Page 3 of The Nymph King

Imani stood at the edge, tracking the fractures, noting the direction of the splits and how the ground had buckled upward rather than collapsing inward. It wasn’t random. It wasn’t the uncontrolled unraveling she remembered from the groundquale in Stralas all those months ago. Another force had driven this.

An unwelcome memory tried to surface. The slip that had taken her parents had torn the world open like a starving beast, wild and unstable even as it devoured. This didn’t feel the same. No, this situation spoke of terrible surgical discipline.

The conclusion made her stomach drop. And the longer she studied it, the more certain she became that whatever had happened here was incomplete. This looked like a prelude to something worse.

Shouts carried from the square ahead. Smoke drifted between the leaning buildings. Imani had grown up among enough Norn to know how rarely they rioted. The damage here had cracked deeper than stone.

Lowering her hood, Imani moved forward carefully. Beneath it, there was nothing forgettable about her. Imani carried the High-Bred Norn traits in their clearest form: pale skin, large blue eyes, a refined nose, and long silver hair she usually kept braided away from her face. The delicate points of her ears marked her as elven, though that trait belonged to every elf breed rather than the Norn alone.

Her glamour softened all of it. The silver of her hair dulled toward an ordinary ash-blond, the striking blue of her eyes faded, and the refined symmetry of her features became plainer and less memorable.

The illusion laid another appearance over what was already there, and any witch weaker than Imani would accept the false version as truth. Only someone whose magic exceeded hers could see through it completely. Kiran could. Ellisar, too, if he was a twelve-mark like Kiran. Esa might have been able to with a Drasil in hand. Everyone else in this square should see only the woman Imani wanted them to see.

The crowd thickened as she neared the center of town. Elves shoved against one another, fists raised, their voices ragged with fury.

“He protects the Crown but not us!”

“Where is the aid?”

“Find the false heir!”

The words struck like physical blows, and Imani wanted to flinch.

A flash of silver hair caught her eye. Parchments were plastered across the intact storefront window. Several people had already curled at the corners from weather and handling, and one had been torn through the middle. They had clearly been hanging there long enough to become part of the village’s scenery rather than fresh news.

Then Imani saw the face printed across them.

The likeness was immediate and merciless. Her profile. Her braid. The silver freckles scattered across her cheeks. It was far too accurate.

Without thinking, she stepped closer and tore one down. The paper ripped louder than she intended, and a woman arguing several feet away glanced toward the sound.

Imani lowered the parchment immediately, but the sound had already drawn attention. The woman’s focus passed from the torn notice to Imani’s face, then back again, brow furrowed in concentration as she gave Imani a once-over.

Imani’s stomach dropped.

“Wait,” the woman said, grabbing the sleeve of the elf beside her. “Look at that poster.”

He barely glanced at it. “What about it? We’ve all seen ’em.”

“Look at her, though.” She jerked her chin at Imani.

A third person leaned closer to one of the notices still fixed to the window. Another elf stopped shouting about the Crown long enough to read over his shoulder.

Glancing around, Imani’s trembling mouth fell open as other Norn villagers took notice.

One man leaned into the poster, then looked back at Imani. The elf beside him did the same. More faces turned to the storefront, then to Imani, then back to the likeness printed there.

Murmurs spread through the nearest edge of the crowd first, conversation breaking apart as people began comparing the woman in front of them to the fugitive on the wall.

Then someone in the crowd pointed at the boldest line. “One thousand royal coins,” he read aloud. He tore another poster free and raised his voice.

“IMANI AOWYN. WANTED FUGITIVE AND MURDERER. ONE THOUSAND ROYAL COINS. WANTED ALIVE.”

The crowd rumbled and murmured, as if shifting direction when they realized what one thousand royal coins meant for their purses.

“She could be her.”

“Check illusions!”