Page 57 of The Fae Lord

And yet, nothing stops me.

When I reach out beyond the camp, to search for Rosalie in the nooks and crevices of Luminael city, there is nothing blocking me.

I see the streets, the taverns. I hear voices. I search them all. They flood my mind.

Bright blue lights encircle my body, swirling around me like a cyclone as my power intensifies. And then... there she is.

Rosalie.

I feel her.

My eyes spring open, and my body disintegrates. The next time I am whole, I am standing in front of a large, dark mansion on the outskirts of the city. A Sunborne estate with sprawling gardens and an ivory facade.

I float towards it, taking in the dark windows.

Only one is lit. At the very top of the house. A small orange glow beats there like the whisper of a heartbeat. It flickers. It draws me in.

I pass through the front door with no resistance. Up the stairs. Down hallway after hallway. The floor is wooden, and would creak if I were a mortal treading on it with solid footprints.

But I am not.

So I pass silently through the sleepy depths of the building.

When I reach the room where the light flickers, I pause and inhale deeply.

I can feel her. I know it’s her, and yet... her energy is darker somehow. Like Rosalie, but shrouded in a dark grey shadow.

I hesitate for a moment. I cast my thoughts back to Alana. She feels safe. She feels the same as when I left. In this moment, she does not need me.

When I enter the room, I keep myself hidden. I do not let Rosalie see me.

But I can see her.

She is in a white robe, and she is simply sitting at the dressing table. Her palms are pressed flat against it, and she is staring vacantly into the space in front of her.

She scratches the wood of the dressing table with her fingernail, but it does not seem like a conscious movement.

Hanging in front of the wardrobe beside her is a dress made of dark purple silk. The bed is grand, and has drapes hanging from its posts.

This is not the room of a woman who is being held prisoner... or is it?

She stands up from the dressing table and walks over to the bed. She is more a ghost than I am. Like a remnant of the girl I knew just a few months ago.

Sitting down on the side of the bed, she reaches into the table beside it. The drawer sticks, but she tugs it open and slides her hand inside. She rummages. I move closer. She is dislodging a panel at the back.

When she brings her hand back out, she is clutching a piece of paper.

I stand behind her.

As I move, she looks up, and for a moment I think she’s going to lock eyes with me. But she doesn’t; she just stares right through me.

I turn my eyes to the paper she’s holding, and my breath catches in my chest.

On it is a sketch of me. My likeness. At least, how I was. Strong, muscular, but small wings. Not the wings I was gifted after my death.

She traces her thumb over the image, and a tear escapes, rolling down her perfectly smooth cheek and onto the floor.

I want to catch it, taste it, kiss the tears away.

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