Page 142 of Lore of the Tides

But Lore had light too.

She could see, below the black ink of her fingertips, her palms, the streams on her wrist, the silver glow ofSource. How it came to her when called, danced in her presence. And the purple Puallas Kiss, it glittered in the light of herSource, evidence that she had saved an entire empire, because it was the right thing to do—because she was incapable of walking away from beings in need. And how the queen had gifted her with the Kiss, a permanent monument to her triumph.

She had her friends who had become family. The joy of watching the children at the shelter live and breathe and mature. No longer would her loved ones’ growth be stifled from forced starvation.

Love for them... it kindled the fight within her just as much as rage.

Lore was dark, and she was light, and only by balancing the two could she do what needed to be done.

She pinched her fingers together and pulled forth a thin string of light, so thin it was invisible to the eye. Translucent but sharperthan any steel. She would not prolong their deaths. She would not torture them as the king had. She flung her hands out, propelling the string out before her. Even with their superior fae eyes, they didn’t see it coming, not even when it sliced through all their necks at once.

Finndryl whooped, and Syrelle sank to his knees, his eyes watching his uncle’s head roll. She did not smile as she watched their decapitated bodies collapse, blood spurting out of them in rivers to form a lake at her boots.

But she did feel at peace when the deed was done.

Chapter 53

TWO WEEKS LATER

Asmall armada awaited Lore in Alytheria’s western harbor: six imposing navy vessels and four nimble merchant ships, all gifts from the new King of Alytheria. For now, this would be enough. Enough to carry Lore’s people to their new home, along with a handful of skilled fae who had volunteered to share their knowledge with the humans. Blacksmiths, carpenters, weavers, healers—masters of crafts long forbidden to the Duskmere folk.

The ships’ holds bulged with the promise of a new beginning: bountiful stores of foods, seeds ready to sprout in fertile soil, stacks of lumber, tools of every kind, livestock, the gentle hum of bees, bolts of colorful cloth, and crates filled with healing herbs and remedies. Everything they would need to build a thriving community, to carve a life of freedom and prosperity from the wild embrace of the islands.

And Lore had a new grimoire in her satchel—the defeated king’s own spell book, taken from his rooms. One day, when she felt that her shields would be strong enough to withstand his corruption, she would study it to find out how and where he called the humansfrom—so that those seeking answers, or who wished to return to Shahassa, would have the chance.

Lore glanced away from the bustling harbor and cast her gaze toward Wyndlin Castle, whose towers peeked over the tree line.

Ah, there he was.

King Syrelle had his work cut out for him.

He had sent a trusted few to the new steward’s office where the records were kept. They were compiling a list of every single fae who had been a sentry at Duskmere. Whether they were long retired and living elsewhere or had been active when the king had withdrawn them to prepare for the slaughter of her people.

One by one they would be hunted, collected, and tried for their crimes.

The merchants, too, who funded the king’s evil deeds.

The winged royal guard who had been on duty while the humans were imprisoned in the tower.

The royal advisors.

Everyone complicit would be brought before a tribunal, tried, and made to answer for their crimes.

In the meantime, he had a million other things to do as well, but for now, Lore needed him to do one last thing for her before she left him to rule his kingdom.

She eyed his form as he walked toward her where she stood in the Alytherian harbor. Massive wings. Purple robes. Gleaming golden crown.

Lore heard a peal of laughter coming from the dock behind her. She glanced toward it for a moment, and then cast her gaze back toward the new King of Alytheria.

She gasped. Standing before her was not the king, but Asher. He wore a simple tunic and breeches, his antlers displayed proudly. The scar on his brow, that full bottom lip.

“Asher,” she breathed out.

His mouth quirked.

“This form seemed the most fitting for our goodbyes.” His eyes glistened. He tapped his antlers. “I can’t bear to think that this is it. That you will leave me and never return to Alytheria.”

“If you can bear your uncle’s ‘punishments,’ you can bear anything, I think.” Lore winced. She was trying to make light of the horrifying ordeal they’d gone through, but it would be a long time before she could truly be carefree about it, and she learned now that she was not quite there, yet, to make jokes and laugh about it. “Truly, though, you have so much on your plate, you won’t even notice that I’m gone.”