Page 36 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)
Ugly Duckling
DEVI
T he citadel sculpted into the cliffs of Deiltine looks inhospitable and bleak—some windowless, grimy factory with angular walls and spires spurting black smoke.The wet stones of the staircase leading to the entrance scrape my boots, too coarse to be slippery.
Seth and I are sandwiched between the guards, one out front and one at the rear as they herd us in for an audience with their boss. The guards’ dark gray uniforms have no sleeves, showcasing their many scars and tattoos, their buzz cut and pointy ears enhancing the tough-guy quality they share.
Many similarly dressed workers carrying supplies or traveling between the different neighborhoods that make up this place glare at us as we pass under a covered porch.
The static electricity in the air—amplified by the presence of so many Storm Fae in one place—tickles my insides.
Nothing says ‘welcome’ like bulging biceps and dubious intentions.
Thunder clings to my skin and bristles down my spine, but the workers track me with cool disinterest. I’m not used to being seen and then immediately dismissed.
For men to turn up their noses at me as though I’m nothing more than a stupid, useless female.
I’ve suffered through many forms of sexism, but to be so easily written off… that’s a first.
We walk through a series of sliding doors designed to crack open just enough to let people through, then seal shut behind them—layer after layer protecting the interior from the weather. There’s no signage, no directions. This place isn’t meant for visitors.
A sickly trickle of claustrophobia takes hold of me, the thickness of the walls meant to protect us from the outside caging me in.
Even though the citadel is big—its many hallways and corridors forming a kind of beehive—it feels oddly small and small-minded.
Like any idea that doesn’t fit the mold, anyone who challenges the status quo, anything that isn’t anchored in tradition and beaten down by years of hard labor, comes here to die.
At the core of the citadel, the air remains damp, and the hairs on my arms rise with the static charge humming through these ancient, square-cut tunnels.
This isn’t a land of pleasure or lazy afternoons wasted on wine and sunshine. It’s a world of hardship, lit by lightning and ruled by thunder. Tough. Grueling. Gray.
There’s no real light, only the occasional torch, and the rumble of storms is near constant—like the halls themselves are growling.
No wonder the darklings of Storm’s End are so rough around the edges.
At the center of the main hall, a raised platform allows the Warden of Lightning Point to preside from above.
A throne of rock, accented with lyranthium, stands at its center, and two enormous Aeolian blades form an X behind the chair, their tips licking the ceiling.
The whole setup feels too elaborate for a Shadow Lord and looks ancient and worn, a reminder that the citadel of Deiltine once served as Storm’s End’s capital during the war.
Zepharion had been deemed too close to the Breach and the Islantide to protect the royal family.
“Fuck. We’re in trouble,” Seth grumbles, earning himself a shove from the ax-wielding guard escorting us.
“What kind of trouble? Let’s-start-killing-people trouble?” I whisper.
The guards snicker, as if the idea of someone like me fighting them is laughable.
Three black wolves prance inside the room and sprawl at the base of the throne.
They are flesh and bone like the ice wolves that led our sleigh, but meaner and leaner, each rib a mark of the scarcity of raw meat in these parts.
Their canines peek from beneath their lips.
They don’t snarl or growl, but watch us with the focus of animals taught to wait for a command before ripping you open.
Three men enter the room behind them, dressed in finer clothes than the guards and workers we’ve seen so far.
Not the silks and leathers typical of the High Fae, but the newer fabrics developed in the new world.
The dark woven material is designed to dry quickly and wash easily, with accents of metal and leather buckles.
I gather they must be the cousins Seth mentioned.
The Fae in the center wears a golden lightning-shaped medallion on a chain around his neck and a matching signet ring, both marking him as the warden of the province. His bite of power crackles through the air, strong but strangely contained—like thunder on a stick.
The other two are taller by a few inches. One is built like a thug, with broad shoulders, a thick middle, and a heavy beard. The other is muscular, too, but more refined. His hair is just as black, matching scruff lines his jaw, and his piercing mismatched eyes make my stomach twist with unease.
So far, none of these men have spared me more than a passing glance, which is bizarre, but probably for the best.
“Sethanias Devine… I didn’t think you’d have the gall to show your face here again,” the warden hisses.
A dark cloak billows behind him as he slouches into the throne, legs spread, his energy a cross between fuck-boy and gothic martyr . Dark circles drag his gray eyes down, while his thick, unkept black hair and pale skin emphasize the brooding edge of his presence.
“Alaric Rayne. What happened to your father?” Seth asks, clearly disappointed and a little freaked out to find his cousin wearing his uncle’s mantle.
Alaric grins from ear to ear. “Dead. We’re all sons without fathers now, cousin.”
“Which means you’re no longer the Warden of Lightning Point. Not until the new king legitimizes your role,” Seth says calmly. His voice holds no taunt, no snark—just quiet resolve, like it belongs to someone else.
Alaric flexes and cracks his knuckles. “Haven’t you heard? The chalice is gone, so the strongest wolf gets to lead the pack.” His cold, baring gaze flicks over to me. “Who’s your friend?”
“I’m his woman,” I grumble, and true enough, it’s not a lie.
I expect Seth to beam at that, but he grimaces instead, like I just said the wrong thing.
“Is that so?” Alaric jumps from the ledge of his raised platform, landing right in front of me. He braces his knuckles under my chin, forcing my head to turn. “She’s not much to look at, cousin. Strange. You’re not usually one to settle for ugly ducklings.”
His brow furrows as he wraps a hand around my throat.
“Get off me!” I head-butt his face.
The wolves leap to their feet, barking along with a crash of thunder as their boss stumbles away, holding his nose. His fingers are covered with a mix of blood and dark ink.
The guards raise their weapons, but Alaric grabs his subordinate’s double-headed axe and gestures for them to stay next to Seth.
His brothers flank me instead, grabbing an arm each.
“Who are you, little duck?” the brother with the mismatched eyes whispers nefariously in my ear. He’s oddly cold to the touch, his grip firm enough to incapacitate me without causing lasting harm—holding me right at the edge of pain.
The thug clamps a hand around my upper arm and presses his rough palm flat on my shoulder, pinning me in place, both my hands now held behind my back.
“What do we have here?” Alaric inches closer, more careful this time. “Looks like Seth’s girlfriend is hiding her true appearance with a glamor rune. Let’s see.”
He grabs a dirty rag from his pocket and scrapes the coarse, unrefined piece of wool from my chin to my cleavage, then rubs behind my ears, all the usual spots where glamor runes are typically hidden. The magic starts to fade, and the two men holding me swallow hard, not giving me an inch to spare.
Mismatched eyes sinks his nails into the flesh of my arm, marking it with half crescent grooves, but it’s the way he dips his head to sniff me that turns my blood to ice.
Alaric whistles. “Brothers…we have a legend in our midst.”
“You’re—” the big one stammers.
I hold Alaric’s stare, unflinching. “I’m Devi Eros.”
He flattens the blade of the axe against my cheek. “And how are you supposed to shoot me with a love arrow with your hands held behind your back, luv?”
I give him an impish smile. “If I wanted you to fall in love with me, I wouldn’t need any arrows.”
Alaric tucks his chin, laughing, and scapes the hair from my face with his blade. “Take Seth to a cell. I need to speak with his woman alone.”
Seth shoves the guards off—something he could have done easily before—and marches closer, his sword taking shape inside his palm.
Thunder quakes the room. Magic hangs thick in the air, heavy and electric.
A creeping shadow gathers above our heads, blotting out the already faint light.
It feels as though I’m suddenly being held twenty feet under water, caught in the eyes of a storm.
The air around me presses down on my legs, my arms, my throat, making it awkward even to breathe.
Every nerve ending begs me to flee and take refuge, and a tickle of warning cramps my gut. Mismatched eyes presses a wave-bladed dagger just below my ribs, the blade angled upright, toward my heart. “Calm down, Seth.”
Alaric faces my fiancé, unbothered to draw his weapon. “Have you known me to be anything but a gracious host? You never wanted for anything when you last visited. I’d even say I shared everything a host could share.”
“As I recall, you turned on me the next morning,” Seth says.
“Well...your woman should take that as an incentive to stay on my good side.”
I meet Seth’s gaze and give a slight nod. “You go. I’ll be okay.”
Seth raises his sword toward Mismatched eyes. “If you touch her?—”
The creepy man holding a blade to my side snickers. “And what could you do? You’re our prisoner.”
Seth’s nostrils flare. “I’ll slice off your balls, Nate. I swear it.”
“That’s enough,” Alaric barks. “Take him away.”
His features twist when he glares at Seth. He hates him much more than I do, most likely for more than just being Freya’s son.