Page 141 of Lore of the Tides

Lore sniffed.

“Okay, put me down, but don’t go far.”

“Never.”

Lore looked around her at the four hundred in the woods, who had traveled here in the night as they’d originally planned. She’d let them down yesterday—gods, was that just yesterday? It felt like a century had passed since she’d willingly walked into that snare.

Now wasn’t the time to explain what had gone wrong or to even apologize, Finn was right. So she kept it short. She pulled Finn’s sword from his belt and held it aloft, pointing it toward the skies. “I am hungry for justice. Shall we feast?”

Lore’s cry rang through the forest, reverberating through the trees, lichen, and winter breeze until her words landed on everyone’s ears.

The ground shook with their answering cries, their pounding feet, the rings of siren-forged swords and spears against sturdy shields, for Hazen had done it, and here were the weapons she’d asked the queen for, in the hands of her people.

She hadn’t wanted to use the weapons, though she’d known she’d had to ask for them, even back then. The queen had them made for humans, smaller and lighter but sharp as anything, so that they could wield them even though they were farmers and not soldiers. She’d had them deposited as close to Duskmere as possible without the Alytherians knowing; Hazen had just had to grab them.

But she hadn’t wanted it to come to this. She’d tried, on her own. The Alytherians had an army of guards, though most were down south. Focusing on protecting their borders from the southern queen, not knowing that this threat would come from within.She knew that if they went to battle, many would be killed, because they were just people, starved and tired and cold...

So she’d tried; she’d tried to do it alone. To take out the king and his advisors herself... to suffer as few casualties as she could. And she’d almost lost everyone because of it.

But here they were, willing and ready to put their lives at risk, to stand with her, to fight for a life worth living. To fight for their children and grandchildren to breathe free air. To run in the light, to grow up with their heads held high.

Lore raised the sword and shouted, a wordless battle cry. She stamped her feet, she shook her sword, she threw her head back and screamed her rage.

To Lore it seemed that the very trees themselves shook their branches in celebration.

Today, they would win, or they would die.

Chapter 52

The air crackled with Lore’s raw power as she raised her hands, unleashing a torrent of magic that ripped the gates of Wyndlin Castle apart. A wave of splintered wood and metal crashed down upon the unsuspecting sentries and guards, their cries of alarm swallowed by the deafening roar of Duskmere rebels surging through the shattered entrance.

“First we fight!” roared a voice from the horde.

“Then we heal!” hundreds of voices responded to the cry as they charged the castle grounds, a relentless tide of rage and defiance against centuries of fae oppression.

Once inside the castle, Lore, Finndryl, Syrelle, Isla, and Hazen moved like wraiths, their combined powers a force of nature unleashed upon the unsuspecting royalty. Finndryl’s flames danced in his eyes; his flaming locs soared behind him as his every step left scorched stone in his wake. Isla, with her newfound connection to the ancient stones of the castle, tore chunks of masonry from the walls, hurling them at the fleeing courtiers with deadly accuracy.

“The throne room!” Lore shouted, her voice ringing with authority as she led the charge. The king and his advisors had barricaded themselves within, their faith in the king and his throne room’s magical defenses their last desperate hope.

Outside the heavy oak doors, Lore paused, sensing the thrum of the king’s magic woven into the very fabric of the room. She had let herself be led into his trap, and while it had nearly been her end, the knowledge of it now was all she needed to obliterate it—but why obliterate it when she could turn it back on them? After having spent eons in her mind being tortured by the king, she knew the rotten signature of his magic, and this would be his undoing.

She twisted the fabric of the spell, morphed it so only the five of them would be able to wield their magic in the throne room now. This might not be enough to hold the king forever, who had a thousand years to practice breaking spells, but it would hold just long enough to beat him. With a surge of concentration, she peeled back the layers of enchantment, her fingers tracing the intricate patterns of the spell. A wave of power coursed through her, and with a final, decisive gesture, she flipped the spell.

Syrelle was first in the throne room, his eyes glowing in the eerie light as he stepped forward. His dark magic reached out like strokes of ink to ensnare the king, queen, and their advisors. They froze midmovement, their faces contorted in terror as their bodies refused to heed their commands.

The king struggled against the bonds, his yellow eyes glowing with fury.

“I can’t hold him for long,” Syrelle gasped, the veins on his neck popping out from his efforts. Lore channeled her own magic into Syrelle, her light magic weaving with his darkness to form an unbreakable seal.

The king’s struggles weakened, his defiance fading as he succumbed to the overwhelming power of their united effort.

“The curse of your people is that your hearts have shriveled to stone from indifference.” Lore stepped closer to the king, raising her chin and voice in defiance. “Justice is the only thing that will set you free.” Lore turned and paced back and forth in front of thenobles, watching them squirm. “You bowed to a king of darkness. You are as complicit as he in the crimes against my people, and for that, I condemn you all to death.”

Lore raised her hands before them, calling on her magic—she would kill them slowly, inflict as much agony as she could, so that they would feel her pain.

Lore turned her hands around, the backs of them completely ink black. There was darkness in her too. Rage, envy, greed. She’d wanted power, not just to save her people but also to cease bowing in supplication before a populace who harmed her kind for sport. Baba had been taken from her by the violence of sentries. Mama by neglect—from withheld medicines and malnutrition.

This rage boiled within her. Ignited her desire for vengeance.

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