Page 42 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“They are your domain,” he said, as if that should have been clear to her. “Don’t ask them. Command them. Bend them to your will.”

She blinked at him, uncertain whether to be impressed or horrified.

“Watch,” he told her, lifting his hands over his head.

The air seemed alive for a moment with palpable magic. The tiny hairs on the back of Farrow’s neck stood up in anticipation.

A moment later, there was movement from above - a single raven, sailing between the branches of the trees.

It dove, inky wings pulled back, and nicked the wooden ogre, before disappearing into the trees once more.

It was fine, she supposed, but it hadn’t done more than a simple scratch.

She turned back to Blackthorn, but he was still in the same pose, hands outstretched as he whispered something inaudible.

A moment later, another raven swooped in, and then another. Each focused its efforts on the wooden ogre.

Soon the air was a whir of onyx wings, the ogre statue completely blurred from sight.

Farrow had to hold her skirts down as her hair swirled over her head in the rush of air.

A resounding thud was their only sign that Blackthorn’s target was down.

He dropped his hands and the rush of wings lifted, the birds swirling upward and flying into the scraps of sky that were visible between the dark branches above.

Once the view was clear, she could see that the wooden ogre had been knocked flat on his back, and was covered with deep scratches that would have undoubtedly torn up a flesh target.

“Now you do the one with the sword,” Blackthorn said.

She frowned, studying the statue.

It leered back at her, making her feel just the tiniest bit like it was a real being again.

Farrow tore her gaze from it, searching the courtyard again for anything of use. She would not ask the trees to harm themselves. She would rather not know the full potential of her magic if it meant doing something like that.

Her eyes lit on the ivy that climbed the brick walls to tear at the chimney.

She’d had good luck with ivy before. And asking the vines to destroy something was only encouraging their mischievous nature without bringing any harm to them.

Though she was not sure she could make them move swiftly enough for it to work.

“Raise your hands,” Blackthorn suggested. “Palms up. And keep your feet shoulder-width apart. It’s a powerful stance.”

She did as he suggested, feeling a little silly. Wasn’t this the way the players pretended at magic when the caravan came through the village? Just play acting, like kids in the square. Is that what she was doing? She was just a village girl who could speak with plants sometimes, not a Fae queen.

But when she closed her eyes this time and let go, she could feel the magic flowing more freely, sizzling in her palms.

“Envision it. Speak to it,” he told her. “Once you have its attention, then command it.”

She pictured the ivy growing on the brickwork of the school walls, reaching for the sun as its roots gripped the stone like tiny claws.

Ivy, I summon you.

The feeling was different this time, colder. But she could still feel the attention of the plants trained on her, waiting.

She envisioned the statue with its sinister leer and mighty sword. Then she pictured ivy on it, pulling it down.

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