“It’s hard to tell. For a long time, the effects were isolated to the territories immediately surrounding the Well. Now…” Greer pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “There are signs stretching as far as Solace. Some at the edges of the Ley Forest. Echme is the only territory yet to see the impact.”
“What kind of signs?”
She wrings her hands together in front of her, a nervous tic when I’ve never seen her nervous before. “Signs in the youngest of us. Magic swims in our veins from birth, but like with you, Elorie, it must be woken. For a Fae, that process is generally as simple as growing up. We age to a certain point, and then our hearts begin to slow. Our magic preserves our bodies, allowing us many centuries. Sometimes thousands of years of life.”
It's why it’s impossible to guess the ages of the Fae. For a Fae to start to appear older, it takes millennia, and few are that old.
“But our magic is weak when we are young,” Greer continues. “Like yours is now. The children have it stirring within them, but they can’t wield it yet.”
“Children like Lune?”
Greer offers a tight expression, nodding. “With magic weakening, the children are suffering first. There isn’t enough to see their magic bloom. And when it doesn’t bloom, they?—”
Die.
Greer doesn’t dare say the word out loud, and I don’t either. The truth is too painful.
Her hugging Lune plays different at that realization. Greer is worried she’s going to lose her niece because of the Well’s destruction. It’s like what Callum said—human hearts manage to beat without magic to sustain them, but with the Fae, it isn’t that simple. And with the young, they can’t survive.
Reaching for Greer’s hand, I’m surprised she doesn’t pull away. “We’ll hope that Evaline will give us the wisdom to see us through.”
Greer gives me a tight smile, and a familiar weight presses on my shoulders again. I can fix this. I can save them.
Even as Vaelier suffers this same fate?
I shake that thought.
We release hands and walk toward the camp on the beach. Tents and fires form a makeshift village that is less permanent than the civilian one nearby. At the edge of the tents is a blacksmith sharpening weapons.
A few gazes linger as I walk past. Making note of my round ears and hair before they whisper among each other.
“The king’s chosen.”
“The king’s whore.”
I’m not even my own person. I’m an extension of him. A rumor they whisper about.
I roll my shoulders back, not shrinking under the weight of their judgment. They can assume what they want. At least if I fail, I’ll know I’m not disappointing everyone.
“General Balk.” Greer stops at a male who towers over us both.
His blond hair is tied in a long braid off his face, while dark circles brighten his green eyes. They’re an unusual green. Not like the trees or the grass. Brighter. Like they were plucked from another realm.
“General Maliren,” he greets her, but his gaze is set on me.
I’ve never considered Greer’s rank, but she outranks Callum.
“When do the soldiers return?” Greer asks, pulling General Balk’s attention back to her.
“They should have been here this afternoon so we could prepare the ships for the rotation.”
“What do you mean, theyshould have been?” I step forward, my heart racing.
General Balk narrows his eyes, likely annoyed I’m asking questions, but Greer seems unbothered.
“Answer the question,” she tells him.
His gaze snaps to her. “There’s been no word. They never arrived.”
