Page 45 of Dark Fate

Reason is dead—I'm a missile cutting through the night, uncaring about branches, darkness, anything.

I'm so fucking hungry.

Danica

19

This rickety redneck carriage screams the opposite of fairy tale transport. But somehow, I get crammed between two armored fae warriors wearing a crotch kite, pretending it's a real dress.

Plot twist—no amount of nippy neckline drafts truly distracts from butt pain after too long crushed on awful benches!

My ass throbs almost as much as my teeth from endlessly jolted carriage wheels striking each new bump or divot along the forest path.

At least jostling provides a temporary distraction from Lady Axilya cooly lecturing basics on creative ways to kiss shadowy ass once we roll up to her frosty majesty's chilling throne...

Ignoring everything, the creepy woods winding past the window send a prickling unease through me. The tangle of branches and shadows feeds my growing anxiety;Rhyland's in jeopardy, and the nightmarish possibility of losing him gnaws at my resolve, his lifeline growing dimmer with each moment we're apart. Meaningless platitudes attempt to pacify my fears, but they're just noise against the encroaching panic.

The carriage jostles over another unseen root or stone, throwing my balance and shattering any pretense of grace. I careen awkwardly to the side, any semblance of ladylike poise long forgotten.

I rake my hands through my hair, a gesture born out of sheer irritation, only to find my fingers trapped in a snarl of locks—a fitting testament to my current state of vexation.

With a huff, I give voice to my annoyance, "Okay, seriously, all the groveling and boot-kissing necessary just to get this mission off the ground seems freakin' excessive!" The exasperation in my tone mirrors the tangles in my hair—both stubbornly defying any attempt at order and decorum.

Axilya pins me down that aquiline nose with frosty emerald regard. "Mind yourself presenting the Shadow Queen, child. She's powerful—Amara denies trivial wants on passing whims and owns pride in matching dragons." The edge in her tone sets my back up real quick.

"Just so we're clear, last I checked, Destiny doesn't care about your height—and this 'short-order' hero isn't about to fade into the wallpaper, not with eternity's high rollers, not now, not ever."

Axilya raises a knowing eyebrow. "Courts of Night and Light throw more tea parties than follow human codes, young queen."

Codes, my ass! Resolute in my purpose, I dismiss any thought of subservience.

Despite acknowledging her shrewd advice, I can't help but let my eyes theatrically broadcast my impatience. "Yeah, yeah, blow smoke up the collective rectum 'til we get our way. But make no mistake—Rhylandis breathing fresh air before we leave by any means necessary." My arms fold defiantly, the flimsy straps of the bodice the only thing contesting my firm stance.

Out of the corner of my eye, I detectFaderyn's struggle to suppress a reaction; the sound that escapes him is a tortured hybrid of a choke and a stifled snort of amusement. And in the absence ofErik's grounding presence—he had chosen to remain atWhisperValefor reasons of his own – I'm feeling the loss ofMr. Stoicmore than ever.

The carriage hits another rut in the path, and despite my best efforts to maintain composure, yelps escape as my tender tailbone makes jarring contact with the uncompromising wooden seat.

"We shall reach the Shadow Court by this evening. Maintaining conservative speeds en route will best avoid unintended territorial disputes," Axilya tells me.

I stifle the urge to groan theatrically, keeping it at bay just by a thread. Relief from the unrelenting discomfort arrives in the form of the Coatl, Syla, whose serpentine form entwines affectionately around my exposed legs. Her pure and soothing trills seem to reach directly into my weary soul, bolstering my spirit. The velvet softness of her coat, a welcoming contrast to the tension that has bound me in knots over the days spent withoutRhyland, draws me in.

Blame my geek-chic grey matter for this one, but my curiosity can't keep its nose out of it. "Alright, let's hear it—what's Amara's deal? Why's everyone falling over themselves to kiss the ground she floats above?" I quip, sarcasm laced with genuine curiosity at the root of Amara's revered might.

Axilya's posture stiffens, a necessary fortification before she unravels the threads of a story woven from ancient strands of fate. "Amara commands the arcane of shadows, its lineage veiled in enigma as profoundly as the occurrence that heralded its arrival—the encapsulation of the realms," she starts, her voice measured yet imbued with a hint of apprehension.

She halts momentarily, readjusting the fabric of her skirt as if aligning her thoughts similarly. "Our arcane might, as Fae, is inexorably linked with the unicorns' fealty. Upon the advent of calamity, as they receded into seclusion, our magical essence waned, rendering us desolate," her gaze hardens, reflecting her resolve. "All but Amara, whose faculties endured unscathed, morphing into something malevolent and formidable. Such corrupt power has given her a sinister edge, skewing the balance ever since that fateful descent."

"So she's magically acquired this mystery skill, and we're in the dark on the how-to?"

Axilya's gaze takes on a distant focus, reflecting the gravity of their predicament. "We have not," she admits, her tone laced with a profound resignation. "Solely the Sun Court has succeeded in repelling her incursions. Their domain remains shielded by sustained ancient magical wards, a bastion of powerful spells that, thus far, Amara has failed to penetrate."

She drops this lore bomb like it's just a tidbit, casually noting how the Sun Court has this nifty trick for brushing off Amara's gloomy spells like lint on a sunlight-dappled cloak—no wonder they're strutting around as one of the big two in the power pageant.

There's a snag in the tapestry—I can spot it all over Axilya's face. She's holding back this saga's chapters, keeping secrets up her sleeve. I won't prod her for the spill, but something in my gut's screaming that this rabbit hole goes way deeper than the surface.

Imust have dozed off because I'm suddenly playing human pinball, bouncing off the carriage walls as we screech to a halt like we've hit a minefield. The carriage driver must have gotten his license from a cereal box. Men start yelling outside, their voices reaching a crescendo of confusion. Syla, still snuggled in my arms, looks up at me with her big, round, amber eyes, blinking worriedly.

"What the hell was that?" I ask.

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