Page 83 of The Savage Queen

But because of their proficiency with herbs, spices, potions, and draughts, druid settlements like Bludhaven were whereFaerakOcras was often brewed and sold on the outskirts of kingdoms in the cloak of anonymity. And Bludhaven was no different.

Dagfin threaded through the flagstone thoroughfare, slipping between the flood of burghers passing through. A steady susurration of village sounds, calming his spirit after weeks of wilderness. Of fae.

He needed a moment away. Not to mention every glance at Aisling since they’d entered Bludhaven broke his heart. Lir’s magic transformed Aisling’s appearance back to her mortal self, seemingly entirely human once more and painfully familiar. A ghost still stalking this realm with its body staggering behind.

Dagfin slipped into a ramshackle shop; those were the best sources of dust, stores in disrepair. It meant the owners, artisans, and brewers paid close attention to their craft, prioritizing authenticity. At least, that was the trend Dagfin had met sifting through villages across the north as aFaerak.

Indeed, it was these mortals who spent years chipping away at Iod’s mountain range in the cloak of shadow and outside its gates. Furiously harvesting the Ocras where they believed the spirit of the mountain’s late queen couldn’t catch them stealing.

“Here comes the Roktan prince,” a man boomed from inside the dusty interior. A hearth defrosting Dagfin’s weary muscles the moment he’d stepped across the scuffed threshold. “I didn’t think I’d be seein’ ye so soon.”

“Neither did I.”

“Are ye lookin’ for more Ocras then?” he asked, scratching his beard as he appraised Dagfin more closely.

Dagfin glanced over his shoulder, nodding in response. TheFaerakknew how pale he looked, the rings beneath his eyes, the dry grate of his voice, and his tired posture. So, he did his best to mask himself in the shadows.

The man before him, on the other hand, was robust, marked in fae runes and wore bones in his braids. The Roktan prince wasn’t certain of his name, maybe Sisin…Sarragh…or Sean…Dagfin couldn’t remember. At some point, every person who’d ever sold him Ocras had begun to blur together, countless to name and remember.

“You didn’t finish the last of it yet, did ye?”

Dagfin ignored his question, fishing a bag of coins from his pocket before remembering all his belongings had been stripped from his person in Oighir.

“Roktling will repay you for your services,” he said, hoping the man accepted the debt. And by the look on the shopkeeper’s face, said hope was kindled. “A few more throwing daggers as well.” This, considering those had also been stolen by Frigg and his pack of wolves. Now, all he carried was Fionn’s sword, strapped to his back.

Behind the shopkeeper were shelves of bottled ointments, salves, elixirs, and remedies. Some Dagfin had made use of himself after his more dangerousFaerakpursuits: changeling’s shroud, giant’s bane, ghost scream, and fox foot. And above their heads hung iron weapons of all make and size, freshly forged at the back of the shop.

“Does Feradach know of this?” the shopkeeper pressed.

Dagfin soured at the sound of his father’s name. Feradach indeed knew where Dagfin was and what he was pursuing. He’d never been dishonest with his father even if the Roktan king disapproved. And yet, perhaps, Dagfin couldn’t help wondering if his father hoped his son would return with the curse breaker himself, bringing honor to their seafaring kingdom.

Nevertheless, Dagfin had never told his father the consequences of Ocras. After all, Feradach already despised all Dagfin did as aFaerak. Dagfin was meant to be in Roktling, preparing to be king, studying politics and acquainting himself with the day-to-day chores of running a kingdom. So, any mention of Ocras would only worsen those tensions he already bore with his father.

“I don’t mean to pry,” the shopkeeper said. “I only can’t continue to supply you with Ocras in good conscience if it means I’m slowly killing the heir to the Roktan throne.”

“I’m not the heir,” Dagfin said, too quickly. “My brother was.”

The shopkeeper shifted awkwardly, sweat beading across his creased brow from the heat of the forge at the back of the shop.

“If you aren’t willing to sell me anymore, I’ll find it someplace else,” Dagfin said, mouthwatering at the prospect of Ocras being so close yet just out of reach.

“I’ll sell it to ye,” the man mumbled reluctantly, reaching beneath the counter for a discreetly labeled flask. A concoction of equal parts Ocras and water. “But know, even if ye’ve heard it a thousand times, there’s a reason not every boy with a stick in his hand and dreams of being a hero becomes aFaerak. Once you’ve tasted the Ocras it’ll never let go, yer only way out is to master its allure enough to survive and no more. Otherwise, what gives ye strength to fight the beasts will kill ye before some fae ever does.”

Dagfin took the bottle and turned on his heel. The man was right. He’d heard this advice a thousand times over. And yet, Dagfin not only craved more Ocras, but he alsoneededit.

“Look out for yerself,” the shopkeeper urged him as the prince stepped out the door. “And watch yer back.”

Dagfin inhaled winter, uncorking the bottle and taking a swig as soon as he was able.

After years of Ocras, when he was deprived, he could scarcely find the energy to walk much less fight, and Dagfin had sworn to fight until his day’s death.

CHAPTER XXVIII

AISLING

A flash of Roktan blue, Aisling swept outside the tavern after nightfall.

Her cloak billowed behind her as she blazed a path through Bludhaven, head down and hood up. It was difficult for Aisling to remain indoors for long periods of time, especially when inside a mortal hospice. One where wisterias didn’t drip from the ceilings, thorns didn’t bite the banisters nor trace the walls. Where moss didn’t hug the decanter and magpies didn’t draw her a bath, filled with blossom butters and rose petals.

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