Beast and Thorn (A Realm of Revelry #3)

Arthur

The inevitability that I would become a cursed man for the rest of my days came by letter on a mild spring evening. The roses bloomed with sickening vitality, the crimson petals brightening each hall of my castle.

I stood before the fireplace in my mother’s room, staring at the quick scrawl across the soft parchment, skimming it first for any hope that this last chance to escape my curse would end in good fortune.

This letter is to inform you that Killian, King of the Citrine Cliffs, cannot help your mother.

The king is saddened to hear of the untimely death of your friend Prince Urik and his betrothed.

However, I must bestow the unfortunate news that though the king received Prince Urik’s letter requesting help to change your mother from human into faekind, he is not in the authority to do so.

Handing out favors to humans and all that. The Goddesses simply wouldn’t hear of it. And Killian is in enough trouble as it is, but I digress.

Best of luck in your endeavors,

Fedir Westwind,

First Captain to the King of the Citrine Cliffs

Post Script,

My condolences for your mother’s declining health, of course.

I crumpled the letter in my fist, breaking the golden wax seal into pieces before tossing it into the fire. The flames licked the parchment clean to ash, an immaculate representation of my future.

Staring at the hearth, I didn’t know which sound to focus on first—the knocking at the door or the rasping lungs of my mother lying prone in her bed. The door won out in the end, and as I bid the little man to enter, he did so loudly, scuffling to my mother with some new tincture.

“There you are, M’lady,” Piffle cooed, tipping a mug of something repugnant to her lips. “This will keep those nasty raspies out.” My mother wheezed again, but sipped as she was told.

The short, shuffling footsteps of our family’s singular servant headed my way. “Was the letter to your liking, Master Arthur?”

I bit down on the words I would have liked to say. And say them I might have in another room. In another time, when my mother was not succumbing to rasping sickness and leaving the Curse of Heartstone Castle to her only child.

“No, Piff,” I answered finally. “It was not.”

“You’ve more time, sir,” he whispered, not daring to raise his voice enough for my mother to hear. “She had a good night. And there are others in Revelry with great powers. Perhaps the Goddess of the—”

I sank further into the fireside chair, spilling my long legs out in front of me, interrupting his unrealistic words of hope.

“No, Piff. Time is the one thing that might save me.” I leaned my head back against the rest, closing my eyes to the sound of my mother hacking up whatever Piffle had given her.

“And time is the one thing I have squandered. The one thing I have not.”

The squat little man had the decency to bow his head. The golden tips of his pointed ears shone brilliant in the firelight, enhanced by the many golden rings pierced through each one. “Tell me, sire. What can I do?”

I clasped my hands, settling in to rest my mind and prepare myself for what the morning might bring. “Fall into the Underrealm, Piff. Find me there and plunge a dagger into my heart.”