Page 121 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“Then who?”
Luther raises his brows. “That’s an interesting twist, isn’t it? It would’ve driven Father mad to know that none of us were chosen to succeed him.”
I grin at his logic and step inside his quarters.
Luther’s rooms used to be a teenage prince’s den, and looked the part. I remember the first time I stepped in here: curtains torn down to let the wind in, runes scorched into the floorboards, smuggled trinkets from the new world, and crude drawings of our father.
Now, it’s eerily neat. The rebel clutter is gone, the only remaining legacy of his youth the painting of the Islantide on the far wall. Luther was always obsessed with the island. The sting of vinegar and jasmine—typical Storm’s End cleaning products—clutters the air. The walls are bare stone, the floors scrubbed clean, and the bed is made with military precision. The space has been emptied out, like he boxed up every part of who he used to be to become who he is.
“Willow is wonderful,” he says, settling into a leather armchair by the fireplace. “She’s going to change the world.”
“But?”
“You know me too well.” He licks his lips, swallowing back a faint smile. “She doesn’t think suffering and grief can be avoided. She doesn’t approve of my experiments.”
My gaze catches on an odd shape in the next room—no doors separate the different spaces of the apartment.
“Is that a spinning wheel?” I ask.
“Yes. One of many.”
A peculiar bite of power ripples from the wheel, luring me in, and I walk closer to it.
“Why? Have you taken up knitting or something?”
The charred, blackened wood is smooth and warm, as though kissed by dragonfire. Golden-foiled Fae runes run along the outer edge of the wheel. The twin spindles are nerved with lyranthium, their pointy edge impossibly sharp.
Luther joins me in his study, hands tucked inside the pockets of his gray breeches. “They say the right combination of spindle and wheel can spin a Golden-horned deer's fur into a fiberstrong enough to link a soul back to its body. Replace the missing tether. I’ve been tinkering with different materials and shapes.”
I walk to the desk and squint at the dozen open leather-bound journals cluttering the space. Their delicate pages are filled with meticulous calligraphy.
“By the spindle… These are the Mist King’s journals.” I flip through a couple of pages, uncovering detailed drawings of Mist jewels and advanced Mist technology lost to this world for centuries. “Where did you find them? I thought all his work had been destroyed.”
“We found them on a remote island in the Breach.” He glances down at his collection with pride.
I brush my fingers over the soft paper. “And what do they say?”
“They talk about the Lake of Souls, the power of the Frost Peak mines, and a disease that spread from Wintermere’s glacier and infected the population, transforming Winter Fae into reapers. The jewels in the mines fuel the Winter King’s power and make him stronger than his peers. He gathers souls to boost that power even further, which allows him to become immortal. The journals give specs for the weapon needed to contain his ice.”
Ever since his mother died, Luther has harbored a profound hatred for the Fae king who came to collect her soul.
“You’re not just hating on Elio Lightbringer because he’s holding your pal Morrigan captive, are you?”
He gives a dismissive wave. “Forget Rye. She was playing her own game and let herself be captured. Come on, you always thought Elio was a dull, grumpy, better-than-thou asshole. Your words.”
“I don’t deny it.” Devi’s mysterious and intense connection to the man gets on my nerves, I’ll admit. “But it’s a stretch between‘mightily self-righteous’ and ‘maniacal king who schemes behind everyone’s back’. I don’t buy it. Maybe the old Winter King cooked something nefarious on that mountain. If he did, I bet Elio doesn’t know a thing about it.”
Luther’s eyes darken. “You can’t deny he’s nearly unkillable. If the Mist King found a way to bring his loved ones back from the dead—to reattach their souls without losing their essence, to stop the inevitable rot that usually takes over a dark soul—who’s to say death can’t be avoided entirely? That a reinforced tether, similar to the one the Winter King has, couldn’t prevent the bond between soul and body from snapping in the first place?”
The clear-cut longing in his voice brings chills to my spine, but alas, I fear this is a hopeless crusade.
“That’s a fever dream, Luther. A sales pitch Armand Moonreaver used to rally his army and launch an attack on the continent. He dangled immortality like a worm on a hook to justify his war.”
Luther taps the closest journal with his fingers. “Not according to these texts. They’ve been lying to us, Seth. The old Mist King wasn’t insane. He didn’t want to become the one true king—not at first. He just wanted to vanquish Death.”
After my chat with Luther,he takes me to the guest room below his floor.
I pause in the doorway, holding my breath.
