Chapter 17
That night, when I return, Lord Luceran is no longer in my bed.
I should not be surprised. What does surprise me is how thoroughly his presence has been scrubbed away. Sheets changed. Pillows fluffed. The bed made.
I wonder if Atilia took care of it.
The thought is almost funny now. Lord Luceran’s noble Fae mother making my bed. Me, the irritating human girl who never does what she is told.
I do not see him for a day or two after that, Atilia either, but I hear them. Muffled conversations through the stone. The low creak of the floors in the dead hours of night. Enough to know they are there, keeping themselves confined to his wing of the castle.
I go about my days as if nothing has changed, but most nights I lie awake staring at the wooden boards over my windows, my thoughts circling endlessly. Wondering. Fearing. Imagining that thing beneath the lake clawing its way into the open, watching me, waiting to take me the way it took Erold.
When I am not consumed by fear of the demon beneath the Aurevault, my mind turns instead to Luceran.
To the stories.
I flip endlessly between believing them and rejecting them, between accepting that time has warped the truth, and fearing that the truth may be exactly as terrible as the legends claim.
It is my nature to let imagination get the better of me, but I find myself hoping, desperately, that there is another explanation.
That something else shaped the tale. That he is not capable of what they say.
That something else made him do it.
And then I spend even longer wondering why I care at all.
He is Fae. Bewitched or not, their nature is as ingrained as my own. They crave power. Dominion. Control over lives like mine. There is no goodness in them. At least, that is what I have always believed.
And yet, why give me the key to the library? Why risk his life to save me on the ice, and in the mine?
Those are not the actions of someone incapable of good.
When sleep finally creeps close, my thoughts drift to my father. To how much I miss him. To how I would give anything to see him again, to know that he is safe.
That want, that aching need, is what finally carries me into sleep.
Another hope I know will never be answered.
The next morning, I dress in emerald green, because it has always suited my brown eyes and red hair. Green dye is expensive, though, so I have never been able to wear it often. Not until now.
I leave my room and head toward the tower, but the sprites are there, waiting.
They intercept me without ceremony, turning me around and ushering me down the stairs with urgent, fluttering insistence. I frown at them, confused. I’m not due at the mines today, and it is Atilia’s turn to prepare Luceran’s breakfast.
Still, I let them guide me. All the way to the towering doors of the throne room.
A draft sweeps through as I approach, pushing the massive doors open before I can touch them. They slam hard against the walls, the echo ringing through the vast space, and just when I think I have grown used to the cold, I gasp as the chilled air bites into my skin.
Thin, nearly translucent curtains billow along either side of the hall, stirring in the icy wind pouring through the tall, open windows. At the far end of the chamber, seated upon his frozen throne, is Lord Luceran.
He wears a heavy coat of silver furs, broad across his shoulders, framing the powerful span of his body beneath.
His trousers are loose white linen, sitting low on his hips, while the sheerest pale silk clings to his torso, stretched smooth over dense muscle and hard planes.
The fabric does nothing to hide him. It only traces what is already unmistakable.
The solid breadth of his chest. The defined lines of his abdomen. The strength coiled beneath his skin.
The shirt hangs unbuttoned nearly to his sternum, exposing more than it conceals, turning the suggestion of his body into certainty. Every shift of his breath pulls the silk tighter, making him impossibly clear and defined.
His hands grip the arms of the chair, fingers tapping in a steady rhythm. He leans forward, eyes locking onto me at once, and the intensity of his gaze makes my knees threaten to give way.
I suddenly feel very small in this hall of giants.
“Come to me, Neve Devlin,” he calls.
I pace forward slowly, not only because the floor gleams with frost and threatens to betray my footing, but because my anxiety and fear refuse to let me move any faster.
With every step, he comes more sharply into focus, and I take him in. All of him. The carved line of his jaw and cheekbones. Ivory hair, sheened with silver, knotted into a bun at the back of his head. Otherworldly eyes that feel as though they were never meant for mortal sight.
The beauty of this Fae lord is undeniable, almost painful, and I cannot seem to stop thinking about him, no matter how hard I try.
He has healed. That much is clear, and yet the warmth I saw before, the faint pink flush that bloomed beneath his skin, is gone.
His complexion has returned to its pale, wintry stillness, as if that heat was only ever temporary, something drawn out by me alone.
Something my body could give, but not something he can hold on to by himself.
He looks strong nonetheless. Whole. Commanding the frozen throne with an authority that feels ancient and unassailable. When I finally stand before him, my head lowers.
Part of me knows it is protocol. The rest of me lowers my gaze, because I am not sure I could meet his without breaking apart.
Silence stretches between us.
It is not empty, but taut, humming like a drawn wire, as though neither of us quite knows where to begin or how much truth the other can bear. The cold air curls around my ankles. The great hall creaks softly, ice crackling along the walls.
Luceran is the one who breaks it.
“Twice now you have aided me when I needed it most.”
My fingers curl reflexively at my sides.
“That is not an easy thing for me to accept, and it is even harder for me to understand. I assume you have done so out of loyalty to your lord. But I am not convinced I believe that.”
My pulse stutters.
“I do not believe you would consider me worthy of the effort you have made.” There is no accusation in his voice, only an unsettling honesty. “And yet I am grateful, for whatever reason drives the choices you make.”
The word grateful lands heavier than any accusation could have.
“But now,” he goes on, “there is more between us than your debt. There is a debt of my own. One written by my mistakes, and it is mine to settle.”
I shake my head at once, the idea so absurd it almost steals a breathless sound from me. “My lord, that isn’t…”
“I have not finished speaking.”
The quiet authority in his tone stops me cold.
“You may ask a favor of me,” Luceran says. “One.”
The word echoes.
“One favor and I will grant it. That will settle what I owe you, and the balance between us will be restored.”
A favor.
Not coin. Not protection. Not mercy.
A favor from a Fae lord.
My stomach drops as understanding crashes through me. This is not a simple offer. It is not kindness. It is power.
A favor like this could change everything.
It is a key to more than just a library. It is a key to the world. To lives altered, paths redirected, futures rewritten. Fae bargains are not made lightly, and they are never without consequence, no matter how cleanly they are spoken.
I swallow hard, my mouth dry, my heart pounding loud enough that I am certain he must hear it, and suddenly I am terrified.
It is almost too much.
What if I choose wrong? What if I squander the one chance I will ever have to claim everything I have ever wanted? And then there is the darker thought, the one that curls cold around my spine. One careless word, one poorly chosen phrase, and I could end up far worse than I am now.
Fae bargains are treacherous things.
Luceran waits, tapping his fingers slowly against the arm of his throne, his head tilted just enough that it feels as though he might be listening for something beneath my thoughts.
I clasp my hands together, fingers fidgeting as my mind races through possibilities. Wealth. Power. Freedom. All of it flashes before me like glittering doors, but beneath the noise and temptation, there is only one thing that matters.
“I want to go to my father,” I say.
The shift in him is immediate.
His jaw tightens, the column of his throat straining as if the words have struck deeper than I intended. “You…” He stops, then tries again, his voice softer than I have ever heard it. “You wish to leave.”
“No, no, that’s not what I mean,” I say so quickly that it surprises both of us.
I watch his throat work as he swallows, see the tension ease just slightly as his fingers loosen their grip on the edge of the throne.
“I just need to see him,” I continue, forcing myself to slow, to be precise.
“I need to know that he’s safe. Perhaps take him food.
Make him a tonic or two from your stores.
” Then I hesitate, hardly believing the next words as I say them aloud.
“Then I will return to Castle Frostwyn, and to your service.”
His brow furrows. His eyes sharpen. “You intend to return?”
I nod, and with that simple motion, certainty settles fully in my chest. “My family owes you a debt. We do not have much, but we have integrity. I will honor that debt until it is paid.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Why not ask for the debt to be wiped clean?”
“Because I am not a coward,” I say, the words steady and true. “I do not run when things become difficult. The debt is the Devlin family’s responsibility, and I will see it through to the end.”
Something changes then.
The sternness in his expression fades. The faint condescension disappears. His gaze drops, and his features soften into something quieter, something I barely recognize, yet somehow always sensed was there.