Page 42 of The Fae Lord

I created a magic that had never before been seen in our lands. Not like this.

I created an empath, born to absorb the magic of others, to wield it as her own.

The one who will save us from what is coming.

Alana.

I knew her name because Varia had already used it. She knew her daughter’s name long before she was born. And she loved her long before, too.

I whispered that name as Magdalena left that day, completely unaware that everything had changed for both her and her child.

Magdalena’s child, Magdalena’s flesh and blood, but my creation. My hope.

The words swim before my eyes.

Did Raylon know what my mother did? I flip the pages, desperately searching for his name, but the rest are blank.

That is all the book contains.

My mother gave Alana her powers. She quite literally made Alana what she is because she believed she would fight the darkness that threatens to destroy us.

Alana and her mother were nothing more than pawns in her game.

I close the book, my hands shaking, my mind reeling

I have an answer. I know what Alana is now. But it has done nothing to end my torment because now, more than ever, I know my one chance of saving us all is to bring Alana back to me.

EIGHTEEN

Finn

TWO DAYS LATER

The door groans as I enter the tavern. It is early morning, the stench of ale and smoke thick in the air from the night before. In the corner of the room, Garratt lounges in a large armchair smoking his pipe. A smirk plays on his lips when he spots me.

“Finn,” he drawls. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

“It has been two days, Garratt. What news?” I stride over to him, boots slapping the sticky wooden boards.

I slide into the seat opposite him, leaning in, the rough wood of the table scratching my palms. “What have you learned, Garratt? Are we to strike now? What news of Eldrion?”

Garratt assesses me for a moment, looking me up and down with a slight frown on his face. “You’ve changed,” he says. “Your energy has shifted, Finn.”

“Because I’m ready to finally –”

The elf holds up his hand and shakes his head at me. “Urgency will get you killed. Time is of the essence, but so is forethought. If you don’t do this properly, you won’t succeed.”

My jaw twitches. I like Garratt. I need his help. But he is not the one in charge, and he is not as wise and all-knowing as he likes to think he is.

He takes a long, slow drag from his pipe, smoke curling from his nostrils. Then he says, “I sent Eldrion on a little quest.” His eyes shine, and he drums his fingers on the arm of the chair.

“A quest?” I sit back, fold one leg over the other, and steeple my fingers while I wait for him to continue.

“Have you ever heard of the Elven Archives?” Garratt tilts his head.

“Never.”

He shrugs. “Of course, you haven’t. It is ancient, full of carefully guarded secrets. But it is not meant for fae. It has been kept away from you for a reason.”

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