Page 1 of A Crown So Cursed
Prologue
Following the death of the mortal tyrant, Locrinus Ap Brwt, the newly crowned Fae king shuttered every remaining portal.
In return for the Shadow Court’s aid during the Battle at River Stour, he promised to separate the Fae and mortal kingdoms, parting their destinies evermore.
Assuming a crown he never coveted, the weight of it rested torturously upon his brow, day after day, a reminder of promises made that bound him to this realm. Alas, though it was a long-held belief that the Fae could not lie, this was untrue. He simply could not lie toher—and so he remained… beneath a mountain called Regret.
To rule.
To pine.
Lament.
And so, he believed, it should be his penance to yearn for a mortal queen who would forever hold sway over his heart. And meanwhile, in her own realm, Gwendolyn of Cornwall would live and die, and he would live on…and on…and on…with the memory of lost love to haunt him eternally.
After a while, this knowledge turned his heart cold, and through it all, he maintained that icy demeanor because if his heart should ever thaw, he would drown in a floodtide of emotions. His longing consumed him, and he paced the halls of his netherworld palace, a mere shadow of his former self, with the memory of his beloved like a bone-sharp dagger plunged through his undying heart. His penance was his existence—a punishment far worse than any the Shadow Court might adjudge.
No, but, in the wee hours, whenthe bean sídheswailed, and the wind carried the laments of the lost, he sought solace in the darkest reaches of his mind where his lover’s memory dwelt… amidst a sun-scented breeze and swaying daisies.
In a jeweled locket, he kept the proof of their love…
A single golden curl.
Gold and fine.
Soft and light.
Meanwhile, in the mortal realm, the years slip by like too many grains of sand, and the ache in his heart grows more and more profound…even as his voice fades from her memory and hope is all but lost in the labyrinth of his sorrow.
Until…
One day…
ChapterOne
Y12,025 A.D. (AFTER DANU)
Some claim misery loves company.
I assure you; it does not.
It is a nasty little slug that feeds upon the soul, draining it of all hope and life until naught remains but an empty husk.
That’s me, surrounded by my feckless court—a kingdom of courtiers who will revel to see me fall. And this will be the night my hope withers and dies.
Every pointy-eared, fang-toothed noble in attendance awaits with bated breath, whispering behind brightly painted lips—all the while whirling and twirling to this gladsome melody that has no bloody hope of ever lifting my disagreeable mood.
The music swells again, and I retrieve the self-replenishing goblet from the table at my side, hoisting it to my lips, then chugging an endless draught.
“Thatwon’t help,” admonishes the Púca.
I answer with a snarl.
As always, the creature speaks true, but that, too, is maddening when I already know that no amount of wine will dull this ache in my heart, regardless of how many times I turn the cup.
But at least it gives my mouth something to do besides yawn.
“I am aware,” I mutter beneath my breath, then set down the goblet with a thud. Leaning forward, I rub the bridge of my nose, feeling the onset of a headache that no magic or medicine will cure. “Why are you still here?” I add irascibly.
