Page 24 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
His lips purse to the side, and I get the feeling he’s actually considering the question and not at all ticked off by it. “Who knows why my mother does what she does? She wasn’t wrong about me having the pedigree to pass the academy’s trials, though.” He takes a long, dejected gulp of cider. “I was an outcast there. Too frivolous for the darklings, and too dark for the Light Fae. That’s when they coined the ‘prince of nowhere at all’ nickname. It’s difficult to have the power but not the pedigree to become king. Must be hard to grasp for a first-born, golden child.”
A sardonic grimace tugs at my lips, but I lean back in a stretch to hide it.
I don’t pity Seth for his fucked-up childhood—I beat him in every aspect—but it reinforces my belief that the very concept of illegitimacy is idiotic at best and toxic at worst. I could never tell him, but we have more in common than he realizes.
My intoxicated gaze keeps drifting to him. His posture is effortless, yet there’s an unspoken readiness in the way his shoulders are held, as though he's always prepared for a brawl. The fabric of his shirt pulls taut across his chest, and the line of his jaw sharpens when he speaks.
I shouldn’t notice these things, so I gulp down the rest of my cider and climb to my feet. “We should get going. I need a minute alone. Just…wait here.”
The stairs creak under my weight as I make my way back upstairs. The loft bedroom is quiet, but my pulse thrums loud and fast, dizzy with the promise of impending change. For eight decades, this room has been mine. Cracked walls. Scuffed floorboards. Shelves lined with books I’ve read three times over just to dull the sting of time.
I crouch beside the bed and pry up a loose floorboard, revealing the hidden cache beneath. Glass vials glint in the moonlight. Tinctures. Ingredients. Tools of a witch’s trade, wrapped in handkerchiefs or tucked into velvet pouches. I retrieve them with careful fingers, checking each one, then tuck them into the small leather overnight bag I used to carry around when Jonas and I were still a couple. Funny how it’s the only piece of luggage I own. But I was never meant to leave for long—not without risking my life.
For years, this place was a cocoon. A place to wait. To grieve. To heal.
But I didn’t come here to wither and die.
I might not survive what comes next—and I’m weirdly okay with that. I slip Nickolas’s invisibility amulet into the bag first, followed by my Shadow mask, a vial of Spring water, and a few other trinkets I’ve collected over the years. Each one a spell in disguise, a carefully chosen weapon. Many Fae sneer at such tools, dismissing them as parlor tricks. But I can’t use my own magic without conjuring monsters from the ether, so I’ll survive on whatever scraps I can borrow.
My fingers brush over Mabel’s spindle. For a moment, I consider taking it with me. Instead, I tuck it deep into my warded cache, out of sight but not forgotten. It’ll be safe there, warded against tracking spells and out of sight.
Percy hovers beside me, wings twitching. “We’re really going with him, huh?”
Dim city light filters through the window, painting long shadows across the wooden floor. I move to the window, scanning the street below for any sign of the cupids. Timing my escape is crucial. “We’ve been waiting decades for an opportunity to get back in the game. This is it.”
He hesitates, his tiny arms crossed. “You should discuss it with Mabel first.”
“Mabel has already given up on Faerie.”
“She has a point.”
I shake my head. “We can’t stand by while our homeland is under attack. If a war is coming, we have to help the common folk so they don’t get caught in the crossfire of ambitious, ruthless, and privileged royals.”
Percy huffs. “But we don’t need him.”
“We’ll use him, that’s all.”
“I saw how you looked at him earlier.” His voice drops. “You want to hurt Freya through him, but it’s not going to make you feel better. You’re letting your double-H guide you.”
“Double-H?”
“Hatred and horniness. You crave two things,diamantay—sex and vengeance. And not necessarily in that order. Seth is the embodiment of both. You have a crush on him, I can tell.”
“A crush? Istabbedhim.”
Percy raises his hands in a mix of defeat and incomprehension. “Foreplay, apparently. You’re totally attracted to him.”
I freeze, my fingers tightening around the strap of the bag. “Am not.”
“Are too.”
I glare at him, but Percy never backs down.
“You want to mess him up, yet you fancy him. It’s a rubbish plan,” he insists.
Arguing with him feels like arguing with myself. He’s not exactly a voice of reason—too protective, overly cautious at times. Yet he becomes downright murderous when we’re under attack, playing both angel and devil on my shoulder. He knows me better than anyone, so whenever we disagree, I feel this annoying pang in my sternum.
But I’m done waiting. I’ve spent too long rotting in exile, watching the world move without me. Faerie is calling me home, and this time, I won’t be checked out of my own chessboard.
