Suri scoffs, one hand pressed protectively to her throat, staring at him—half appalled, half…not.
Rian smirks. “What? Gratitude comes in many forms.”
Suri swallows hard. “I’ll believe you’re on our side,” she says warily, “when you risk something that costs more than a few bruises.”
Rian’s teasing fades. His eyes sharpen, turning grave in a way that makes the hairs on my arms lift.
He points to Gaez, unconscious in the cell. “You really should kill him. Sabine’s plan? To have the fae pardon him? It won’t work. She still believes people rise to hope. That’s not a fae instinct—that’s a human fantasy she’s clinging to. The public doesn’t crave forgiveness. They crave spectacle. Peace won’t buy the fae a single fan that vengeance wouldn’t win tenfold.”
I stare at him, heartbeat loud in my ears, almost swayed by his conviction.
But then I grab him by the collar and drag him toward the stairs, where I’ll lock him back in the Coffin despite the fact he just saved Suri’s life.
“You act like you still call the shots,” I say. “Sooner or later, you’re going to have to learn your place.”
Chapter 25
Sabine
Iyawn, rub my bleary eyes, and turn another page.
I’ve lost track of how many days I’ve been hunched over a table in the castle’s library, sun-up to sun-down, trying to make sense of theLast Return of the Fae: Volume II’s esoteric writings.
The language isn’t entirely foreign. It’s written in a blend of the Immortal Tongue, which was drilled into me at the convent, and an even more ancient fae language whose oddly sloped letters tickle the back of my head. It’s a bit like staring at a landscape for hours, only to suddenly notice a deer that’s been standing ten feet away the entire time.
If I run my eyes over the lines enough times, I don’t know how to describe it, but the nonsense begins to makesense.
It’s slow, yes.
Painstakingly so.
But not without a touch of thrill.
Every word I translate sings to the silver deep in my blood. The more I remember of the ancient fae tongue, the greater a connection I feel to my past selves. While reading, I’ve gotten flashes of dream-like memories: Of speaking these ancientprophecies in the Garden of Ten Gods. Of raising a silver chalice at Drahallen Hall’s Head Table. Of chasing cloudfoxes through iridescent ferns to a stream, where I called for water to rise into the air and form loops for the creatures to bound through.
I suddenly jolt, my head bobbing sharply.
I nodded off again.
I yawn and shift on the hard wooden chair, pulling my shawl tighter around my shoulders. I reach for a sip of water from a glass and pause, remembering my memory-dream.
Hesitantly, I dip my middle finger in the glass, then let a single drip fall back in. I swirl my finger in the air, concentrating on the water…
…and as though following the path I’ve carved for it, the water flows upward into the air, playfully spiraling around my finger.
I grin, laughing from the simple joy of it. Soon, I’ll be strong enough to help feed the people in Old Coros still hungry from the siege. Maybe even restore the Lunden river valley.
But the laugh turns into a cough, and I hunch forward. The water splashes back into the glass.
“You’re depleted.” Basten’s voice comes from the library door.
I turn, rubbing the exhaustion from my eyes, and glance at the clock.It’s after midnight.
I ask, “How long have you been there?”
He drops his arms and saunters in, dragging out the chair next to me. “Long enough to see you command water to do the impossible.” He nods toward the water glass. “You’re doing well.”
His words are kind, but his tone is off—still distant. Like we just can’t seem to hit the right note together.
