Page 37 of Sworn to the Shadow Throne

A shiver of sensation danced beneath my skin in response to her examination, as if even my magic yearned for her acknowledgment. Yet Lunette didn’t smile. She looked at me as though I’d just admitted to being the lost son of a dragon. If she knew whose son I was, it would be even worse.

“Rowan…you’re not,” she breathed.

My stomach sank. “I—” I swallowed, shame creeping into my gut uninvited. Forcing my voice to lightness, I said, “Obviously, I lack the ears.”

“Ohh. No, no. That’s not what I mean.” She shook her head, cheeks reddening. But the smile was back on her face. “I believe you’re Fae. You’re just not Shadow Fae.” Her brow furrowed. “At least, not as I understand it. You’re a—” She stopped herself, grimacing. “Gods. I should not be saying this like it’s nothing.”

Suddenly, my pulse beat in my ears as if it knew some sort of damning truth was about to fall on my neck.

“You’re Nocthel,” she finished quietly.

I waited for Lunette to finish the joke, but it never materialized. My magic felt like a distorted hum now, uneasy, like it also couldn’t comprehend what she’d told me.

The word meant nothing to me, yet my face still went slack. I’d been judged, called a demon, Shadowborn, anything but my actual name. When my magic had manifested, everyone besides Reina was afraid of me. Being secretly Shadow Fae had become a core piece of my identity, the thing that set me apart.

Now, someone I trusted—and who very well might know more than me—was telling me I wasn’t what I thought I was.

“I’m sorry,” Lunette rushed. “Too much. I just… Wait. This might help. I should’ve started with this.”

She turned away abruptly, face etched with worry, crossing the room with quick, purposeful strides. I barely registered her kneeling before the wooden trunk and the ominous groan of its hinges. My thoughts were as scattered as a flock of startled birds.

When she turned back, she was cradling a large book against her chest. Its yellowed pages crackled softly as it shifted in her arms.

She set it on the table with a dull thud, a sound amplified by the frantic thumping of my heart. Bowls and tankards clattered, mirroring the tremor in my nerves.

The cover bore a faded illustration of two figures dancing around a pole. Behind them was a garden of flowers and vines—a scene untouched by the darkness shrouding Avanfell for the past several centuries. It looked innocent, almost cheerful. A children’s book.

Dread settled in my gut, wrapping its thorns around my insides tightly enough that I felt I might bleed all over her floor again. A dark premonition told me that what I found inside would be anything but simple.

Lunette cleared the remaining dishes with unnecessary care. “Go on,” she said gently. “Look.”

The worn leather of the cover was still warm from her touch. I opened it and started scanning. Beneath the patina of age, each page showed scenes describing different roles and jobs people performed. The language was archaic enough to slow me down but not stop me.

The stories unfolded in illustrated scenes, each one populated by figures with pointed ears and tanned skin tones uncommon on Avanfell. Varied shades of purple eyes stared back at me again and again.

Like Lunette’s. Reina’s. My mother’s. Like mine.

My throat tightened. It was a children’s book, meant to educate Fae children. It had to be ancient. The great Avanfellian empire had fallen more than two-hundred years ago—and with them, the last of the full-blooded Fae.

Lunette regained her seat just as my throat closed completely. My eyes had landed on a page covered in black swirls. Thick, curling swirls poured from the illustrated warrior’s body to form shadows all around him. Grim and unyielding, his eyes were eclipsed with the same darkness as the magic that streamed from him. A broad sword, obsidian black like my own creations, rested easily in his hand.

Beneath the image, a single word stood out, the letters darker and heavier than the rest of the text.

Nocthel.

Even with my costly royal education, I’d never heard of such a thing. Hoping for clarification, for a contradiction, for anything that might undo what I’d read, I flipped the page, only to be met with the description of a geomancer. “Is there another book?”

Lunette’s shoulders slumped as she shook her head. “It’s the only Fae book we ever had,” she said, her voice defeated.

My fingers tightened on the page. I stared at the decorative script, trying, needing to understand it, but the grim figure at the center prevented my eyes from focusing on much else. This was wrong, an archaic title cloaked in a romanticized myth. Not me.

Because I needed to prove something to myself—and to the ridiculous page—I conjured a duplicate of the sword the Nocthel held, inspecting it for errors. See? Just a trick. The same magic I’d had for decades. Unusual, but nothing special.

Lunette gasped softly. I expected to see disapproval at best, the same fear I was used to at worst. But her eyes crinkled and her cheeks turned rosy as her smile radiated pure delight.

She truly isn’t afraid of me.

The realization slammed into my mind like a sledgehammer, echoing in my heart before sinking down into my very soul. To have stared death in the face and be saved by this goddess, only for her to embrace me with an acceptance I’d never known before, was nothing short of a miracle.