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Interesting.
I must tread carefully. Politics are politics, and I have not survived as the fae supreme for centuries by making enemies.
Arkyn pushes off the wall and comes to stand beside me.
Carver and Avaline exchange a wary glance.
Avaline laid out her condition as if I’d refuse. Little does she know… I’ve never liked Tallis. Selfish and conniving, she’s exactly the kind of supreme who could twist a council seat into a threat—to me and the Fae Isles. I wouldn’t mind seeing the Heart of the Forest take her place, so long as Avaline proves she isn’t the same kind of danger.
“Very well, Avaline.” Withdrawing my supreme dagger from the holster on my hip, I prick my finger and let a bead of blood drip onto the filthy wooden floor. “I agree to your terms.”
The ground shakes beneath our feet as our bargain is set.
The moment the room stills, my lips stretch into a devilish grin. “Now, tell me where to find the witch.”
Chapter 2
GWYN
My magic thrums in my veins, a silent companion waiting for me to summon it forth.
I don’t.
I much prefer getting my hands dirty, tending the gardens that wrap around my property little by little each day.
It’s relaxing.
And it helps me pass the time.
Sunshine, warm and golden, beats down on me as I wrestle with a stubborn grouping of thistles. They’ve infested my harvest of nettle, and if I’m going to gather enough to last until next springtime, I need to rid the gardens of the little monsters before they wreak any more havoc.
Achlys soars above me, squawking gleefully as he fans his iridescent feathers, a shimmering mix of purples and greens amidst a score of black. He’s shifted from his preferred cuddly hound form to revel in the open air while I garden.
I glance at the cloud-thick horizon, taking in the slow encroaching mess of deep gray and inevitable rainfall.
“Don’t wander too far, beasty,” I tell my familiar. “Rain is coming.”
His answering caw is brief, betraying just enough annoyance at my overly careful warning.
I tug the last bit of weeds from the nettle and inspect them. They haven’t gone to seed, so I set them aside for compost. Brushing my hands on my apron, I leave the neat rows of flowering plants behind and venture toward the backyard, stopping at the oak tree standing sentry for the sweet-smelling grove.
I’ve been craving peach cobbler.
The air has shifted from comfortably warm to humid, charged with a breeze that sways the makeshift ribbons dangling from the tree’s mossy, low-hanging boughs. I pass underneath them, fingers brushing the fraying fabric I cut from old dresses and threaded with charms.
A ribbon for every storm I’ve weathered. Storms like this one.
Put this on, my coven matron had said all those years ago. You’re terrifying the witchlings.
My hand drifts to my throat, to the cotton hiding the dreadful scar defacing my once blemishless skin. On impulse, I untie it, feeling the weight of old memories tug at me. There are no witchlings to run shrieking from me, no matrons to insist I keep myself covered.
Not here.
Not in exile.
I don’t know why I still do this—cutting up dresses, tethering the strips, knotting charms, and tying ribbons to the tree.
Some habits are harder to break than others, I suppose.
