Page 10 of Fallen Star

He has to be able to do it. He’s a fae prince. If anyone has extreme magical talent, it’s a prince. Especially one who came out here to brew potions that couldn’t be made in Winter Court territory.

Illegal potions, if I had to guess.

“It’ll take some time, but I know where to find the ingredients,” he says slowly. “However, one of them that might prove to be problematic.”

“Problematic how?” I ask, not liking the sound of that.

“It requires extreme magical talent to properly extract,” he says. “Talent that I don’t have.”

“No,” I say, since I won’t accept that. “Maybe we can improvise. I did it all the time at the Maple Pig. If we ran out of an ingredient and I needed to make someone a drink, I’d feel it out. I’d make it work anyway. And I’ve never had a dissatisfied customer. You even admitted the drink I made you was good, even though you don’t like pink drinks.”

“I never said I didn’t think it would be good,” he reminds me. “I asked if I seemed like the type of guy who orders pink drinks.”

“Right now, you seem like an arrogant winter prince who’s finally admitting a fault—at the worst time ever,” I say, motioning to Zoey again. “There has to be something you can do to help her.”

Pain flashes across his face, catching me off guard.

“It’s not that simple,” he says, quieter now, as if the weight of what he’s about to say stole some of his insufferable confidence.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He doesn’t meet my gaze right away. Instead, his hand trails along the frost-coated floor, tracing absent patterns in the ice.

Finally, he exhales, a breath that sounds more like surrender than frustration.

“My mother was a potion-maker. She claimed to be the best in the Winter Court,” he says. “There was one potion she refused to give up on trying to make. She was missing an ingredient, but she thought she was talented enough to create it anyway.”

He pauses, and I give him space to continue, having a feeling where he’s going with this.

“She died because of it,” he says, and the words hang in the air, heavy and brittle.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, not knowing what else to say.

Because that pain in his eyes—it’s grief. Deep, agonizing, soul crushing grief.

“She brought me to this cave so many times when I was young,” he continues, his silver eyes clouded as he thinks back on it. “She made me memorize recipes, ingredients, and techniques. She wanted me to be just like her. But I was never as skilled as she was. I could follow the instructions, but I didn’t have her instincts. I didn’t feel the magic like she did. But you…” He pauses, his eyes sharper now, staring at me in a way that makes it seem like he’s seeing straight into my soul.

“What about me?” My heart races faster, and I glance down at Zoey, unable to push down my anxiety at the thought of Riven putting her life inmyhands.

“Those drinks you made at the Maple Pig weren’t just drinks,” he says. “They affected people. Changed their moods. Made them feel exactly what they needed to feel in that moment.”

I swallow, knowing he’s right.

I didn’t know it at the time, but at that bar, when I made those drinks, I was using magic.

Water magic.

Potionmagic.

“I think that’s why Ghost led me there,” he continues. “He sensed your talent. Your magic. He wanted me to meet you, so he brought me to you.”

His gaze lingers on me, and something shifts in the air between us. It’s subtle, but undeniable. The weight of his grief and the situation’s tension fades away, leaving us alone in the cave.

His eyes flicker to my lips, and my breath catches in my throat.

“Maybe Ghost was right,” he murmurs. “Maybe you’re exactly who I needed to find.”

“Riven…” His name leaves my lips in a whisper, and he moves his hand to brush his fingers against mine, gazing down at me with a hunger in his eyes that I’d recognize anywhere.

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