Page 8 of To Love a Dark Lord

Right?

Right.

She had to go on that. She had to believe that. She had to trust the man she loved. The man who wanted to marry her. The man who was probably slowly going insane trapped inside a prison of his own making.

“And if he doesn’t stand down?” The scarecrow leaned on his stuffed elbows. “What then? If we get him out of there, and he goes on a rampage and doesn’t listen to you?”

“Then…” She chewed on her bottom lip. “Then I’ll stop him.” She shut her eyes and clenched her fists. “Before you say it—I know what I’m saying.” Her voice wavered and almost cracked. The idea of having to kill him…the final betrayal. He wouldn’t see it coming from her. He would never expect her to go that far. “If he’s out of control, I’ll put him down.”

Bert was silent.

She opened her eyes and met his gaze. Or, at least, she assumed she did. “I’ll stop him.”

“I’d love to believe you, I really would. You’re our savior—our only hope for peace. For how life in Avalon was meant to be. I’ll stand beside you until the end. But freeing Mordred is an enormous risk.”

“I know. But it’s a risk I have to take. I’m sorry.”

Bert sighed, his stuffed-hay shoulders slumping. “I don’t honestly disagree with you, that’s the worst part. I just wish I did.”

The smile she gave him didn’t last long. “Well, don’t worry. I still have to figure out where he is and how to set him free.”

Bert huffed. “Nothing’s seemed to stand in your path before.”

“I hope you’re right.” She wished she shared in his confidence. “I really hope you’re right. Now, I just need to come up with a plan.”

Because all her plans had gone so well for her in the past.

Mordred could feel the echo of his thoughts in the void around him. He could not hear it, but he could sense it. A never-ending reflection of a reflection that extended in all directions around him, fading into nothingness like all the rest.

Every memory.

Every emotion.

Every piece of himself, shown back to him, again and again and again…

Hope. Fear. Hatred. Boredom. Loneliness.

The faces of all those he had known. Of all those he had lost. Of all those he had forgotten, dredged up from the recesses of his mind.

All that he was, laid bare. Like a series of impossible corridors stretching from him in all directions, above, beneath, and all around. A maze in which he could see every corner and turn in unison.

It was impossible. A figment of his mind—or what was left of it.

An echo. Back and forth and back and forth, around and around again. He was reflecting against the Iron Crystal—sinking deeper into the magic that he had used to create his own prison. He wondered if this was an experience that was unique to him. He assumed so. Though he supposed it did not matter.

“Mordred!”

A voice, calling to him in the shadows. Her voice. Was it real? Or simply another ghost of a memory? He could not respond. He had no corporeal form. No way to even dream of one. He could simply wish her nearer, wish her there with him.

“Where are you?”

He willed himself to respond. Wanting her to find him, there. Somehow, despite the impossibility of it. No, not wanting—needing.

A memory found him, not his Gwendolyn. A memory of his mother.

“Remember who you are, boy.” She glowered down at him, her dark eyes like onyx against her pale skin and raven-black hair. There was always a mystery about her, a sense that there was something lurking within that gaze. Something terrible. Something powerful. Something that schemed.

Morgana was fae, after all. Or, at least, that was what she told those who questioned her power. Her magic was strong enough.

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