Page 152 of The Stolen Crown

Through the haze of exhaustion and a bit of agony, I thought one of Djur’s men mentioned the sight of a raven.

It wouldn’t make any sense, not in these distant seas. My mind was already slipping.

“Wake up, sea fae.” Djur’s boot nudged my side.

Mists and fading sunlight surrounded the vessel. A new night approached.

Djur’s ship was strange, likely bespelled, and sped through the Far Seas too swiftly to be caught. Oars never rested; the boundaries of the Ever were long ago lost to me.

The Ever Ship was fast, but I wasn’t certain even Erik could catch us, not if my absence had gone unnoticed the whole of the ball. Mira would sound the alarm—no mistake—when she returned to our chamber to find it empty.

Still, it would be too late.

When the pocket watch stopped working, she would have no choice but to concede it was not worth risking the lives of everyone else to find a dead man.

I could not shake the feeling the Otherworld would find me soon.

Thoughts of my death were nothing compared to the anguish of knowing my Vicious would soon be in pain. I had hope her broken heart would not bleed long. Maybe she would love another…someday.

Gods, the bile that rose at the thought of someone else holding Mira’s soft body, of claiming her kisses, her touch. I shook my head. Unfair to despise the idea. She deserved peace, deserved to be worshipped all her days.

Another shout from the king spurred the men into action. Ahead, a wall of ashen mists blocked our route. Djur blew into a pale conch shell and slowly the mists faded, revealing towering cliffsides and a shore speckled with cheery cottages.

Eilifur.

We were back.

The ship aligned with the dock, and as before, men caught rope ties and helped heave the vessel into position.

“We bid you welcome once more, sea fae.” Djur bound my wrists with heavy rope, hooked a hand under my arm, and lifted me to my feet.

Strange, but his cruel touch did not even bring the phantom aches from fists or the coils of sick in my gut. As though my mind, my body, had already resigned itself to a bloody end. What did any of it matter?

Pain would come. It would be better to fall into numb indifference sooner than later.

Folk greeted the returning men with cheers and hearty greetings. Women kissed their men. Young ones ran for fathers. Djur lifted my bound wrists and roared words to his folk I could not understand.

Whatever he uttered drew cheers, a rising tide of delight.

Djur tugged on my bindings and led me up the great stone staircase built into the cliffside. At the top, he turned away from the Head House. The king guided me to the garden gates.

The brilliant pomes and vines and ivy that seemed to flow in living gold no longer flourished. Not even a fortnight had passed since we first came to Eilifur, but somewhere in the time between our escape and now, the garden had become limp and dry.

Branches drooped, and only a thread or two of shimmering gold flowed through roots and wrinkled flesh of hanging fruit. Shrubs and blooms wilted. Fallen leaves were brown and shriveled on the soil.

Djur dragged me to a thick tree in the center. He kept my wrists bound and turned one palm upward. Before I saw the blade, the man sliced a long gash over the meat of my thumb. Blood dripped from the wound onto the brittle grass.

To one of his men, Djur muttered something low and rough, then faced me. “You will save many lives today, sea fae.”

“You said you required one more life. Is this what happens should you only slaughter two?”

“Each harvest lasts one turn.” Djur did not relent his grip on my wrist. “To feed the clan, we have found three souls are needed to sustain us until the next. It pains us to take a life.”

“I doubt that.”

“Think as you will,” said Djur. “We take what we need to survive.”

“You fear death.” I leaned closer, voice low. “I care nothing for your excuses, mortal. You’ve manipulated lives for turns, I’m sure. No wonder you fear meeting the gods. They will despise you.”