Ella’s skin prickled. The word her tutors had whispered in restricted stacks came back to her. It was the courier craft of the Fae, roses that could root in dust, in wood, in water, in stone. A bloom that could appear anywhere, in the middle of a meal or in the center of a bed, each color carrying a meaning no mortal record had preserved.
As he folded the parchment, a smaller slip slid free, tucked beneath the wax. No sigil. Only her name written in a hand that looked alive on the page.
Ellandria.
She didn’t ask for her father to leave, although she probably should have.
Her nightmares were taking shape right before her eyes.
She took the note.
The paper was warm. The ink shifted when she turned it, as if light and shadow disagreed about the letters.
Dearest Ellandria,
Now, I already know what you’re thinking: why would the devastatingly handsome King of Fae want to meet you alone?
Her pulse hammered so hard she thought the guards must hear it. Heat crawled along her throat, shameful and sharp, because part of her recognized the voice on the page as though it were speaking from inside her skull.
She knew without a shadow of a doubt—it was him. The man from her vision, then again in a painting, once more in Jakobav’s room when he had scared her so badly she stumbled onto the bed, and then most recently when she’d Threadwalked straight to him in her sleep.
The Fae man with the pendant, icy green eyes, and wrath disguised as elegant strength.
He was the fucking King of Fae.
Ella’s hands trembled, and she hoped no one noticed. She wanted to crush the paper, burn it, hurl it into the nearest torch, but her focus wouldn’t leave the words. They pulled her on, dread twining with a fascination she couldn’t smother. Her intrigue was disgraceful.
Worst of all, no one else would know what the words on that parchment truly meant. He probably thought himself cunning when he slipped in the words:Now, I already know what you’re thinking.But she knew exactly how deceptively accurate that was.
He had once heard loud and clear what she hadn't said aloud.
Which meant the King of Fae was a fucking Echobinder.
They were undoubtedly and irrevocably fucked.
He’d been inside her head. He’d marked her wrist with his grip. And now he was toying with her.
Shame came crawling up her spine once more. She loathed the part of her that leaned closer, itching to continue reading.
The answer, of course, is because you fascinate me.
I know what you are. I know what you’ve done. And I am not in the habit of waiting.
Attend the council. Smile for your court.
Let Dravaryn’s prince stand too close.
When it ends, you and I will meet.
Privately. I insist.
Until then, think of me.
Yours,
Zavrik
Remember, Ellandria, not all roots are buried.
