Page 57 of Fated or Knot

Lark was in the process of tucking her hands, hiding the exaggerated membranes between her fingers and the needle-sharp claws most nixies kept refined to demure points. My gaze flicked to her neck and the suggestion of gills tucked under her ears. Most of the breath left my lungs.

Lark was half Unseelie.

Not only that, but she was a dreamlander like me. Our magics were one and the same. I should’ve felt joy to know I could teach her everything she didn’t know about our people, but all I could grasp was a growing sense of injustice at all she’d lost. All because of the hateful female who’d orphaned her.

“Dorei was a nixie,” I said. Cymora stared at me in defiance, still tugging fruitlessly at her bonds. “It’s all right. I don’t need another word out of you. I imagine this memory will show me everything else I want to know.”

I placed my hands behind my back, lacing them under the curve of my wings, and took a leisurely look at Lark’s bedroom. There wasn’t much to see, as it had been stripped of most things of value. The ghosts of larger furniture made bright spots against the wallpaper. She had a generous bookshelf, I supposed. Most of the volumes looked well-loved. I read the spines, wondering how many times she thumbed through each one by the time she was an adult.

What a tiny, miserable box for a young omega. She didn’t even have any special bedding, extra soft or colorful, to account for her budding nesting instincts. No stuffed toys, either. At this age, my sisters’ nests were mostly toys and blankets. Cymora’s earlier torment took on a new edge.

Lark had never had a true nest, going by what I saw here. It was a miracle she hadn’t gone completely feral before Fal found her.

A soft growl rose in my throat. I would soon set such terrors on Cymora’s mind that would have her groveling. Therewouldn’t be any mercy, just like how she never listened when Lark begged.

With a gesture from me, the memory continued where it’d left off. I stood close to Lark, watching from her side and ignoring the dreaming Cymora, who struggled and stamped her feet.

“Sit at the edge of your bed, dear. I have something for you,” her memory said, pointing to a specific spot.

“Yes, Stepmother.”

I grated my teeth together. That obedient, forced response raised every hair on the back of my neck.

The dryad teen opened his briefcase, revealing a glint of gray and a dusty spell book. I looked over his shoulder as he flipped to a dog-eared page and read the title of the spell he was about to perform. Stars, I felt ill. Cymora couldn’t possibly expect such a green essence spinner to perform anolcanuscorrectly.

“What’s going on?” Lark asked nervously.

“I’ve had enough of your nighttime visits.” Cymora’s acidic tone drew a flinch from the girl. “Last night was the absolute last straw.”

“I’m sorry, Stepmother. I can’t help it,” Lark answered in a small voice. She fiddled with her fingertips, picking around the nail beds. The habit was even less endearing as I watched her claws draw blood immediately.

“That’s all right, dear. I’ve secured a device that will help you. This boy is only here to place it on you,” the mermaid said. She explained it was temporary to the young pixie while the dryad picked up a length of metal studded with spikes from his briefcase.

It was a silencing band, designed to suppress magic and, once activated, hide its existence at all costs. Serian had it listed near the top of a list of forbidden magical items by labeling it anolcanus, along with the other spells or devices designed tocontrol the magic, will, or body of another fae. The teen had suggested this was made for magical animals, but it shouldn’t have existed at all.

I watched with rising dread as Cymora ordered Lark to keep still. The teen consulted his book again and threaded the metal links around her ankle.This idiot.He had to wrap it twice, as it was built to be a slave collar. Because that’s what our forefathers used silencing bands for—suppressing their enemies, turning them into weakened slaves. The band could only be removed with magical force, if uncovered, or by a key tuned to the band’s location.

“Please, Stepmother. I won’t enter your dreams anymore,” Lark begged, watching the teen pick up his book and start to spin glowing magic around the metal as he read off the page.

Cymora framed Lark’s face, watching the panic in the girl’s expression as the band tightened, its spikes sinking into her skin. She whimpered from the first hints of pain before yelping as beads of blood welled around the wounds encircling her ankle and calf.

The dryad slowed his spell work, looking at what he’d done. His eyes widened in alarm.

“Keep reading!” Cymora barked. “Don’t worry—this is part of the process. It’stemporary.”

“Stepmother, please don’t do this. Make him stop! Please!” Lark shouted, shaking from the pain of the band embedding and tightening further.

My hands balled into fists as Lark’s begging became screaming. I trembled violently, miserable knowing this was only a memory, a glimpse at the distant past. There was nothing I could do to stop it.

She seized and fell backward, thrashing on her cot as the silencing band activated. Cymora whispered instructions, which the teen added to the spell. She wanted Lark’s Unseelie sidehidden and her magic bound. He had to be reassured again that it was only going to be in place temporarily before he unhooked the key from the device that would unlock and remove it. She traded him a jingling sack of coins, and soon he was on his way.

Lark lay sprawled on her side, keening a wounded omega’s call. The sounds of her distress dug at me todo something, to reach through time, strangle her stepmother, and set her free. Because this device was anything but temporary. It had to be the source of her limp and her “lame foot.”

Even as I watched, the color started raining from her wings in a shed of pixie dust, and her claws receded to the naked eye. The band would use her magic to hide itself, layering on an illusion so thick that it would continually require most of her essence.

Cymora wasted no time in brushing back Lark’s hair and meeting her gaze. “Forget receiving this device,” she ordered. “You were born this way. Damaged. You’ll think of some explanation.” She waved dismissively.

The stars in Lark’s eyes winked out, one by one, as the light behind them dimmed. “Y-yes, Stepmother,” she rasped.

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