Page 114 of Vicious Is My Throne

Iyanked my cloak tighter around me, still smelling vaguely of Harehollow and horse, a musky bitterness that left a sour taste in my mouth.

Or perhaps that was the fear I couldn’t shake.

We trudged through Bloodwood Forest in the dark, the woods going quiet in our wake—the larger predators fleeing as if the animals and bugs knew destruction was inevitable and were burrowing into whatever hiding spot they could find.

My keystone was in my pocket, my iron bands back at Ravenswood.

But power slumbered in my veins, conserving itself for the task ahead. And the keystone was still quiet as if the magic had gone completely dormant.

The other five we’d left at the castle, deciding too much magic was as bad as not enough and all of us carrying stones…might end in disaster.

No guarantees it wouldn’t anyway.

None of us had slept, because every time I’d closed my eyes all I could think about was the blackened, twisted ruined form of Solok. So instead of pretending, we’d rousted at midnight, dressed, and headed out.

Five hours later, we were finally here.

One glance at the sky told me today would be an absolutely stellar sunrise, even in this dismal place.

The ward stretched from the Frostfall Peaks to the north all the way to Tidemore Port in the south, a solid line of demarcation fortified by the sacrifice of thousands of innocents.

But all I could think about was how many people would be caught up in the wave of magic.

I hadn’t come up with a means to mitigate that resurgent force, nor an alternative to satisfy the Oracle’s demand for the Fae magic. While we’d managed to evacuate most of the Descendant estates, there was still the pastoral farming center of this realm, the mithirium mines to the north, and the city of Arcadia at its very center.

I was ashamed to admit I knew so little about how many people lived in Arcadia, about King Vandran and the fortifications of this realm I’d called home for most of my life.

Would he send an army after us once he heard of our attack against the Descendants?

Did Varitus even have an army?

Even more reason, Tavion had explained on the way here, to drop the ward quickly before Vandran could organize. Better we fight one battle at a time than be caught between the Oracle and a pissed-off king, because even without magic, there were plenty of other ways to kill.

Bloody, painful ways.

“There it is. Up ahead,” Tavion murmured, his steps slowing. The last time I’d crossed this ward, my life had ended in so many ways. I’d become Fae. A killer. Had grasped the Mistress’s slender throat in my hands and finally possessed the power to snap her in two.

Become a different kind of slave to an even crueler master.

I released a shaky breath, letting the hum of the ward sink its teeth into me.

The magic was strong, bolstered by the Scything.

So different than the one bordering Solarys. That magic had a crueler bite, saturated by the hate of two brothers who’d become mortal enemies.

This magic was cold and devouring, a ward meant to absorb power, to kill the banished Fae who dared cross over. To punish anyone unworthy.

I reached out and unfurled my fingers, preparing to press my palm against that blue glow.

Raz stepped up beside me. “Remember this. Those Descendants are part Fae. When this ward falls, whatever magic runs in their veins will erupt.”

I curled my hand back, feeling the vibrations of the ward like phantom fingers scraping my skin.

“Anyone with so much as a drop of magic could come into the full range of their powers like they did in Blackcastle. This entire realm will descend into chaos.”

“You’re not helping, Raz.”

He stroked his hand down my spine. “No. I suppose I’m not.” He paused.

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