Page 27 of Heir of Illusion

Remy isn’t supposed to ask me these things. He’s always been my safe haven, the one person who doesn’t push or pry. When I’m here in the training room, I’m free. Everything else fades into the background, and for a few hours, I simply get to exist.

“Ivy.” His raspy voice practically swallows the nickname.

My gaze falls to the thin, pale scar on his neck.An injury from my youth, he called it when I asked years ago. It appears as if someone tried to slit his throat. A mortal wouldn’t have survived such a wound. Being half fae saved his life. Supposedly, he was once a great singer with a rich and melodic voice, but after the injury, he was left with the warm, scratchy timbre that’s so familiar to me.

“For the past few months, I’ve sensed you retreating further into yourself,” Remy continues. “And now you come in here insisting I teach you to fight blindfolded? Has someone threatened you? Has—” He cuts himself off, taking a deep breath before continuing. “Hashethreatened you?”

I take a step back on instinct.

Everything freezes as his words cut through all my lies, leaving me far too exposed. There’s no doubt in my mind who he’s referring to. The implication in his words is treasonous, and I know exactly what Baylor does to those he suspects of betraying him.

Would you do anything for me?Baylor’s voice whispers again in my mind.

A sharp pain pulls my attention to my hand where I find a piece of wood has jabbed into my skin, drops of blood bubbling up around it. I must have been gripping the sword so tightly that I cracked the hilt. The weapon falls from my hand, hitting the mat between us.

“Shit,” Remy mutters, stepping forward as he reaches for my injured hand. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” I insist, retreating backwards. “It’s nothing.”

I meet his gaze, hoping he understands the message in my eyes.

“Ivy—”

“Captain!” a familiar male voice cuts him off. I turn to find Warrick, one of Remy’s soldiers and Morwen’s older brother, rushing toward us.

“Captain Remard, you’re needed at once,” he says urgently, his chest heaving.

Remy hurries to the weapons wall, replacing the wooden sword with his real one and grabbing a few small knives for good measure. Warrick startles as he notices me for the first time and bows his head.

“My lady,” the half fae soldier says.

I nod back, forcing my face into a pleasant expression. Being interrupted before the conversation could get too dangerous might be divine intervention. Remy returns, his features stern as he reads each thought on my face. His eyes narrow as he pins me with a hard glare. He’s in full captain mode now.

“This conversation isn’t over.”

He doesn’t bother waiting for my agreement before exiting the training room.

Chapter

Eight

The crackling of the fireplace is the only sound inside the library.

I sit in my usual chair, hidden in the back corner. Years ago, I purposefully reorganized a few of the shelves, strategically creating small open spaces between the books to give myself a perfect view of the door. Anyone walking into the room would believe it was empty, but I’d spot them immediately.

Flipping through the pages of an old tome, I multitask by trying to stretch out my calf muscles. Remy’s always reminding me of the importance of working out any lingering stiffness that could prolong an injury. Thinking of the captain of the guard leaves a hollowness in my stomach. I know him well enough to know he meant what he said. He isn’t going to let his suspicions go.

I push the thoughts away, returning my attention to the book in my hands.

Not knowing where to begin my search for information on the whisperer, I started by digging through the historical section. I’d read most of the texts before, but wedged behind several volumes, I found an old leather-bound book titledHistory of the Verran Isles. After wiping away the dust, I brought it over to my chair and began reading.

The worn paper is rough against my fingers as I flip through the pages, my breath catching when I spot a familiar image. An illustration of a man with a hood pulled over his head, dark feathered wings stretched out behind him, and a silver scythe in his hand. My eyes dart to the caption.

The Fates have always been jealous of the beauty of those they called the Soul Collectors. When the Fates created their new children, the Gods, they found inspiration in the feathered wings of the reapers.

The image is hauntingly similar to my own reaper.He’s not mine, I remind myself. Phantom tingles on the back of my neck tempt me to search the library for his pale blue gaze.He’s not here. It’s just a picture.

My fingers trail over the wings. No doubt the scratchy paper is a poor substitute for the real thing. Where do they go when he’s not using them? How did they disappear so fully beneath his cloak? There wasn’t even an outline… I know the Gods sometimes have wings, but I’ve never seen them in person. The divine are nothing if not secretive.

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