Page 6 of Prince of Darkness and Deceit

If anyone but Lev tried to usher this man out of his home, he wouldn’t move an inch. As it is, the Ironhearts are practically royalty amongst Verdanthians. Though not in the way of our beloved fallen king.

Fief jerks his head in an angry nod and turns on his heel, but not before flashing me a nasty glare.

The moment he steps outside, Rolf’s mother releases a ragged exhale. “Thank you.”

I turn and note her ashen face and trembling hands. Understanding softens my voice. “Of course.”

Lev retakes his position by Rolf’s head and places a reassuring hand on the boy’s shoulder once more.

“Lev.” I clear my throat. “May I have your belt?”

Gods bless him; he slips the high-quality, hard-to-find leather from his pants and hands it to me without hesitation.

“Rolf?”

The boy’s fearful eyes slide away from the front door and meet mine.

I lower my voice, aiming to keep my tone light and calming. “You broke your leg. I can fix it, but it’s going to hurt. Think you can bite this belt to help you through the worst of it?”

His chin quivers, but he nods.

“You’re very brave.” I squeeze his arm, then lift the leather to his mouth.

Rolf clamps down and squeezes his eyes shut.

His mother clutches her hands together and begins murmuring a prayer to Orun, the God of Health—a prayer that would get her flayed alive if heard by Fae ears.

I drown out the desperate cadence and focus on Rolf’s leg, urging the magic back into my fingers and placing my hands on either side of the broken bone.

A tiny sigh escapes my lips when the familiar warmth returns, dancing across my fingertips in comforting tingles. Setting a bone isn’t difficult, but setting it so he can bear weight for years to come is what matters.

While I wish this injury meant Rolf could escape a lifetime in the mines, it won’t.

Verdanthia’s only protection from the Fae is our distance from the border and the precious metal our men haul from the southern coast. The monsters who conquered our land demand astlerium in excess, unbothered by the toll it takes on our community, for Gods know what reason. But reason doesn’t matter.

Any Verdanthian man selected to work in the mines, regardless of age, is bound to it for life.

So I’ll use the unpredictable but incredible, Gods-given power in my veins to mend Rolf’s snapped bone and spare him a lifetime of pain or, worse, an early grave.

But I have to be careful.

Because no matter how much good I do, no matter how many bones I heal or lives I save, humans will never stop fearing the thing that ruined us.

Magic.

Humans will never forget how Fae used their shadows to drag us to our knees—how their magic carved through cities, how their enchantments enslaved thousands.

To my neighbors, magic is a curse. A plague. A poison that destroyed our kingdom.

And if they find out it lives in me, they won’t hesitate to kill me.

Just like they killed my parents.

2

Grief I’ve struggled my entire life to contain assails me as I heal the worst of Rolf’s injuries. It thickens my throat. It squeezes my lungs. By the time I wrap the last bandage around the sleeping boy’s splinted wrist, my heart hammers so viciously that my chest aches.

I rise and straighten my skirts, give Rolf’s mother instructions on how to care for him tonight, and then I take off.