Summer

S unrise in the Shade Court is a joke. A sad one.

The light shifts from black to purple, then gray, never quite turning gold. A melancholy effect that suits the business of the day—burying the man I love alive.

This morning, all is quiet on the coastal cliffs, except for the wind roaring in off the sea, wild and wet, carrying the scent of brine and seaweed.

I stand near the edge, wrapped in a too-fancy dress Phaedra stuffed me into just after dawn.

The bodice is tight, leather and bone laced over a neckline that dips too low.

Embroidered vines twist up the full skirts, and the split on one side is scandalously high.

I’m dressed for a revel or a wedding, not a funeral.

My hair hangs loose over my shoulders, and the bruise on my cheek has ripened overnight into the same deep purple shade as the dress.

After last night’s ordeal in the Hollow, guards shoved us into separate chambers. I saw Wyn’s as we passed. It had no windows. Just a cot, a pitcher of water, and several locks that clicked hard from the outside where an armed guard stood to attention.

I hadn’t seen Wyn again until minutes ago, when two winged fae brought me out to the edge of the sea cliffs. The pre-dawn sky hung low and heavy, and the ground was damp beneath my boots.

And now, here he is—standing barefoot, cloak loose around his shoulders, watching Landolin dig his grave.

Yes. Wyn’s grave .

What a terrible, foolish bargain he made with Moiron.

Seven days and seven nights beneath the earth, cursed to sleep until… what? Some magical deity decides to maybe give him a happy ending? Or will it just be a cold and lonely death?

I know the rules. Wyn told me. Cursed by a mad mage back in his own realm to be buried alive, and only true love can dig him out, help him rise. All very poetic. All very “Faery” and insane.

And yet, still, here we are.

I want to shake him. Ask him why now. Why not wait? Why not find a better plan, one that doesn’t end with him lying in a hole, sacrificed to a court, to a land he despises.

Why jump headfirst into the ground before the curse demands it?

But I already know the answer. It’s written all over him, plain as the bruise on my face. He said it out loud. Bargained for my release.

Because Moiron threatened me.

Because Landolin is still deluding himself I can be trained to raise the dead.

Wyn offered himself in exchange for my safety because he thinks it will save me. That he can cheat fate by rushing into its open jaws and hoping for the best. As if dying early somehow counts as a win.

Idiot. Brave, beautiful idiot .

The wind whips hair over my eyes, and I tug it away, my heart pumping erratically, pounding out my dread as I count up from the number seven. Why seven? I have no idea. But it often feels like a safer place to start than one.

Landolin is shirtless as he shovels, because of course he is.

His hair is damp from sea mist, his muscles flexing with every clean, mechanical lift of the spade.

He’s halfway through digging a rectangular hole in the rocky ledge, and the thud of each shovelful landing beside it grates against my spine.

Wyn watches him for a long time before speaking. “Why don’t you use magic?” he finally asks. “Save yourself some energy.”

Landolin doesn’t stop digging. He just smirks. “That would be cheating.”

A laugh bubbles up my throat, followed by a scream. Somehow, I manage to suppress both. In the distance, a wolf howls. Poor Ivor. He’s still out there, probably pacing madly, trying to get to us.

Instead of launching myself on Landolin’s back and tearing his black eyes out, I just stand there, my almost-bare legs freezing in the icy wind, casually watching Wyn’s grave get dug like it’s compost being turned for a tomato plot.

Eventually, the hole is finished. It’s not particularly deep, which gives me a small sense of relief.

Landolin wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and steps away, spade slung casually over one shoulder. “You bargain poorly for a prince of Faery,” he says to Wyn. “My father said she would be free to leave. He did not say our city walls would let her.”

I turn sharply toward him. “What the hell does that mean?”

Before Landolin answers, Wyn shifts. One second he’s fae, the next he’s a wolf mid-lunge, teeth bared and fur bristling. The raw growl that rips from his chest makes me want to run in the other direction.

Landolin doesn’t flinch.

A shadow lifts from the ground and crashes into Wyn in the middle of the air, slamming him sideways onto a boulder near the edge of the cliff. He hits the stone hard and drops but doesn’t stay down.

Wyn snarls, scrambles up, and leaps again. Another shadow whips around his hind leg, yanks him mid-jump, and hurls him across the rocks.

This time, he lands as a man, not a wolf—naked, bleeding, and wheezing through his teeth.

“Stop,” I breathe. “Please… don’t hurt him.”

A dark aura of power haloing Landolin, he stalks toward Wyn, his face a mask of cool detachment. “If you do this, Wynter. Go gently into the earth, then I’ll protect her, make sure she lives. Treat her well. I vow it.”

Wyn spits blood. “And if I don’t?”

“She’s bought and paid for,” Landolin says. “My tribute. And I can do whatever I like with her.”

Wyn pushes himself upright, one arm wrapped around his ribs. “She’s mine .”

Landolin’s voice doesn’t change. “And what difference does that make? The Hunt has claimed her twice . If she isn’t the one who can solve my little problem, then I’ll find other uses for her. Things you wouldn’t like to imagine. ”

He looks at me then, cold and calculated, and my stomach spasms with fear.

“So tell me, Wynter,” he drawls, “is it to be her blood on my marriage bed… or another human’s?”

Wyn lunges again, this time half-crawling before collapsing at my feet. He drags himself to his knees, shaking. “She’s not your mate, therefore, you can’t claim her,” he snarls. “You need permission. A human parent. A bargain.”

Landolin’s mouth quirks. “I can take whomever I like, if they have no living parent.”

The sea crashes below, and the ruthless wind tears at our clothing. The elements don’t care what happens here. Who dies or who lives. And neither does Landolin.

Footsteps crunch behind us.

I turn and watch Phaedra, the servant who brought me breakfast and dresses I didn’t ask for, coming toward us. She walks with small shaky steps, her gaze fixed on the ground in front of her feet.

“I brought water,” she says, setting a silver goblet beside Wyn. “And bandages. You’ll want them… before the burial.”

Wyn doesn’t speak or acknowledge her.

Phaedra glances once at Landolin. Her voice drops lower. “You think yourself clean in this, but you should know that carrying out your father’s wishes leaves a stain upon your fate.”

Landolin’s eyes narrow. “Careful, Phaedra. I suggest you don’t say another word.”

“I’m only a servant,” she replies, all innocence. “No one cares or remembers what I say.” Then she turns and walks away, the soft rustle of her skirts swallowed by the wind .

I wonder how she knew to bring bandages, and that Wyn is injured. Unless…

I glance at Landolin. “You told her to bring that stuff, didn’t you?”

He doesn’t look at me. Just brushes dirt from his hands like the conversation bores him. “Have you forgotten you’re in a magical realm? In this court, it’s a simple thing for our shadows to speak to each other.”

“Just when I think you couldn’t get any creepier,” I say.

“On your socials,” he shoots back, “you call yourself a Paranormal Communications Director. So I predict with time, you’ll fit in very well at the Shade Court.”

“That was a joke, so don’t hold your breath,” I mutter, wondering if it’s a fae thing—cleaning wounds before a burial—or just particular to Wyn’s curse.

Wyn lifts the cup and drinks, the water running down his chin, mixing with blood. He stands tall, naked just like the first time I saw him, but bruised and unsteady.

With horror flickering in his eyes, he looks at me. “Don’t wait for me, Summer. Promise you’ll leave. Find a way out.”

I step closer. “Wyn. I’m not leaving without you. Seven days the curse says.”

“Don’t wait. But if you do, and I don’t rise, make them honor the exact wording of the bargain. Moiron promised to let you leave this realm. That means you must be allowed to pass through the city walls.”

“You don’t have the right to give up on us like that,” I say, fists clenched at my sides. “Whether I stay or not, it’s my choice.”

He gives me a broken smile. “Too late. I gave up last night when I let them lock the door. The whole point of the curse is to surrender. And it’s your best chance for survival. So do it, Summer, surrender.”

“Well, that’s your decision. Mine might be different.”

Wyn leans in close. “I thought we’d have more time,” he murmurs, his voice raw, exhaustion etched into the lines around his mouth.

“We do,” I whisper. “We have forever. In seven days, I’ll be here.”

He swallows hard, eyes flicking up toward Landolin, then back to me. “Take care. Do anything but let them hurt you.”

“I’m not the one being buried alive, Wyn.”

“I’d be buried a thousand times over if it would keep you safe, little sun.”

My throat tightens. I grip his hand hard. “Don’t you dare stay down there forever. I’ll be forced to work on my non-existent necromancy skills to get you back again.”

“I won’t,” he says, flashing those killer dimples. “I promise.”

I clutch his face between my hands and kiss him fast and hard. His lips are cool, mouth warm. Trembling, he kisses me back like a drowning man clawing for air. Behind us, Landolin lets out a pained sigh.

Ignoring the Shade Prince, Wyn presses his forehead to mine. “I love you,” he breathes. “If this ends here, I’ll wait for you in the afterlife. Forever if that’s what it takes. I’ll never stop hoping, Summer, believing that I’ll see you again.”

“Careful. That sounds like you might end up being the new ghost in my bathroom mirror, hanging out with my mom. Why wish that fate upon yourself?”

“Why? Because I never breathed properly until I saw you. Never lived until I touched your hand for the first time. Never—”

“Okay, I get it. You can haunt my lingerie drawer anytime you like,” I say with a sad smile. “I love you so much, Wyn. I’ll come find you. No matter where you are. I promise.”

My hands drop as Landolin steps forward.

Wyn turns toward the grave. He squeezes my hand once before letting go.

Landolin snorts and gestures to the empty pit. “I’ve made something special for you. Close your eyes.”

Wyn sighs and looks up at the sky, shaking his head.

“I mean it. Close them, or I’ll close hers.”

Wyn obeys. When he opens his eyes, a pale white headstone rests at the top of the grave. The inscription reads: R.I.P. Wynter Fionbharr, Prince of Mud .

“Very funny,” Wyn says.

“You should hear my other options… Here Lies Wynter, Beloved By Dirt, Feared By No One. Gone to Ground, Finally Where He Belongs. May He Decompose In Peace. So many I liked, but in the end, I went for simplicity.”

“Good choice,” mutters Wyn.

In the distance, near a wind-swept blackthorn tree, I catch movement in the corner of my eye—a low, dark shape pacing. A glint of orange eyes in the gloom. Ivor.

He’s pinned behind a shimmering ribbon of ward magic etched into the ground, dark shadows crackling at his paws like static.

Ivor’s ears are flat, tail rigid, muscles tight with fury.

He doesn’t bark or howl. He just watches, silent and murderous, as Wyn steps down into the dirt, as if he’s willing him not to do it.

As if he’s ready to tear the throat out of every Shade Court fae to stop this from happening—if only he could .

Wyn lays down. No theatrics. No grand speech. Just a barefoot prince climbing into the carved-out earth like he’s settling in for a relaxing morning nap.

Terror claws at my insides. My body freezes, and bile rises with the panic.

Landolin takes a small stone amulet from his belt, murmurs something in the grating tongue of the court, and a violet shimmer passes over the pit.

“Wyn, is he allowed to do that? What’s he—”

“It’s fine,” says Landolin. “I’m protecting the grave from harm. Would you prefer wild creatures dig him up before his time?”

“Why do you care if they do?” I ask.

Landolin leans on the shovel, looking at me like I’m a fool. “Because if he doesn’t stay there for seven days and seven nights, our land won’t receive the full quota of Elemental magic he promised us. It won’t be as strong.” With a shrug, he begins to bury Wyn alive.

After two shovelfuls, Landolin stops. “Shift into your wolf,” he says.

Wyn’s fists clench over his thighs. “Why?”

“For the usual reason. Because I said so , you Elemental mutt.”

Landolin knows Wyn won’t have access to magic in his wolf form. He wants him weak. Helpless. Less likely to rise. Dead or not, as long as he’s still in the grave after seven days, the land will capture Wyn’s residual magic. Landolin likely doesn’t care if Wyn survives.

“Look, if you do this for me, Wynter, I’ll show the human the real truth of what happened that night with her parents. ”

“The truth?” I yelp. “If the images you showed me in the mirrors were a lie, why would I trust anything you show me now, you evil prick?”

“I cannot lie, so ask if it’s the whole truth, and I’ll have no choice but to admit it.”

Wyn gives me a quick nod. “He’s right, Summer. And you deserve to know the full story.”

“Good,” says Landolin. “But let’s get your wounds dressed first. I was so eager to begin, I nearly forgot.”