Page 54 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen (Curse of the Fae #4)

Forsaken Fortress

DEVI

T he obsidian passage ripples within the confines of a dark, oval-shaped onyx slab. It’s a void meant to take us to Zepharion in the blink of an eye. No address needed, no skill or runes required. Just one step forward.

It’s a step I’m not sure I’m strong enough to take. I grip the burial shroud wrapped around Percy’s small body. It hurts to hold it, yet it would destroy me to let it go.

I wove it from my own plucked feathers and a dozen braids cut from my head, and I inscribed his name in dark ink.

Spring Fae are never buried in wood, glass, or metal caskets—only fabrics.

We return to the earth faster this way. The nutrients from our decaying bodies nourish the plants and trees that feed us and shelter us, creating new life.

Nature gives birth to us and welcomes us back in death. That’s how it should be. I’ll bury my Percy at the heart of the Secret Springs, where the two Amouran rivers converge, just the way he would have wanted.

But to do that, I have to live on, and travel through this tenebrous passage.

I’ve never seen one before, let alone used it. The Shadow King is the only one who can create them, and he does so reluctantly, since the comings and goings allowed by an obsidian passage are separate from the sceawere and therefore beyond his influence and power.

“You’re sure this thing leads to Zepharion?” I ask Seth, wary of such magic.

He hasn’t left my side since we left the arena.

He hovers like a big bear, unsure where to put his hands, which gives an accidentally clumsy quality to his demeanor.

One moment, he’s got a hand on my shoulder or on the small of my back.

The next, he steps away to give me room.

Then he drifts close again, fingers flexing at his sides, like he’s not sure what they’re meant to do, or how to help.

Again, his hand grazes my spine with butterfly touches.

“Yes. It’ll take us directly into my father’s private study,” he says.

My brows lift. “Convenient. If it’s so easy, why didn’t Luther use it to attack Deiltine? From what I’ve heard, he’s not the kind of man who scares easily. Especially not from someone like Alaric Rayne.”

Seth tilts his head, considering the question. “My father was a bit paranoid, and warded his study with a blood lock he bought from an old witch of the Red Forest. I suspect Luther never got inside the study to begin with.”

“How did your father manage to get Ferdinand Nocturna to build him a private, unregistered passage? The previous Shadow King didn’t lift a finger unless he was getting something out of it.”

Seth’s lips press together. “Blackmail, I suppose. You ready?”

“Let’s go.” I nod.

Seth’s shoulders hitch. “And we’re agreed?” he purses his lips. “There’s no secret assassination in the cards?”

“I won’t try to kill your brother. Unless he gives me good reason to.”

Seth pries one of my hands away from Percy’s shroud and laces our fingers, taking ownership of it and squeezing it tightly. “Let’s go together.”

I step forward.

The sensation of traveling through an obsidian passage is similar to the one we experience when we get our Shadow masks, like stepping into liquid darkness.

The shadows slip inside every orifice, smooth and warm as butter.

The feeling is strangely serene, yet similar to drowning, though it only lasts a second.

The room on the other side is furnished with thick leather pieces and a marble desk.

The hearth is dark. A fancy drink cart stocked with some of the most expensive brands of wines and hard liquors known to Fae is set next to the cushy leather chairs.

The desk is pristine, with no trace of dust or clutter.

Thorald Storm has been dead for less than a week, so the cleanliness of his study neither confirms nor denies Seth’s hypothesis that it’s been sitting empty since he died.

I tiptoe to one of the turret windows and risk a glance outside.

We’re on top of the Zepharion Tower, the highest point in the fortress. The sea below is much like it was in Deiltine—foaming and dangerous—but this stronghold sits higher, with four hundred feet of rock beneath our feet. More than enough to give anyone a bout of vertigo.

On the horizon, the south-eastern window offers a soul-shattering view of the sunrise, while the distant silhouette of the Islantide, the infamous island beyond the Breach, is covered in mist.

“Damian was right. The Tidecallers’ army is here.” Seth waves me over to the northern window, where the port of Zepharion sprawls along the secluded bay.

Hundreds of ships are anchored in the dark, icy waters—sleek vessels with tall masts and black sails rippling in the coastal wind, their hulls reinforced with dark metal fittings that gleam beneath the bright orange glow of the sunrise in the East.

“Should we look quietly for Luther or Willow? Or announce ourselves?”

I click my tongue, stepping away from the window. “Breaking in is fair game. Skulking around? Not so much.”

If we’d come here to kill Luther, I might’ve tried stealth, but sneaking into Luther or Willow’s private quarters would only telegraph dark intentions. We’re walking straight into the wolf’s den as a sanctioned peace delegation, and we need to act like it. No games.

I move to the door leading outside the king’s office and knock loudly on the metal. If it’s known to be a way in and out of the fortress, it must be guarded. “Hello? Is anybody there?”

One gasp, and then?—

“Who’s there?” an urgent, masculine voice asks.

“Devi Eros. I want to speak with the Lord of the Tides.”

“Open the door,” the voice orders.

I press my palm to the cold metal. “No, not until she stands before me. Be warned, I will not open the door for anyone else.”

Hurried footsteps echo in the distance.

Seth leans closer, his breath stirring the hairs at the nape of my neck. “Is this how you usually act during dangerous and delicate covert operations, or should I be worried?” he jokes, trying to take the edge off.

I’m not sure if I want to punch his face for teasing me at a time like this, or thank him for shaking me out of my grief.

“We’re one end-all blade short and bleeding through our clothes. Let’s not beat around the bush. If Willow and Luther decide we’re worth more to them dead, there’s not much we can do,” I say.

“You’d have enough magic to fight them now that the cupids are gone.”

A shiver quakes me. It hurts to contemplate the possibility that my curse has been vanquished, that I’m finally free, when the only soul I wanted to share that joy with is no more.

“And what if they’re only momentarily deactivated?

What if, as soon as I use magic again, another red cloud forms above our heads? ”

“What if it doesn’t?”

Two sets of loud footsteps echo from the other side. “Shush, someone’s coming.” I press my ear to the door.

“Devi, it’s me.” A melodic voice says. “Open up.”

The sound of my name tingles across my neck, warm as those endless summer nights spent by the sea, where we became more than friends or family. Where sisterhood blurred into something deeper.

We’re bound, Willow and me. Not by blood, not by love, but by a common goal: to dethrone the man who ruined us and bury him six feet under.

I wrench open the door.

Brown hair. Pixie haircut. Amber eyes that gleam with new magic, old trauma, and a shimmering hunger for revenge.

Willow’s Tidecaller uniform hides her curves, her Mist jewels the only thing that separates her from one of her underlings. The brown leather is the antithesis of what Fae royals usually wear on the battlefield. Simple, inexpensive, and unremarkable. The Tidecallers are warriors of the people.

One corner of her mouth curls up. “I’m not sure whether to thank you for opening that door, or scold you for never answering my letters.”

“Willow…” I breathe.

Seth draws back as Willow strides forward and pulls me into a hug, his lips pursed like he’s not sure whether to let her or not.

“It’s been too long, sister,” Willow murmurs, rising to her toes to hold me close.

The greeting carries a tacit trust that I didn’t expect, but it’s also a show of power.

We’re not a threat to her, and it shows.

The jewels embedded in her skin have multiplied in our time apart, like her hunger for power grew restless without me to temper it.

Mist jewels are dangerous but beautiful things.

They bestow and amplify magic, yet they're known to be addictive, like most potent substances.

The more you wear, the more you want. The more they give, the more they take.

If I had been able to use magic when I was at my lowest, I’m not sure I would have had the strength to walk away from such a power.

Willow looks radiant in them, and sure of herself in a way she never used to be. But something’s different. Her eyes hold the same fire, but it burns colder now. Calculated. Controlled.

Seth’s brows lift. “Sister?”

I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”

Willow crosses her arms and looks him up and down. “You’re Seth Devine, I suppose?”

“You suppose right.”

“I’m the Lord of the Tides. You already know my second-in-command, Luther Storm.”

A man appears behind her, shimmering out of the shadows.

“Luther, Devi. Devi, Luther,” Willow says.

Despite his young age, Luther Storm is a very attractive man. Soft black locks curl around his pointy ears, and aside from his pearly-white skin, he looks much like his brother. Their eyes are oddly similar, the familiar purple-flecks peppered among heavy grey clouds.

He squares his shoulders and faces me. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Devilyne Eros.” He bows his head in greeting, but there’s a rugged, impulsive quality to him, like he’s merely making fun of court customs. His eyes drift to Seth. “So…you found me again, brother.”

Seth matches the spark in his brother’s eyes as he answers, “I hope that this time, you won’t be so quick to tie me up.”