Page 92 of The Crown of the Last Fae Queen
Snow-tipped mountains scraped along the horizon and powerful winds laden with frost blew against him. Snow, as high as his shins, covered the ground heavily. Thick, gnarled trees canopied the cottage a few dozen feet away from him. A cottage he had dreamed of thousands of times before. There was a path leading up to the familiar door; it was paved by the dozens of footsteps that had crunched over it, packing the snow until it was barely an inch or two tall.
A cold sweat covered his body and he inhaled sharply, taking in the familiar sights. The path that led to the village, the arrowssticking out of the trees; his father had tried teaching them all how to hunt with a bow, but other than his sister Gunhild, the rest of them were lousy shots. Blár had never been interested in shooting with arrows and had often run off with Gunnar to play in the woods instead. But now, he would give anything to return here with his father, to listen to him as he patiently taught him how to hunt. His chest tightened unexpectedly.
He cursed the fae. How could they show him this? How dare they mock him?
Blár trudged through the snow. It even felt the same. The crisp, wintry air. The chill that soothed his skin. The smell of his mother’s cooking—grilled fish, with maybe some grains Father had bought when he traded down south.
His hand trembled over the door handle. The last time he had been home, he had returned to find his massacred family. The images flashed through his mind and nausea rolled over him. A cold sweat trickled down his spine and he couldn’t stop his erratic breathing.
He had held his youngest sister, Raynee, as she died. He vividly remembered singing her favorite lullaby until her body had stopped shivering. He could remember Eluf shouting as he rushed to Sylvi’s side, holding onto her lifeless body. Blár had turned to him with hopeless eyes.
“W-we need to save the baby,” Eluf had whispered.
He could still remember the nightmarish scenes. Of searching the bodies for signs of life. He had shaken them, as if they had fallen asleep. There was so much blood everywhere. It coated the walls in splatters, the floorboards were drenched in them, and?—
Someone touched his shoulder.
He snapped from his reverie and turned sharply. Sapphire blue eyes met his, and he froze as the Fae Queen stared at him with a guarded expression. She was different than in thosevisions. There, she had been a frail young woman, terrified of the responsibilities on her shoulders; she had nearly buckled under the weight of her crown—at least, that’s what Blár had noticed.
But here, she stood proud. Shoulders squared, chin raised, and eyes so cold they put winter to shame.
This was probably how she held herself in public, he realized. They had seen snapshots of her vulnerability when she was in private, when she was in the presence of only her half-elf lover.
Blár would have never thoughtthiswoman could have any weaknesses.
He narrowed his eyes. If she hadn’t been Kolfinna’s mother, he might have shoved her away, or tried to fight her, even. But he only watched her with the same level of mistrust.
“You don’t want to enter there.” She nodded toward the cottage door after she finished raking her gaze up and down his frame, clearly unimpressed with whatever she saw.
“It’s my home—” He clamped his mouth shut at the way his voice trembled. Like he was a child. He gritted his teeth together and glared at the door handle. A sick part of him wanted to open it and see what was inside, even as he knew he would only find the horrible scene of his family’s murder. But another part secretly hoped that he could see them alive one last time.
Pity flickered over her face, and he hated the way she looked at him. But it was gone in a split second. She held her hand out to him. “Come,” she said. “We must talk.”
He stared at her outstretched hand. A heavy, sapphire-studded bracelet wrapped around her thin wrist, and she wore two rings with giant, glittering gems. The luxury disgusted him; he had always hated displays of wealth.
When he didn’t take her hand, she lowered it, her pale eyebrows rising. “You are my daughter’s chosen,” she said slowly, icily. “I wish to speak to you.”
He reeled back like she had slapped him, but he quickly schooled his expression to indifference, even as confusion warred with unease. “What’s going on? Why are you able to talk? Are you … trapped in this realm?”
Aesileif watched him with thinning lips. “The sword is trying to kill you at this very moment, Blár Vilulf. I have saved you, and my daughter, right now, but I cannot hold back the sword’s bloodthirst for long.”
They were inside the sword; he had suspected as much, but why was the sword showing them visions of Aesileif? Or ofthisplace—his home?
“The darkness is the sword?” he asked.
“Yes. What you witnessed were my memories and some of my subject’s memories,” she said. “They were not fabrications, as you seem to have believed.”
Blár leveled her with a stare. “I don’t believe you.”
“I’m aware.” She almost rolled her eyes. “Let us return to the matter at hand; I’m not here to discuss that. I have one thing to say to you. You must learn to wield your power’s full capabilities. You are close—very close—to completely mastering your winter powers, but you have grown arrogant and complacent without war, without anyone to challenge you, so your growth has stagnated the past few years. You know this better than I.”
He stilled. He had thought he had reached his full capabilities, that he had scraped the top of the ceiling when it came to his powers. But there was more?
But he knew there was more; when he had seen the vision—thememory, as she seemed intent on calling it—of Harald’s power, he had known that there was more to his ice magic. That he could wreak havoc on a large scale like that. To make the city itself frigid, to make itwinter.
Why was she telling him this? She gained nothing by him growing stronger. In fact, it only hurt her and her people’s cause.
She must have read the expression on his face, because a wry smile twisted her lips. “You are suspicious of me.”
