Page 17 of Forged By Malice (Beasts of the Briar #3)

16

Farron

P apers fly out of my fingers as I throw the useless scraps over my shoulder. I’ve read and reread these texts and accounts a thousand times now. And yet, I’m still no closer to understanding.

I heave in a breath and clutch one of the wooden shelves in the alder tree. This sacred, secret space is the resting place of Autumn’s Great Scriptorium of Alder, and it has been a sanctuary to me before. Today, it feels like a prison, a tomb of worthless information.

Guilt creeps through my mind. I lied to Rosalina, to all of them . I’d told everyone I was spending so much time in the Autumn Realm so I could help situate my father as the new steward. Truthfully, my father doesn’t need my help; he’d been assisting my mother run Autumn for decades. With the winter wraiths gone, our crops are once again thriving, the once displaced villagers back in their homes.

No, I’ve been in Autumn for a different reason. One I will not voice to Rosalina. She’s been through so much already. I can’t add another burden.

But I have to know the reason why Caspian is able to speak in her mind.

And if it’s for the reason I fear, then I must figure out how to break it.

I collapse to the ground, fingers digging into my hair. There’s nothing left. I’ve scoured everything in here; so much was lost to my beast and Caspian’s most recent betrayal last month.

I ripped his notebook, and he returned the act by forcing me to destroy centuries of sacred literature and bringing an army of goblins to slaughter innocent soldiers. If there ever had been good in Caspian, it has been torn out of him root by root until only his selfish heart remains.

Forcing in a shaky breath, I remind myself to be grateful for what is left within the alder tree. Before George O’Connell left on his expedition with my little brothers, he painstakingly reconstructed what he could from the wreckage. There’s no doubting where Rosalina gets her tenacious spirit.

“I must accept what is,” I whisper to myself, a phrase I’ve repeated over and over these last few weeks. There is nothing here that will explain why the Prince of Thorns can speak in my mate’s mind. Or at least, no information that contradicts my worst fear.

But I won’t stop. Rosalina’s just discovered an entirely new life: her faedom, her dormant magic. Her mate. Caspian destroys everything he touches. I won’t let him destroy her.

Though Kel won’t speak to me of his bargain, I’ve finally begun to understand him. Maybe it’s through the connecting bonds of our shared mate, but I feel it deep within my chest. Kel would die for Rosalina .

But more than that, he’d let everyone else die for her, too.

I put back the papers I discarded and tidy up the strewn-about texts. Perhaps I need to learn from Keldarion. The best way I can protect Rosie is to be with her.

I should return to Castletree.

As I make to leave the alder tree, I cast a glance to a pedestal pushed to the dark shadows. A faint green glow illuminates the space. I’ll come back for you. I think.

Perth’s crown was capable of reanimating the dead. If one could harness the Green Flame energy differently, could it halt death forever?

My chest tightens as I think of my mother, of her own lance cracking through her ribs. And the monster who did that to her escaped. Rage barrels past the grief, and I can almost feel the ghost of the wild beast thrashing to break out. But the beast is gone. Only I remain.

I step out into the chilly air. My elk Thrand and Rosalina’s horse Amalthea graze nearby on the new grass that has grown over what used to be ruins. I walk over and run a hand along Thrand’s flank. “One day, I’ll bring you home to Castletree. The briars will be gone, and grass will grow again. Streams of crystal-clear water will flow, and meadows of flowers will stretch over the hills.”

What did we even call the Briar before it became such? The Queen’s Realm, I remember. A place where all the wonder and magic of the Vale merged together.

But for now, the Briar is my home, and I must return to Castletree, to my mate.

A flutter sounds, and I look up to see a white bird flying toward me. A sea bird, a sandpiper. You don’t belong here.

But the bird is not a bird at all, with wings of paper and markings of ink. A message.

I pluck it from the sky and unravel the note.

Goblins. Spring steel.

Dayton and Rosalina are in trouble.