Page 53 of The Crown of the Last Fae Queen (The Heartless and the Wicked #4)

TWENTY-SEVEN – BLáR

Something was different about Kolfinna when they began searching for the black door again. They had left the forest behind, since the edges of it were blackened and it would likely become a void of darkness if they continued walking, and now they were back in the crumbling city.

Blár could tell almost immediately. Kolfinna’s lips were dragged down at the corners, there was tension around her mouth and eyes, and her shoulders were slightly hunched.

As if she was trying to bear the weight of the whole world on her shoulders.

Fury ran down to his bones at the sight of her like that; at the fact that she couldn’t trust him enough to talk to him, to let him in.

But he tamped down his own feelings and kept a neutral mask.

She hadn’t trusted him enough to tell him that she was the heir, and she hadn’t trusted him to tell him of her worries back then. And now, again, it seemed like she was doing the same.

He wouldn’t force her to talk, but a part of him withered knowing that she didn’t think he was worthy enough to be told the truth. To be told what she was worrying about, because he knew she was wrestling with something heavy.

“Kolfinna …” His words were nearly drowned out when a sudden blast sounded in the distance.

They both whirled. He searched the horizon, dread building within him at the shadows lurking in the distance.

He instinctively reached for his mana, waiting for the cold to slice through his being, for frost to run down his veins and freeze whatever he wanted it to—but nothing happened, and he drowned in the empty loss of his magic.

Cursing under his breath, he snatched her hand. “We need to find that door.”

She nodded quickly, and they both ran. His gaze roved over the storefronts, the houses, the blood-drenched cobbled streets. The door … Where was the door?

He hated how the fae were always playing these blasted tricks. Find this, or that, or death would come knocking. It was the same in the Eventyrslot ruins, where they were stripped of their magic and forced to play games to the death.

A hissing came from behind them and he didn’t dare turn around.

They turned a corner, only for shadows to slam the buildings nearby, waves of darkness frothing against the streets.

It was behind them and in front of them, several dozens of feet away.

Blár tugged Kolfinna’s hand toward an alleyway, and they continued their sprint, the dark magic following behind them densely.

Kolfinna’s breathing came in ragged breaths, her pink eyes wide and wild as she kept glancing over her shoulder. The color drained from her face faster.

If only he could use his magic.

If only he could blast the darkness away. Make it freeze in its tracks. Shatter it into a million pieces.

They came out of the other end of the alleyway, only for darkness to be waiting there, too.

A blind panic overcame him and Kolfinna pulled him along the street, but it was too late.

It was everywhere, and it slammed into them both.

Immediately, Blár wrapped her in his arms and covered her with his body as much as he could.

It rolled over them and they crashed to the floor.

A deep, deep coldness wrenched into his being and he couldn’t even scream.

Like a maelstrom, it hit them at all directions.

“Blár!” Kolfinna screamed.

He held onto her more tightly, but a force came between them and as hard as he tried to keep her in his arms, she was ripped away from him. His hands stretched out, searching for her, but only a void of black met him.

A blind panic came over him. He couldn’t lose her. He couldn’t .

He reached into his mana and yanked at his magic, forcing it to come to the surface, but it was like sticking his hand in a canyon and attempting to touch the bottom. Nothing came to him, even as he tried again, and again.

Slowly, the darkness consumed him.

All at once, Blár’s eyes snapped open. He was no longer writhing in the darkness. No, he was instead … home .

Snow-tipped mountains scraped along the horizon and powerful winds laden with frost blew against him.

Snow, as high as his shins, covered the ground heavily.

Thick, gnarled trees canopied the cottage a few dozen feet away from him.

A cottage he had dreamed of thousands of times before.

There was a path leading up to the familiar door; it was paved by the dozens of footsteps that had crunched over it, packing the snow until it was barely an inch or two tall.

A cold sweat covered his body and he inhaled sharply, taking in the familiar sights.

The path that led to the village, the arrows sticking out of the trees; his father had tried teaching them all how to hunt with a bow, but other than his sister Gunhild, the rest of them were lousy shots.

Blár had never been interested in shooting with arrows and had often run off with Gunnar to play in the woods instead.

But now, he would give anything to return here with his father, to listen to him as he patiently taught him how to hunt. His chest tightened unexpectedly.

He cursed the fae. How could they show him this? How dare they mock him?

Blár trudged through the snow. It even felt the same. The crisp, wintry air. The chill that soothed his skin. The smell of his mother’s cooking—grilled fish, with maybe some grains Father had bought when he traded down south.

His hand trembled over the door handle. The last time he had been home, he had returned to find his massacred family. The images flashed through his mind and nausea rolled over him. A cold sweat trickled down his spine and he couldn’t stop his erratic breathing.

He had held his youngest sister, Raynee, as she died. He vividly remembered singing her favorite lullaby until her body had stopped shivering. He could remember Eluf shouting as he rushed to Sylvi’s side, holding onto her lifeless body. Blár had turned to him with hopeless eyes.

“ W-we need to save the baby ,” Eluf had whispered.

He could still remember the nightmarish scenes. Of searching the bodies for signs of life. He had shaken them, as if they had fallen asleep. There was so much blood everywhere. It coated the walls in splatters, the floorboards were drenched in them, and?—

Someone touched his shoulder.

He snapped from his reverie and turned sharply.

Sapphire blue eyes met his, and he froze as the Fae Queen stared at him with a guarded expression.

She was different than in those visions.

There, she had been a frail young woman, terrified of the responsibilities on her shoulders; she had nearly buckled under the weight of her crown—at least, that’s what Blár had noticed.

But here, she stood proud. Shoulders squared, chin raised, and eyes so cold they put winter to shame.

This was probably how she held herself in public, he realized. They had seen snapshots of her vulnerability when she was in private, when she was in the presence of only her half-elf lover.

Blár would have never thought this woman could have any weaknesses.

He narrowed his eyes. If she hadn’t been Kolfinna’s mother, he might have shoved her away, or tried to fight her, even. But he only watched her with the same level of mistrust.

“You don’t want to enter there.” She nodded toward the cottage door after she finished raking her gaze up and down his frame, clearly unimpressed with whatever she saw.

“It’s my home—” He clamped his mouth shut at the way his voice trembled.

Like he was a child. He gritted his teeth together and glared at the door handle.

A sick part of him wanted to open it and see what was inside, even as he knew he would only find the horrible scene of his family’s murder.

But another part secretly hoped that he could see them alive one last time.

Pity flickered over her face, and he hated the way she looked at him. But it was gone in a split second. She held her hand out to him. “Come,” she said. “We must talk.”

He stared at her outstretched hand. A heavy, sapphire-studded bracelet wrapped around her thin wrist, and she wore two rings with giant, glittering gems. The luxury disgusted him; he had always hated displays of wealth.

When he didn’t take her hand, she lowered it, her pale eyebrows rising. “You are my daughter’s chosen,” she said slowly, icily. “I wish to speak to you.”

He reeled back like she had slapped him, but he quickly schooled his expression to indifference, even as confusion warred with unease. “What’s going on? Why are you able to talk? Are you … trapped in this realm?”

Aesileif watched him with thinning lips. “The sword is trying to kill you at this very moment, Blár Vilulf. I have saved you, and my daughter, right now, but I cannot hold back the sword’s bloodthirst for long.”

They were inside the sword; he had suspected as much, but why was the sword showing them visions of Aesileif? Or of this place—his home?

“The darkness is the sword?” he asked.

“Yes. What you witnessed were my memories and some of my subject’s memories,” she said. “They were not fabrications, as you seem to have believed.”

Blár leveled her with a stare. “I don’t believe you.”

“I’m aware.” She almost rolled her eyes.

“Let us return to the matter at hand; I’m not here to discuss that.

I have one thing to say to you. You must learn to wield your power’s full capabilities.

You are close— very close —to completely mastering your winter powers, but you have grown arrogant and complacent without war, without anyone to challenge you, so your growth has stagnated the past few years. You know this better than I.”

He stilled. He had thought he had reached his full capabilities, that he had scraped the top of the ceiling when it came to his powers. But there was more?

But he knew there was more; when he had seen the vision—the memory , as she seemed intent on calling it—of Harald’s power, he had known that there was more to his ice magic. That he could wreak havoc on a large scale like that. To make the city itself frigid, to make it winter .

Why was she telling him this? She gained nothing by him growing stronger. In fact, it only hurt her and her people’s cause.

She must have read the expression on his face, because a wry smile twisted her lips. “You are suspicious of me.”

“How can I not be suspicious?” he said, frowning.

This was the woman known as the wicked queen, the evil fae monarch who had enslaved thousands of humans, who had drenched the streets with their blood.

“Your reputation is terrible and we are on opposite sides of this war. I even fought your husband.”

Something flashed over her eyes—surprise, grief, relief? “He is alive, then?”

“Unfortunately.”

She touched her chest and closed her eyes. The vulnerability passed in a few seconds, and she was back to cold. Indifferent. A mask that she seemed to pull on whenever she was donning the role of fae queen.

“I see.” Aesileif breathed out heavily, and then pinned him with a lethal look.

“My daughter has chosen you as her mate. Your souls are bound to one another. The stronger you grow, the stronger she grows. I am not on your side, Blár, but I will always choose my daughter over anyone. So, I will put my trust in you that you will protect her until I am able to do so. That is the only reason I am urging you to grow strong.”

Blár opened his mouth to snarl a snarky, albeit childish, remark—that she didn’t need to tell him to protect Kolfinna; he would always do that—but darkness licked at the corners of this place, and he turned to watch it.

Aesileif studied him with calculating eyes. “The fates are cruel. You have suffered because of his cursed crown, and you will one day wear it. Soon.”

His crown? Whose crown?

He wanted to ask her, but everything began flickering away. The last thing he saw was her sad smile. It reminded him of Kolfinna’s—and then the darkness swamped him.