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I barely have a moment to wonder why before she arches a brow and asks, “Who, then?”

That is certainly the question.

Who in my direct bloodline would gain nothing by lying to me?

Since I can’t stomach the idea of summoning my father or mother—both deaths, though centuries have passed, are still too painful and complicated with unresolved feelings—that leaves only my grandparents.

My grandfather, Edric, despised otherworlders. If Gwyn summoned him, he’d be terribly cruel to her, and I won’t tolerate that. So, it’ll have to be my grandmother, Rosemarie. As the First Queen of Faerie, there’s a fair chance she might want to help me save our people and our lands.

Content with my decision, I say, “We could summon my grandmother.”

Gwyn nods. “Is she buried close by? I need to be near her body, or at least her resting place, for the connection to take hold.”

I grind my teeth together as Arkyn whistles. “Unfortunately, Riven will have to get permission from Quill to take you to her.”

“Quill...?” Her gaze darts between the two of us.

“Godrickson,” I say.

“I was afraid you’d say that,” she says, worrying her lip. I’m not surprised she knows of him, considering how close she is to Avaline. “Why exactly do we need his permission to visit your grandmother?”

“Because Rosemarie’s body isn’t buried in the Fae Isles; it’s buried in one of his territories,” I clarify. “Just leave it to me. I’ll get his permission. What else do you need for the ritual?”

“Funny you ask,” she says, grimacing. “I’ll need bloodshade, and the only place I know of where it blooms just happens to be⁠—”

“The Shore of the Damned.” My hands fist at my sides. “Looks like we’re going to have to pay Quill a visit in person.”

Chapter 11

GWYN

Riven portals us back to the palace, granting me barely twenty minutes to scrub the sludge from my skin and pull on clean clothes before I’m whisked through another portal.

This time, to the Shore of the Damned.

I knew who Arkyn meant the moment he’d spoken the name.

Quill.

Everyone in the Wyldelands knows the tale—how Godrick, once fae, was turned into a vampire and abandoned both throne and kin for the childe he sired in secret. Now, you’d be hard-pressed to find a soul who doesn’t know of Quill Godrickson. If not by name, then by reputation: leader of the Mors Soluta, the most feared assassins alive, and the reigning vampire supreme.

Still, I’d prayed Arkyn meant someone else. A distant cousin. Some harmless nobody with proximity to the Thaelon bloodline.

But that had been a fool’s prayer.

Because here I am, standing on scorched sand with the ocean breeze whipping through my hair, staring at the jagged silhouette of his castle.

And I’m about to meet the legend himself.

He’s probably as mysterious as the fortress in the distance, as unpredictable as the waves crashing against the blackened shore.

Achlys’s low growl startles me from my thoughts, and I follow his gaze to a couple lounging on a quilt. The female lifts her paintbrush to canvas just to lower her hand and throw her head back in another fit of hysterics, giggling at something the mountain of a male said. She waves her paintbrush at him, and he sits up a little bit straighter, lifting a horn made out of some sort of organic material to his mouth.

Riven scowls at the sight of them, placed perfectly between us and the castle. “I can’t catch a fucking break, can I?”

“Who are they?” I ask.

“No one important.”