Page 77 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
A second guard holding a double-edge axe motions for us to follow his colleague, the sharp blade decorated with runes.
“We don’t need a guide,” I grit my teeth. “I know this place like the back of my hand. I’ll report to Horace immediately.”
“Horace isn’t in charge anymore,” the guard with the flail replies, his leather gloves creaking as he tightens his grip on the hilt. “Since the old king’s death, all strangers must be taken directly to the warden.”
My jaw clenches, but I will myself not to spark into a one-man storm, unable to hide the frown that overpowers my face at the notion that our stealthy operation has just lost all discretion.
“Smooth,” Devi mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.
Fuck.My past is about to bite me in the ass.
Last time I saw my uncle and cousins, the warden asked me never to return—and his oldest son, Alaric, wanted my head on a spike. He’d drowned in his own hubris. The thought of himcurdles my blood. I don’t know what he’s become in my absence, but I doubt he’ll welcome me with open arms.
I watch Devi, rain dripping from my lashes. Her true beauty is still veiled behind my glamor. I reach up, wipe the rune from my neck, and discreetly rub off the ones behind my ears. Glamor or no glamor, my uncle will recognize my bite of power, and I don't want him suspecting I've altered our appearances at all.
If they don’t realize who Devi is, we might be on our way within the hour with minimal fuss. If they do, I know in my gut that Alaric will fight to take her from me.
I brought her here. And now, it’s on me to protect her.
“We’re going to have to negotiate our way into the citadel,” I admit grimly, “even if that means begging my uncle for help. Because my cousins would gladly throw us off a cliff instead.”
A dry chuckle slips from her mouth. “Noted. If negotiations fail, you can go first.”
Chapter 23
Ugly Duckling
DEVI
The citadel sculpted into the cliffs of Deiltine looks inhospitable and bleak—some windowless, grimy factory with angular walls and spires spurting black smoke.The wet stones of the staircase leading to the entrance scrape my boots, too coarse to be slippery.
Seth and I are sandwiched between the guards, one out front and one at the rear as they herd us in for an audience with their boss. The guards’ dark gray uniforms have no sleeves, showcasing their many scars and tattoos, their buzz cut and pointy ears enhancing the tough-guy quality they share.
Many similarly dressed workers carrying supplies or traveling between the different neighborhoods that make up this place glare at us as we pass under a covered porch. The static electricity in the air—amplified by the presence of so many Storm Fae in one place—tickles my insides. Nothing says ‘welcome’ like bulging biceps and dubious intentions.
Thunder clings to my skin and bristles down my spine, but the workers track me with cool disinterest. I’m not used to being seen and then immediately dismissed. For men to turn up theirnoses at me as though I’m nothing more than a stupid, useless female. I’ve suffered through many forms of sexism, but to be so easily written off… that’s a first.
We walk through a series of sliding doors designed to crack open just enough to let people through, then seal shut behind them—layer after layer protecting the interior from the weather. There’s no signage, no directions. This place isn’t meant for visitors.
A sickly trickle of claustrophobia takes hold of me, the thickness of the walls meant to protect us from the outside caging me in. Even though the citadel is big—its many hallways and corridors forming a kind of beehive—it feels oddly small and small-minded. Like any idea that doesn’t fit the mold, anyone who challenges the status quo, anything that isn’t anchored in tradition and beaten down by years of hard labor, comes here to die.
At the core of the citadel, the air remains damp, and the hairs on my arms rise with the static charge humming through these ancient, square-cut tunnels.
This isn’t a land of pleasure or lazy afternoons wasted on wine and sunshine. It’s a world of hardship, lit by lightning and ruled by thunder. Tough. Grueling. Gray.
There’s no real light, only the occasional torch, and the rumble of storms is near constant—like the halls themselves are growling.
No wonder the darklings of Storm’s End are so rough around the edges.
At the center of the main hall, a raised platform allows the Warden of Lightning Point to preside from above. A throne of rock, accented with lyranthium, stands at its center, and two enormous Aeolian blades form an X behind the chair, their tips licking the ceiling. The whole setup feels too elaborate for a Shadow Lord and looks ancient and worn, a reminder that thecitadel of Deiltine once served as Storm’s End’s capital during the war. Zepharion had been deemed too close to the Breach and the Islantide to protect the royal family.
“Fuck. We’re in trouble,” Seth grumbles, earning himself a shove from the ax-wielding guard escorting us.
“What kind of trouble? Let’s-start-killing-people trouble?” I whisper.
The guards snicker, as if the idea of someone like me fighting them is laughable.
Three black wolves prance inside the room and sprawl at the base of the throne. They are flesh and bone like the ice wolves that led our sleigh, but meaner and leaner, each rib a mark of the scarcity of raw meat in these parts. Their canines peek from beneath their lips. They don’t snarl or growl, but watch us with the focus of animals taught to wait for a command before ripping you open.
