And yet, Imogen knew they would all gladly watch her die. They would do nothing to stop Aengus, even if he was a foreigner himself.
She had been born a sea fae. A royal match had been made with a Lord of the great Air Court when she had been a mere sixteen years of age. Lord Sloane Selkirk. His had been a powerful family, ruling over Feurach Fortress on the eastern coast of the realm. After they’d married, Sloane had become ambitious. He, his brother, and his two sisters had staged a coup against the reigning Dalais family. He gathered his army, stormed Tairngire, and murdered the High King and Queen.
At the time, Imogen had wanted nothing to do with the brutal slaughter. But her fate had been sealed. She had already married the male and there was little she could do. Not long after the coronation, Imogen had discovered that Sloane was half-human. His strength was nothing more than a lie until he sat his knobbly arse on the Seat of Power.
It had made sense to her then, his brutal quest for power. Only a pretender would commit atrocities for a throne. He’d never deserved to be king.
She closed her eyes and breathed in the scent of spring. There was only a hint of it in the air. The cold bite of the wind remained from the winter, but the pearly Hawthorn Blossoms pushed a sweeter, hopeful scent into the longer days. Soon, the snow and ice would melt, and the sun would warm the tired faces of this city.
Imogen would not be around to see it this year. Or any year thereafter.
She had made many mistakes in recent months, she knew. Perhaps her actions had caught up with her, and the Dagda had decided to punish her for her transgressions. But she had only tried to do her best in a cruel world, one so empty of the magic that had once brought hope and life to these lands.
Sloane’s reign had needed to end. And Thane had not yet been ready.
She would not seek forgiveness, not when she’d had no other choice. And now she would die in the shadow of her god’s great bronze statue with his powerful wings flared wide.
“Citizens of Tairngire,” Aengus shouted as he strode from one end of the wooden platform to the next, his voice clear and loud.
Fear twisted around her heart like a vine lined with thorns, each point stabbing deeper into her veins. A strange ringing filled her head, and sweat beaded on her brow. She had steeled herself for this moment, but that did not stop her fear. Imogen had expected to live another hundred years. She had been the High Queen, surrounded by a sturdy castle and guards. She was of noble blood. She wasn’t a warrior or the captain of a sea-faring boat, lives that often ended far too soon due to the danger of their professions.
Her life could have stretched on for years.
But she could now see that queendom held far more danger than anything else, particularly in the realms of the fae.
Aengus came to a stop before her and smiled. “The Dagda has considered this fae standing before us, and he has judged her terrible and wicked and cruel. She has conspired against the crown. She has committed numerous treasons. And she has disobeyed direct commands from me, and therefore, our great god himself.” He strode to the edge of the platform, the wood creaking beneath his leather boots. The crowd before her was a sea of blurred faces and golden hair. “Our laws are clear. Those who disobey the Dagda are to be punished. Harshly yet justly. And there is only one punishment for treason. Death, by hanging.”
Imogen swallowed hard, the rough rope scraping the delicate skin at her neck. The ringing in her ears grew loud, drowning out the building murmur of the crowd. She squeezed her eyes shut and balled her fists.
“Imogen Selkirk of the Air Court.” Aengus’s voice was suddenly loud, his lips brushing against her ear. Her balled fists tightened. “What words would you depart with?”
Her eyes flew open then, and her belly was lined with steel. His thin-lipped smile matched the sparkle in his eyes. The setting glare of the sun was a backdrop to his silhouette, his ever-present rapier whispering against his thigh.
Imogen drew all the remaining strength into her voice, and hissed, “I curse you, Aengus. May your life be long and full of misery. May your every ambition become true, and just when you think you’ve won, may it all bite you in your fucking arse.”
Shock flickered in Aengus’s narrow grey eyes, but he recovered quickly, even as excited whispers drifted through the crowd. Vicious anger rippled across his face. He raised his hand, signalling the guards behind her.
And then the world opened up beneath her feet.
1
Reyna
Reyna Darragh’s skin itched. She could not say how many days had passed since she’d awoken trapped inside the Shadow Court, but it had been far more than one too many. Her bones throbbed; her mind raged. Reyna wasn’t meant for captivity. She ached to do something,anythingat all. If that something involved stabbing her way out of this dark and dreary castle, then all the better.
As it was, she had seen nothing but the black stone walls that surrounded her for days. Only one iron-barred window provided her with a view of the city. She sat on the cold stone ledge, Wingallock perching on her shoulder, and stared out at Findius.
It was a strange city. For one, it squatted beneath a very red sun that was shrouded in a thick impenetrable mist. The darkness of it almost seemed alive at times, twisting and whorling through the dirt-packed streets. Hundreds of lit windows dotted undulating land. The shadow fae had been pushed out of this city when they had been exiled. Now, some had returned to their former homes and many more were coming by the day. Still, even with the growing light, the streets were dark and dreary.
It looked like the kind of city that would easily swallow you whole.
Regardless, Reyna would have gladly jumped out the window to join the mist if it wasn’t for the pesky iron bars blocking her way. She could not even touch them without getting burnt, let alone rip them out of the black stone walls.
“What do you reckon, Wingallock?” Reyna whispered quietly, all too aware of the guards at the door, always listening. “Any idea how we’re going to get out of this castle?”
Even her owl familiar was stuck inside, and his frustration grew with every passing day. Wingallock was accustomed to sweeping through snow-blanketed forests each night, hunting for prey. He’d never enjoyed being fed scraps of even the most delicious castle food. He preferred to find his own. He enjoyed flying free. To be caged, to him, was a fate as cruel as death.
Wingallock hooted sadly, his sharp talons digging into her shoulder. With a sigh, Reyna nodded her agreement. There was no path out of this hellhole. She had attempted kicking the bars out of the way. She had tried to flee into the corridor when the guards brought her meals. She had even tried to steal their swords. But she was gravely outnumbered. Every time, they had bested her.
