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Frost crusted the windows. Weeks, maybe several months had passed since he’d discovered Saga. Riot Ode leaned over his knees, perched on his elbows, his thumbs rubbing tension from his forehead beside a thick table.
“Wraith.” My pulse echoed in my skull. “What are those, there on the table?”
I crossed the room in four strides, and before I could stop, touched my fingertips to the dark steel on a beautiful axe, it’s twin beside it. An axe I’d seen slaughter countless Ravens, execute traitors. Axes that had helped win back the land of Etta.
“These are Valen’s. How—”
“Heirlooms.” Wraith said, voice flat. “Common amongst royal lines.”
Hells. I had never asked why Valen preferred the axe to a sword, and I’d always assumed they were passed through the Ferus line. But to see them here . . .
“Powerful,” Wraith went on. “Made from the iron found in a once fierce kingdom that flowed in the gifts of the gods. Meant for a royal line willing to fight for that gods-gift again.”
“I don’t understand what—” I took note of the other trinkets near the axes. Two wooden boxes, both marked in runes. I stared at the ring on my center finger. Those were mine and Saga’s. Beside them, on a velvet cloth, was another ring. Not the same as the polished wood of mine.
This ring was silver, almost clear as glass, and four rune marks were etched on the band.
“That is Malin’s,” I said softly. “Why are these here?”
“Riot Ode was no fool. He knew his world would soon be undone, but he refused to leave folk helpless without a way to access his different magicks. He gave each tale power, and made paths for those fated to rise and stand for this land.”
“You keep saying his world broke? What does that mean?”
Wraith shifted on his feet. “It was not Riot’s intent for his kingdom to shatter. A tale unraveled beyond his control. He did what was needed to protect people from the fallout.”
“Wars have been fought over these objects,” I said.
Wraith smirked. “I never said Riot made the path of fate simple.”
Bleeding hells. The history of every artifact ran through my head. Malin’s ring passed down through lines of queens. Valen’s axes that made him the Blood Wraith. My vows that broke a curse over a lost queen.
All of it had my brain spinning.
“King.” The king’s ward stepped forward, a real dagger strapped to his belt now. “Captain Annon said they’re here.”
Riot lifted his gaze. Weariness was written in every furrow, every crevice of his face. His features were youthful, but the burdens of ruling a kingdom with an enemy like Davorin aged the king tremendously.
He gave the boy a fleeting smile. “Let them in.”
The boy went to the double doors and grunted as he pushed through the heavy wood. Riot’s captain entered first, but he was followed by a young fae man carrying armfuls of rolled parchment with two satchels slung over his shoulders.
My breath caught in my throat when his face came into full sight.
Bright eyes, alive with curiosity. Hair like dusty wheat tied in a knot at the back of his head. Sturdy in his build, but not a sign of age coated his face.
One hand pressed against the thud of my heart. “Daj?”
Riot stepped off the dais and walked toward my bleeding father. Long before he was the burly Petter Sekundär I remembered.
“Wraith.” I swatted my hand back to grab him, to steady myself, or to merely hold tight to something. “Why . . . why is my father here? That is my father, isn’t it? He’s so young.”
“A man of twenty and five,” Wraith said.
Time, age, most of it mattered little to fae folk when we lived lifetimes.
I was brought into a world of war, a surprise son for House Sekundär which had been a household of strong girls for turns. My eldest sister, Aslaug, took pride in riling my blood, and often informed me my birth was a complete accident. I suppose it could’ve been true.
To see him now was like witnessing his beginning.
