Page 80 of The Reaping Rose

“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?” Wilder smirks, wrapping my waist in aether and pulling me to his side.

“If you’re going to keep arguing with me, then yes, I do.” I plant my palm on his chest. “We’ll figure it out like we always have. Right?”

I look from Perame to Callum, who both nod.

Perame juts her chin up. “Make sure to keep it together on this side so we have something to come back to.”

Wilder sighs, and I feel any remaining argument vanishing.

“Do you want me to go with Atlas to scope out Lyrichia?” Rior asks.

“And what? Show me around?” Atlas laughs. “Like you’ll have any better luck than I will.”

“Do you know where you’re looking?” My eyebrows pinch, and he looks at Wilder.

“I got word from Lochlan that he can set up a base in Solace to gather intel.”

“But Lochlan hasn’t heard anything from Solace, so what makes him think Atlas will?” An idea flashes.

“What are you thinking?”

“I think magic is only going to get Atlas so far. Hiding in plain sight only works if you know where to look for information.”

“Where would that be?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been in the Ley Court less than you have. But…”

A very bad idea brews, and I can already feel the pushback, even if it’s our best option. We need to find Malachi and soon. Callum’s knowledge of the court might be helpful, but he’ll be with me in the Mortal Realm, leaving only one other Fae who could help Atlas go unnoticed while looking for answers.

One Fae with enough hate toward Malachi to put her annoyance with Atlas aside to help hunt him down. One who can’t sit still to save her life.

“Where is Greer?”

Chapter 27

Greer

Strong stance.

Sure hands.

If I hold the grip tight and close my eyes, I imagine my father’s voice in my ear.

You are the sword. You are the blade. You are the edge on which others bleed. Move sure and one with the instrument. You do hold the weapon, Greer. You are it. It does not matter what you wield when you are the seer of your own fate.

The wind tickles my neck as I spin, sure and easy as my feet dance on the cobblestone. My arms arch in a wide arc, the blade sinking into the wooden post.

When I open my eyes, I find I’ve struck the mark perfectly.

I tug the sword, appreciating the large notch left in the wood. After months training on the shores of Alyssium, where my bones were heavy and my old wounds ached, the blade moves with the wind here.

My father’s blade.

My mother wanted me to follow in my aunt’s footsteps to eventually become a priestess in Tempest, but my father always seemed to know I was meant for battle. He trained me between lessons. He saw my fire and fanned the flames.

Pausing, I hold the sword upright, taking in the intricate details etched into the blade. The design is as delicate and thinly carved as the stitching of lace, and when I stare long enough, I can still see Father’s blood running rivers through the small grooves, even if it’s no longer there.

The Fae who killed him did so with his own blade. It took days of careful cleaning to remove his blood from the grooves. My fingers ache when I think about it. My heart tightens.