Page 131 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Yet a harrowing unease was etched into every plane of Veros’s face. Atlas knew he couldn’t ask what he’d seen, what future he’d witnessed, but he wished there was a way. It would be far easier to be prepared if he knew what perils and hazards he and Everinne would face as opposed to the threat of the unknown.
“What of Everinne’s friend?” he asked suddenly, determined to change the subject from the morose to the hopeful. “Aisling, was it?”
Unfortunately, his words plunged Veros into an even more somber and foul mood. “She…is not who we think.”
“What do you mean?” Atlas lifted a careless shoulder. “We barely know anything about her.”
“Exactly. We thought she was just some female who got caught up in the exuberance of the Mystic Obscura. A friend of Everinne’s. Maybe someone who needed to be saved from your father’s dungeon.” Veros rocked back onto his heels and pressed his lips into a firm, hard line. “That is not the case.”
Wariness bled into Atlas, seizing his bones. “Who is she?”
He wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to know the answer.
“Walk with me and I’ll show you.” Veros reached into his pocket and pulled out his timepiece, then flipped the gold lid open.
Runes of icy blue and numerals of gold exploded in a sphere of melted colors. Murmuring voices of the past, the present, and the future filled Atlas’s head, their words indiscernible like the wind rustling through the leaves of a tree. Magic whirred and the world spun in a kaleidoscope, all of it drowned out by the precise and distinctive ticking of a hand that was never seen, of a bellthat would never chime. The scent of worn leather, damp earth, and the splash of ink across weathered parchment hung heavily in the air.
Atlas’s skin hummed and his lungs squeezed tight as he and Veros walked through time.
Veros had only ever taken Atlas through time once before. But that was long ago. Before either of them knew or understood the full extent of damage time-walking could cause.
It felt exactly the same as the first time he did it—dense magic coated his skin, the smell of it reminiscent of cedarwood and orange blossom. It was like wading through a river of honey, thick and impossible. Colors blurred around him like smeared watercolors, glimpses of other realms, other lives, other moments in time that were unfamiliar to him. Days spilled into nights, seasons mingled with no clear distinction as every breath was lengthened. There was no earth and no sky, yet with every step there was a shift in the air, a kind of crackling energy that heightened his awareness and caused his heart to hammer.
Beside him, Veros lifted his arm, keeping his hand coiled into a tight fist. Slowly, he opened his palm and spread his fingers apart. Magic emanated from him as golden light burst from a rift on the horizon where the colors wavered and trembled. Blinding rays poured from the fracture, cleaving the space in half, gently tearing a seam through the realms.
“Bleeding skies,” Atlas muttered as he followed Veros into the Astralplane.
Veros caught him by the shoulder, holding him firmly in place as the brilliant beams of light ebbed and a vast field unfolded before them. Long blades of soft, emerald grass swayedin the warm breeze and pockets of wildflowers bloomed, their petals blossoming toward the sunlight. The sky was an endless stretch of crystalline blue, embellished with wispy clouds of white. In truth, the Astralplane was exactly how Atlas imagined Maghmell would look—it seemed fitting that the eternal paradise of the fae would be a place of ethereal beauty.
Yet it could not be, for Maghmell was not a world for the living, and seated upon one of the grassy hills with her knees drawn to her chest was the fae in question.
Her bright pink hair was woven into a plait threaded with strands of silvery white, and a cluster of pale yellow blossoms was tucked behind her pointy ear. She was dressed in a gown of deep navy satin, the sleeves were long and sheer, dotted with tiny sapphires, and ribbons of silver laced down her back. The wind ruffled her braid, pulling a few pieces of her hair loose, but she didn’t stir. In fact, she didn’t even blink. Her eyes, an interesting hue of blue, stared off into the distance, glazed and out of focus. And when a heavy sigh escaped her, it was dampened with weary emotion. Forlorn. Lost.
“If she’s not just any fae,” Atlas asked, his voice strained and hollow to his own ears. “Then who is she?”
Veros straightened, tucking his hands behind his back. “Your Imperial Highness, this is Aisling Solasta, High Princess of the Winter Court of Faeven. Sister to High Prince Merrick Solasta and the late High Queen Ciara Solasta.”
Atlas’s mouth fell open and he quickly snapped it shut.
“What…the fuck.” He whirled on Veros. “What was she doing in Prava? I highly doubt she was banished, at least not like Aran.”
Aran, the High Prince of the Autumn Court, had been exiled from Faeven many moons ago and forced to live out the remainder of his days as a Dorai—one of the banished ones. Atleast until a fortunate turn of events involving his sister ended with his reinstatement.
But still, there was no possible way High Princess Aisling Solasta was Dorai.
“She vanished from Faeven during the Evernight War.” Veros shoved his hands into the pockets of his pants, his gaze focused on the female whose eyes were now glossy with unshed tears. “Given her current situation, I would surmise she was likely abducted. It’s possible she even had her memory stolen.”
Atlas reared back in shock. “She doesn’t remember anything?”
He couldn’t imagine having the entirety of his life taken from him.
“Only her time at the Mystic Obscura and nothing else.” An emotion banked deep in Veros’s gaze, but then he blinked and it was gone. “She’s barely spoken a word since I brought her here.”
“What happened to her?” Atlas cleared his throat, lowering his voice in case the wind carried his words to the crestfallen faerie. “In my father’s dungeon?”
Veros stiffened. His shoulders pulled back and he shifted on his feet, unease pulsing around him. Clearly uncomfortable, he swallowed once, then said, “Everinne happened. She used her magic to force Aisling to shift from a snow fox to her true form.”
Atlas blinked, unable to register the words Veros had just spoken. “What? Everinne forced her toshift?No.” He shook his head, unable to wrap his mind around the possibility. It was dangerous and too much of a risk, even for Everinne. Not only that, but it must have been traumatic for Aisling, if not excruciatingly painful. “That’s impossible. Ever said Aisling was her friend, she wouldn’t hurt her.”
