Page 19 of Wrath of the Fae Queen
It is imperfect, but this is the best I can do.
I run out into the mouth of the cavern with only a half-baked plan and a hope that I don’t fucking die.
The hidden high fae assassins leap into action. A localized rain of pure starlight falls upon me in the form of thousands of tiny needles. Each one is a miniature bolt of lightning. Their electricity crackles as they hit the dome of hardened air that I wield as a shield above me. I throw all of my magic into that single lifeline, building up the layers and repairing cracks as the needles are embedded in it. Sweat drips down my face from the heat all that electricity creates.
I reach my canopy of mangroves and close up my doorway between branches behind me. A booming crack resounds as assassins land on its roof, then the entire structure creaks and shakes as they hack at it with swords. Sparse needles penetrate through the small gaps between the woody network, and the assassins manage to open a couple of small holes.
The last thing I need is for even one of those high fae to drop down onto the bridge and to have to fend off that rain with my air shield. Just a few of those poisoned barbs entering my body could be enough to stop my heart.
I desperately regrow any damage to the fortification as I rush beneath it. I whip up a dozen woody limbs to swipe at the assassins above and try to catch them in my grasp. To toss them from the bridge. I work blindly, only able to feel for the vibrations in the mangroves to calculate their position, without a line of sight. The bastards keep leaping out of my reach.
I run as fast as I can across the long stretch of the bridge. The altar with my prize teases me from the far side and my vision narrows on it. I am ten feet from the limestone pillar when anassassin materializes within the shadows and blocks my path, her indigo robe billowing on a phantom breeze.
I forgot to account for that damned ability.
A dagger flies from her hand. The same one made of pure starlight and poison that turned Drake’s veins black and almost killed him with its toxins.
I fall to my knees and slide across the last stone blocks of the bridge, throwing my back flush against the hard surface. The blade passes a hand’s span from the tip of my nose. In the same moment, I crush the walls of tree trunks together to destroy the woman in my path. They come together in a loud boom, shaking the foundations of the bridge, but when the dust clears, the only part of her that remains is the curling shadows she used to transport herself elsewhere.
I walk through the wall of ghost mangroves, the branches parting just enough to allow me through, and step out onto the limestone pillar. The moment my hand touches the small chest on the altar, the cavern falls still. The bright rain of silvery needles stops falling. The assassins disappear into the shadows. Not even the growls or clicks of claws from the Nightmares in the dark are discernible.
This sudden ceasefire is the only thing that saves my life. There is no doubt I would not be able to fight them for much longer.
My second trial is complete.
I slowly lift the lid, with no idea of what to expect. This prize is mine to keep. To use to my advantage as an Assassin of Belladonna if I survive all the trials.
There is no magic-imbued weapon inside the velvet-lined interior. No gem powered by the gods to give extraordinary abilities to the wearer. Instead, there are rows upon rows of glass vials packed in neatly together.
I lift one to the dim glow of the many waterfalls and examine the glittery black liquid within; it rolls sluggishly across the glass as I turn it. Another contains a vibrant yellow powder. I recognize the contents of the third: dried belladonna seeds. The next has stacked sheets of flaky orange mushroom preserved in oil.
Poisons.
All of these are poisons.
A horrible realization dawns on me. These vials do not contain enough to fight an enemy. They aren’t even the potent concentrates for making the tips of blades extra deadly. No. These poisons are for me to ingest, bit by bit, to increase my tolerance to what they expect will become my deadliest weapon in the future, when they allow me access to such technology.
I place the mushroom vial back into the chest, but before I can grab another, a blue-tinged hand slams the lid shut, narrowly missing my fingers. I glance up at Dante. He stands on the other side of the altar with a smug expression on his face.
“Don’t eat them all at once, Aldrin.”
“Where the fuck did you come from?” I grumble.
He places an arm over my shoulders and leads me back down the bridge, like we are old friends and he hasn’t been setting up trials that attempt to kill me.
“The real question is, how do you like your poison?” he asks. “Baked into a sweet cake? A garnish in a shot of the strongest liquor? Or maybe you’d like it boiled into a tea? I personally chew mine straight. It gives an extra kick to my rotted brain.”
I run a hand down my sweaty face, most likely smearing dust into muddy streaks. Of all today’s challenges, purposely poisoning myself and trusting these people with the dosage might be the hardest one yet. “I don’t know. Do you have a menu?”
Dante’s rich laugh booms through the cavern. “Come. Decide at dinner in the mess hall. You might see a few familiar faces there from your trial.”
I curse under my breath, visualizing the way Nico and Ada’s skin peeled away in strips of ash when I lit up my sword. “They’re not going to try to kill me over the roast vegetables, are they?”
Dante shrugged, letting me go. “It would be considered bad manners, but there is nothing stopping them.”
“Bad manners,” I mutter bitterly as I follow after him.
Isit uneasily at the long trestle table, constantly checking over my shoulder, but the assassins pay me little attention. I am surrounded by fae I have fought against, who have tried to kill me, sharing from the same platters of food and jugs of wine.
