Page 27 of The Crown of a Fallen Queen
“You really don’t trust me at all.”
“What can I say? I’m not a very trusting person.”
“Good job with the wolf.” He reaches for his neck and swallows hard, as though he remembers exactly how close I came to slitting his throat, too. “You don’t shy away from violence, do you?”
“I inherited an unhealthy taste for bloodshed and destruction from my sire.”
Seth’s brows lift. “Sire? Ouch. I’m the bastard son of a king who disavowed me, and I still called him my father.”
I press my lips together, debating whether or not to elaborate, but I can’t hold it in. “Believe me, the man who sired me isn’t worthy of the name.”
He tilts his head to the side. “Wasn’t he a crow, your father? Some common Fae from the Shadowlands? Is that why you’re so…direct?”
He means rude, and I crack a smile. “Maybe.”
No one can know who my true father is, but Seth’s been told the well-crafted lie my grandfather had catered to for decades before he died.
“I heard he lost his marbles after your mother died, started spewing venom about the seven crowns, and died in some prison or another?”
“If that’s what you heard, then it must be true.” I grab the strings of glass inside the sceawere toplaythe address for the Winter castle, much as one would play a melody on a violin, using the tattoos inked on my lower arm.
Seth hovers closer. “Let me do it. I just came from Wintermere.”
I brace the tips of my fingers on his upper arm and shove him off in a precise and deliberate fashion. “I’m perfectly capable of finding my way, thank you.”
But, as it turns out, I’m not quite as efficient as I’d hoped in locating Elio’s study. Despite my attempts to enter the passage I use every year when I visit the Winter King, I can’t find it, which means it’s either been destroyed, or a new set of wards is blocking the way. I keep my face relaxed not to let Seth know anything is wrong and continue my search. But after many failed attempts, my pulse quickens, and I handle the strings a little harder, making the many glimpses of the different portals leading to Wintermere blur together.
“Are you sure you don’t want my help?” Seth cracks, all smiles.
“Gods, stop breathing down my neck, I’ll find it,” I grit through my teeth.
Traveling the sceawere takes much skill, concentration, and patience, but it’s also a bit of an art. For the life of me, I can’t find the mirror I’m looking for, warded or not. I keep landing back at the one right next to the Winter castle, like I’m being forced in this direction by some unknown power, and I motion for Seth to move forward. "Let’s get out of here before another wolf shows up."
Seth leans in. "That wasn’t an answer. About your father."
I give him a nasty side-eye. "It was as much of an answer as you’re going to get."
"Oh, this," he waves a hand between us, "is going to be fun."
Chapter 9
Winter Blues
DEVI
Seth nips at my heels on our way out of the sceawere. The sensation that comes with stepping out of the glass isn't what it used to be. Less icy, but just as uneasy, and more claustrophobic. Mist gathers on all sides, briefly blinding me, and I feel as though I’m being both cradled and smothered by a cloud. When the smoke clears, I suppress a cough.
The wrought-iron gates separating Tundra, the winter capital, from the castle grounds tower high above me as I blink away the strange lull, the glacial air of Wintermere immediately numbing my extremities.
Two twelve-foot-tall mirrors flank the ornate gates, embedded in the stone walls on either side, one of which we just threaded. The gate isn’t truly meant to keep anyone out, but to separate the living from the dead. The reapers that walk in and out of the castle aren’t meant to cohabitate with the villagers, and they use the network of tunnels underneath the mountain to do their duty before returning to their Ice City.
The scent of spiced wine and roasting meat soothes my pulse, and the rhythmic crunch of snow under heavy boots chases away the ominous blur of the sceawere.
The city sprawls at the foot of the mountains. Thousands of common Winter folk—or Moths, as we call them—live here, steps away from the most powerful Fae King. It’s not the middle of the night here, but close to sunset. The narrow streets are alive with merchants and children fresh out of school. Dozens of miners in thick fur cloaks make their way home or to the taverns after a grueling day of work.
The Winter Castle looms over the city, its three snow-crusted towers obscuring the light of the dying sun, turning gold to blue. A fortress as old as Faerie itself, it’s a place where power is not measured in courtly games but in endurance—in how long one can withstand the cold without breaking. Here, death is only another rite of passage, not an ending.
Moths do not whisper prayers to keep the darkness away. Instead, they welcome it and weave it into the fabric of their stories and songs. Even the children are not kept out of death’s reach, playing hide-and-seek in the graveyard that’s sandwiched between the forest and the castle walls. They run among the tombstones of their ancestors, their laughter echoing through the air like a hymn to the inevitable.
