Page 115 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Strands of power scoured the beating heart, dragged its nails along the tenacious mind of the solitary fae. Still, Everinne continued to search, holding fast to her grip of control as strains of suffering continued to prod at the fox, weakening its resolve.
There was a shudder, the faintest glimpse, as though a veil of gossamer had been thrown over a singular fiber of magic. It pulsed with the power of runic tomes, of an eternal winter, of slumbering death by a frostbitten kiss. Everinne’s power seized the sparkling thread and yanked, pulling it taut. She cried out as screams echoed in the dungeon, each one more chilling than the last. Her lungs caved, body trembling until she thought her knees would give out from under her while she peeled away layer after layer of glamour. A tear slipped from the corner of Everinne’s eye as the fae’s fair form was finally revealed, as the ability to shift was ripped and torn, left to mend with only the blood that bound it.
Everinne let go.
She gathered her magic, held it close, wrapping her arms tightly around herself as though that would somehow erase the torment she had inflicted.
Each breath she stole was shallow. The cruelty, the absolute viciousness of what she’d done, was cemented in the back of her mind, branding her as death touched. For now, not even just the walls of the palace would talk. Rumors of her insidious nature would spread, she would be forever marked with harsh judgement, so even the wicked trees of the forest would shiver whenever the wind whispered her name. All would think she’d committed such acts voluntarily, without coercion, because if she told one soul about her bargain with the kralv, his wrath would come down upon her.
And Atlas.
And Veros.
Everinne cringed, and gradually blinked open her eyes.
Crumpled against the far wall of the cell, was a fae whose clothing looked painfully familiar—a winter white bodice studded with pearls and lace, a wrinkled skirt of silk, and sheer stockings embellished with diamond snowflakes that sprinkleddown her legs. Striking pink hair tumbled around her bare shoulders and down her back. Cerulean eyes framed with dark lashes stared empty and vacant, the only sign of life the horribly slow rise and fall of her chest.
Everinne’s heart splintered.
“Aisling?” Her voice cracked as she stared down at her motionless friend. Regret bloomed in her chest, causing the ache there to magnify.
“You know this fae?” Kralv Oldrich asked, stepping into the cell for a closer look at Aisling.
Shit.
Lie.
She had to lie.
“No. Not really.” She could still protect Aisling, could still find some way to keep her safe. It wasn’t too late. Even after what she’d done, it wasn’t too late. “We just work together at the Mystic Obscura.”
“Interesting,” he murmured, bending down. He pressed the back of his hand to Aisling’s cheek and Everinne stiffened, her nails biting into her palms.
“She needs a healer, Your Imperial Majesty.” Everinne couldn’t tear her gaze away from Aisling, from the way she looked like each breath would be her last. “I…I don’t know what kind of effect my magic will have on her and?—”
“Yes, yes.” He stood, waving a hand through the air, dismissing her. “Take the death fae back upstairs. It’s snowing now, and I’m sure she will be missed.”
“But what about Aisling?” Everinne asked as the guard snatched her arm and hauled her out of the cell.
The kralv’s mouth pulled to one side. “You needn’t worry about her.”
“You don’t understand!” She struggled against the guard’s grip, desperate to keep Aisling out of the kralv’s clutches. “If she doesn’t show up at the Mystic Obscura, they’ll hunt her down.”
Aisling would be safer with Reine than she would with Kralv Oldrich.
Everinne jerked away from the guard once more. “She’s bound by blood to?—”
He was in her face before she could step back.
“You know not of what you speak.” Kralv Oldrich grabbed her jaw, his large fingers digging into the hollow of her cheeks. He squeezed, applying just enough pressure that tears sprang to her eyes. “Now, shut your mouth before I seal it for you.”
With one powerful thrust, he launched her backward into the guard’s iron-like hold.
“Return her to the prince’s quarters.” The kralv stepped out of the cell and slammed it closed, so the bars clanked loudly, echoing through the dungeon. With one vehement look at Everinne, he shoved the keys into the pocket of his black coat and walked off in the other direction.
She said nothing as the guard led her back to the upper levels of the palace. Heavy silence lingered, muffling her footfalls, quieting her breathing, its dense presence damn near suffocating. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t erase the image of Aisling, broken and battered, from her mind. And she couldn’t free herself from the gravity of what she’d done, it burned through her bloodstream like a poison.
Or maybe she was the poison.
