Page 53 of Bound to the Fae Assassin

At least it had been interesting.

Chapter 23

Farrow

Farrow watched as the life was squeezed from her beloved.

She’d made the choice to spare a tyrant, and instead was about to murder the man who’d introduced her to her true self. But he was right. There was no room for compromise.

No.

It didn’t have to be this way.

She relaxed her grip, just a little, and Blackthorn sucked in a desperate breath. But she still held him locked in place.

It started to become clear to her. Blackthorn’s approach to magic wasn’t exactly right, but neither was hers.

But, just like the ingredients that didn’t seem to go together, their strategies complimented each other. Each bringing out the strength of the other, when used all at once.

She’d taken a risk by trying to combine them, but it was the right choice. She just needed to trust it.

And if it didn’t work, someone was going to die.

After Blackthorn had left her alone, she’d destroyed the poison, but she hadn’t abandoned the spirit of his mission. Instead, she had whispered to the ingredients, trusting them to listen rather than demanding or begging. And she had made sure to keep the people who would be helped at the forefront of her mind, as she had always done back at the bakery.

What she wanted from that cake had been beyond any magic she had ever attempted before.

And the look of horror on the King’s face told her it had worked.

The ingredients had listened to Blackthorn’s tale with excruciating precision, and retold the terrible history to their eater.

And now she turned her attention to the gathered court, and most importantly, the Prince Fairweather.

Just as she had treated the plants with respect to gain their best magic, she would have to trust the wisdom of the court if she wanted their ears.

She could hear her mother weeping out on the lawn. Farrow had outed herself as a woman who possessed great magic. Their lives together as a family were over. She would be weeping too, if she allowed the full weight of her actions to land.

Instead, she forced herself to focus on the court before her.

“Esteemed lords and ladies of Fairweather,” she said in a clear, steady voice. “I know that what you have seen may seem like an act of war, and another of treason. But your King has been crueler than you know.”

She was met with shocked silence.

“I am only a baker’s daughter,” she went on. “But I have sacrificed a comfortable life with my beloved parents so that you might have the truth. If you would taste the cake Lady Gwinn has served you, the knowledge of the King’s atrocities will be yours.”

Prince Alaric turned to face her from his place at the front table, a curious expression on his handsome face.

“Don’t listen to that filthy witch,” the King sputtered.

“He doesn’t want you to taste the cake because if you do you will know the truth,” Farrow said calmly. “He knows, because he tasted it himself.”

The Prince stood, holding his fork with a bite of the cake on it.

Farrow held her breath and hoped that the ingredients were strong enough to let the Prince see what his father had. For the King, their tale had been merely a reminder. The Prince would need to learn from the beginning.

Prince Alaric closed his mouth around the cake, squeezing his eyes shut, as if it would help him to taste the truth.

A moment later his eyes popped open again, his curious expression replaced by one of shock and horror.

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