Page 33 of The Fae Lord

When I open my eyes, I am standing in a field. But it is not daylight. It is dark. The moon shines brightly.

In front of me, a group of young fae. Perhaps fifteen, sixteen years old. Wide-eyed. Practically babies, even though they think they are adults.

They hold hands, shaking, trembling.

Their attire is not like ours. It is older, reminiscent of that I’ve seen in textbooks that detail our culture from the dawn of the fae, through the golden ages, up to now.

Another comes into view. This fae, however, is not a child. She has silvery hair and piercing, emerald eyes. She paces up and down in front of them. Then she clicks her fingers.

A group of Sunborne – I know they are Sunborne because of their ethereal complexions and their enormous wings – step up from behind her and form a line. One by one, they approach the shaking young fae.

I study their faces. Their wings are small, but all fae of that age have small wings. We do not develop our adult wings until we are fifty years old, and it is only then that our powers fully bloom.

But there is something about them; the wide eyes, the sallow skin, the fear.

They are Shadowkind.

The fae pacing towards them hold ropes. Not the kind Finn used in his displays in court, or the kind we used when we played with each other’s pleasure.

These ropes are solid, metal, silver perhaps.

The first fae to fall to their knees is a girl. Long red hair, freckles. She could be me.

She begins to cry silent tears as the ropes are wrapped around her, her wings pressed so tightly against her small body that I can see the metal digging into her delicate skin.

She sobs, screams, wails. Then the others start. The sounds bring nausea to my throat.

The scene changes.

We are in a large wooden cabin, a dormitory perhaps. The girl is trying to free herself from the ropes. She is struggling so hard that her skin is becoming red raw and inflamed.

Things change again. She is older now. The rope is still tight. Her wings have drooped, lost their colour. She looks broken.

She takes a knife.

She brings it to her wing.

“No,” I whisper. “Don’t do that... don’t do that to yourself.”

She hesitates, then she throws the knife to the ground and pummels the nearest tree with her fists.

After that, a million other images pummel my brain.

A young fae boy lies curled on the ground, his wings bent at an unnatural angle. His sobs echo through the air, pure, unadulterated agony.

A Shadowkind woman, her belly swollen with child, is held down by Sunborne guards. A hooded figure approaches, a glinting blade in hand, and begins to cut away at her wings, even as she screams and begs for mercy.

I want to look away, but I am frozen, trapped. Tears stream down my face, my heart shattering inside my chest.

Finally, mercifully, the visions begin to fade. The smoke dissipates. We are back in the clearing. Everyone is weeping. Only Maura is dry-eyed, but she turns away and walks to a nearby tree, bracing her hand on its trunk and breathing slowly. Using the earth to ground her.

Finn steps forward, his own eyes red-rimmed and haunted. “Do you see now?” he asks. “Do you remember what they did to us?”

The Shadowkind answer as one. “Yes,” they whisper almost in unison. “We remember.”

Finn turns to the Leafborne. He stalks toward them. “And you,” he says. “Will you stand with us in our fight, or will you turn a blind eye like you have always done?”

For a moment, there is silence. The Leafborne look terrified. Not one of them glances in my direction.

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