Page 117 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“Devi, it’s me.” A melodic voice says. “Open up.”
The sound of my name tingles across my neck, warm as those endless summer nights spent by the sea, where we became more than friends or family. Where sisterhood blurred into something deeper.
We’re bound, Willow and me. Not by blood, not by love, but by a common goal: to dethrone the man who ruined us and bury him six feet under.
I wrench open the door.
Brown hair. Pixie haircut. Amber eyes that gleam with new magic, old trauma, and a shimmering hunger for revenge.
Willow’s Tidecaller uniform hides her curves, her Mist jewels the only thing that separates her from one of her underlings. The brown leather is the antithesis of what Fae royals usually wear on the battlefield. Simple, inexpensive, and unremarkable. The Tidecallers are warriors of the people.
One corner of her mouth curls up. “I’m not sure whether to thank you for opening that door, or scold you for never answering my letters.”
“Willow…” I breathe.
Seth draws back as Willow strides forward and pulls me into a hug, his lips pursed like he’s not sure whether to let her or not.
“It’s been too long, sister,” Willow murmurs, rising to her toes to hold me close.
The greeting carries a tacit trust that I didn’t expect, but it’s also a show of power.
We’re not a threat to her, and it shows.
The jewels embedded in her skin have multiplied in our time apart, like her hunger for power grew restless without me to temper it. Mist jewels are dangerous but beautiful things. They bestow and amplify magic, yet they're known to be addictive, like most potent substances. The more you wear, the more you want. The more they give, the more they take.
If I had been able to use magic when I was at my lowest, I’m not sure I would have had the strength to walk away from such a power.
Willow looks radiant in them, and sure of herself in a way she never used to be. But something’s different. Her eyes hold the same fire, but it burns colder now. Calculated. Controlled.
Seth’s brows lift. “Sister?”
I shake my head. “It’s a long story.”
Willow crosses her arms and looks him up and down. “You’re Seth Devine, I suppose?”
“You suppose right.”
“I’m the Lord of the Tides. You already know my second-in-command, Luther Storm.”
A man appears behind her, shimmering out of the shadows.
“Luther, Devi. Devi, Luther,” Willow says.
Despite his young age, Luther Storm is a very attractive man. Soft black locks curl around his pointy ears, and aside from his pearly-white skin, he looks much like his brother. Their eyes areoddly similar, the familiar purple-flecks peppered among heavy grey clouds.
He squares his shoulders and faces me. “It’s an honor to meet you, Lady Devilyne Eros.” He bows his head in greeting, but there’s a rugged, impulsive quality to him, like he’s merely making fun of court customs. His eyes drift to Seth. “So…you found me again, brother.”
Seth matches the spark in his brother’s eyes as he answers, “I hope that this time, you won’t be so quick to tie me up.”
“It depends. Are you ready to join the Tides?” Luther says, the half-smile on his face leaving me in doubt as to whether this is just a joke between them or a real threat.
“The only thing I feel ready for at the moment is a long, long rest.”
Luther squeezes Seth’s upper arm in a soothing, brotherly manner. “That’ll do for now.”
Willow’s gaze falls to the burial shroud still tucked in my grip. “Oh no.” She sucks in air, her face slowly decomposing. “Is that Percy?”
I give her a reluctant nod.
