-gold gleam of the others. ‘Corven of Ashdown,’ they croak. ‘We keep the skies. Mortals hunt us for sport. I do not forgive.’

Marian’s breath stutters, but she holds her ground.

Next, an Elder whose skin gleams like river-stone polished smooth, hair dark as midnight spilling loose across their shoulders. Their smile is small, but genuine, their gaze keen. ‘I am Lyss of Silverfen. We keep the shoals where fish spawn in spring. I would hear what she has to say before I cast my judgment.’

The seventh figure sits half-shadowed, hood low, though the glow of his eyes gleams bright beneath it. ‘Dáin of Brambleholt. We keep to the thorn thickets. Mortals think them impassable, yet somehow they still crawl through. This one is no different. She will bring others on her heels.’

Elder number eight has a riot of blonde curls threaded with bright blooms. Her dress is spun of green and crimson petals that do not wilt even in the lantern glow. ‘I am Maelia of Bloomveil,’ she muses. ‘We tend the groves where wild magic bursts, where life grows too quick, too strange. If she is meant for us, the forest will claim her. If not, it will fling her out.’

Eight pairs of eyes burn into Marian. Each face, each name, each village a piece of Sherwood she had never known – let alone imagined – existed.

Her eyes fall to the ninth seat. The antler-crowned lord doesn’t answer immediately. His eyes remain lowered, hands folded on the table. He is the image of composure.

Onóra fills the silence before it can stretch. ‘She is mortal. That alone damns her. Cast her out before she brings ruin to our door.’

Marian’s chest constricts. The words slice as clean as a blade, but she forces herself to hold her head high, to not give the female the satisfaction of seeing her flinch.

Rían leans back in his chair with a theatrical sigh, propping his boots on the table’s edge. ‘Always so grim, Onóra. You’d banish anyone who sneezed without asking permission first.’ His grin flashes, all teeth. ‘She’s survived dangling in one of our snares with the Sheriff’s dogs at her heels. That deserves a sliver of curiosity, if not mercy, doesn’t it?’

A murmur ripples around the table. Marian feels her lungs loosen just enough to drag in a breath.

Cern shifts, the lichen along his jaw crumbling to dust with the motion. ‘Curiosity is not cause to risk Sherwood,’ he rumbles. ‘I have seen trees fall in their dozens for the greed of one mortal baron. Do not be deceived because this one bleeds prettily.’

Heat flares in Marian’s cheeks at the dismissal.

‘Cern is not wrong.’ Aife drums her vine-wrapped knuckles against the table. ‘Mortals have cut deeper wounds into the bogs than we can ever heal. And yet . . .’ Her gaze sharpens on Marian, eyes glinting. ‘There is fight in her. I’d rather a mortal with teeth than one who bows and breaks at the first shout. Perhaps there is use in seeing whether she can learn.’

Corven’s feathered cloak rustles as they shift. ‘What use have we for carrion-bait? Mercy for one is invitation to all.’

Lyss of Silverfen lifts a hand. ‘We sit in judgment too easily. Let her speak. Even prey is given its cry before the kill.’

A chorus of scoffs rises.

‘Her kind speaks in steel!’

‘They poison wells, gut earth for ore, and still call us monsters.’

‘The forest will decide! If she is meant to stay, it will root her here. If not, it will spit her out. I say we let her remain for now.’

‘You would have us gamble the fate of Sherwood on the word of one girl? Fool’s talk!’

‘Sherwood’s strength has always been choice. Deny her that, and we are no better than mortals.’

Onóra slams her palm flat against the table. ‘Enough of this bleeding-heart nonsense. She should be cast out before dusk.’

Four for Marian. Four against.

Every muscle in her body coils tight as she lifts her gaze until her eyes meet the one who has yet to speak.

Lox sits at the head of the table, expression carved into stillness. With slow deliberation, he pushes back his chair and the sound of wood scraping across the roots reverberates through the chamber until silence falls in its wake.

He rises to his full height and starts toward her, unhurried. He stops barely a pace away, close enough she can feel the shimmer of power humming beneath his skin. He reaches out and before she can flinch, his hand is on her chin, tilting her face to his.

His thumb brushes the corner of her mouth and she wonders if he means to smear the defiance rising behind her lips or just test the shape of them.

Heat flushes her cheeks. The touch is an intrusion, a brand, a reminder of how small she is before him. The air between them compresses until it feels like she can’t draw a full breath.