Page 70 of The Fae Lord

I remember thinking how quaint it was that she would bring a lady a bunch of flowers.

I sniffed them and put them in a vase.

She seemed pleased that I liked her offering.

After our usual talk and walk around the grounds of the citadel, I suggested we retire to my study for tea.

And that is when I drugged her.

She didn’t suspect a thing, and didn’t notice the strange taste or colour of the water. She just drank and talked, hand constantly resting on her belly.

When she finally passed out, I took the empty cup from her fingers and set it down on the table.

Then, as she slept, I performed the ritual.

A drop of my blood.

A bead of my sweat.

I mixed them with the powder the spell dictated, then I filled a large glass syringe and injected it into the child growing within her womb. With this magic, and the dark words of the incantation, I shaped her and twisted her, until she was no longer a mere fae, but something more. Something extraordinary.

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 Magdalena 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.

When Alana reaches the end of the passage, a tear rolls down her cheek.

“The visions,” she whispers. Her grip on the icicle loosens slightly, and for a moment, I see a flicker of something else there, something that might just be understanding.

I nod, leaning forward intently. “They’re not just dreams, Alana. My mother had them too. Perhaps my brother, as well. But he died too soon. And they passed to me.”

“And then to me.” She meets my gaze. She’s put the icicle down now, and is holding the book with both hands instead. “When we... in the tunnels.”

“They’re premonitions, warnings of what’s to come if we don’t stop it.”

“It’s real? All of it?” She presses her palm to her chest, and I know she’s reliving them the way I do whenever I try to close my eyes without whisky.

“And you.” I meet her gaze. “You are the one destined to prevent it. That’s why you can absorb magic, why you’re so powerful. Why you’re the only empath in centuries to possess these powers.”

She’s silent for a long moment, processing my words. She stands, icicle in one hand, journal in the other, and paces. Up and down. Up and down.

She pauses by the window and reads some more.

I can almost see the gears turning in her mind, the pieces of the puzzle falling into place. The icicle begins to melt in her hand, dripping onto the floor.

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?” she asks finally, her voice barely above a whisper. “Why keep it from me?”

I sigh, running a hand over my face. “I didn’t know, not until I found my mother’s journal.”

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