Ruin of Revenants (Forbidden Bonds Collection #6)

1. Prologue

Prologue

In all the long years of her life, Maris had never before seen such shifting, interwoven prophecies. The destinies of two fae were tethered and yet separate—two distinct outcomes that both ended in disaster for different factions of Emberglade.

Of course, she knew why the fates of these two souls were connected, but it was impossible to guess at the outcome.

As she’d peered into her fire the previous night and gazed into the dancing smoke, the images that had risen before her had flickered almost constantly, an ever-changing display fickler than anything else she’d witnessed.

And whatever happened, it was clear that the fate of the kingdom would rest on these two paths.

Now, one of the subjects of that prophecy stood before her, a small child standing in his father’s shadow.

“Well?” King Wystan asked gruffly, his orange eyes like living embers as he glowered and shifted impatiently on his feet. “What is my son’s future?”

As a hag, Maris had long worn away her beauty and youth in exchange for her powerful magic, but the half-troll king’s appearance, with his curving horns, burning eyes, and grey, corpse-like skin was still ugly, even to her.

What wasn’t intimidating was his mind-reading magic, which she blocked effortlessly, her mind a steel trap against such an invasion.

“The land of Emberglade has not yet accepted your rule, usurper king.” With a smirk, she folded her wrinkled hands in her lap and leaned back in her armchair.

Her gaze left the king and his son to scan her small cabin, its rafters full of dried herbs, its shelves cluttered with bones and vials and old tomes.

To stave off the chill of the mountain air, the fireplace at her side burned steadily, snapping at the logs within the silence.

“What makes you think that I serve you? You are not part of the true royal family I pledged myself to.”

King Wystan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Whether or not you recognize my rule, Archer is a son of Emberglade and deserving of a prophecy, like any other fae child.”

The young prince stood quietly beside his monstrous father, his golden hair and green eyes making him the picture of youth and innocence.

Though he looked like his fae mother, the powerful magic Maris sensed within him was all from his father.

The mind magic and manipulative nature of trolls.

He gave a sidelong glance at his father, unease crossing his expression.

Not fear of Maris, she noted, but fear of his father and what he would do.

Prince Archer knew the cruelty and strength of his father. He wasn’t familiar with the power Maris wielded. She smiled to herself once again.

Maris sniffed. “Part-fae.”

King Wystan opened his mouth, but Maris raised a hand and he stopped.

“I have a prophecy for him. It is just…shifting more than others I have seen in recent years. And tied to another’s future in a way I’ve also not seen in some time.”

Maris could sense the way the prince’s heartbeat accelerated as she gestured for him to approach her.

“Prince Archer, you are destined to destroy the phoenix shifters of Emberglade.”

The child blinked.

“If not, the royal family will be dismantled by a phoenix shifter. Your fate and the fate of this phoenix are tethered.”

The king growled. “Phoenix shifters,” he spat. “Which one?”

“I cannot say.” Maris narrowed her eyes. “The gods forbade me to share another’s prophecy, just as they only permit me to share each prophecy once. The only reason I could share as much about that shifter as I did was because of how intertwined these prophecies are.”

“You cannot tell us more?” There was true fear in the rhythm of the king’s pulse. It made sense—a thief always had reason to fear another thief would come to take what he’d stolen. Lives. Power. All of it teetered on the shoulders of his young son.

“I cannot. The future is now in Archer’s hands. Now leave.” Maris snapped her fingers. The ground beneath King Wystan and Archer quaked, the floorboards shuffled, and the cottage pushed the pair toward the door.

The indignant king grasped the entryway as the door itself flew open, his knuckles turning white as he resisted the cottage’s efforts to expel him. He grasped his own son by the collar to hold him in place. “I order you—”

“You cannot order me, Wystan,” Maris snapped, rising from her chair.

Where before, her form had shown them only a decrepit old female, she now threw off the appearance, letting them see another side of her.

A towering, imposing figure of darkness, shrouded in pulsing magic and adorned with a necklace and bracelet of bones.

Outside, the mountains themselves shook, rocks tumbled, and clouds crowded the night sky. “Begone.”

Not many days later, a young mother and her daughter made the trek to Maris’ cottage and received the damning prophecy that warned them to protect her identity at all costs.

“Danger and death are in your future,” Maris proclaimed as she studied the child standing beside her mother.

Raven-black hair threaded through with strands of violet, indigo, and teal hung in a damp curtain around her face.

She and her mother, Elora, had been caught in a mountain storm on their way to Maris.

“In Isoria’s future?” Elora demanded, her sharp tone unable to mask the waver in her words.

“In the entire phoenix shifter population’s future,” Maris clarified.

She reached a wrinkly, age-spotted arm toward young Isoria Gildmere, using her finger to force her chin upward.

“Bright golden eyes. You are full of health and hope.” She tsked, shaking her head.

“But you are also an ember about to be ignited.”

“Please do not leave us with riddles to puzzle over,” Elora said. “If there is a way to protect her, to protect us all, let me know.”

“There is no simple answer.” She steepled her fingers together.

“I serve all of Emberglade, not one single group.” She raised her eyebrows to emphasize her point.

“Now, Isoria’s future is unlike any but one I’ve seen recently.

And it is tenuous, one constantly shifting.

There are many choices and many paths. This is her prophecy: She is destined to be the dismantling of the royal family.

If she does not fulfill her destiny, the crown prince will be the destruction of the phoenix shifters.

Isoria’s and Crown Prince Archer’s fates are tethered. ”

Elora gaped as Maris leaned forward and grinned, showing off her yellowed teeth. “Fated enemies.”

The news was shared by messengers, the notices posted throughout the kingdom:

All phoenix shifters are hereby declared illegal and dangerous. Any who remain within the kingdom of Emberglade will be viewed as criminals and condemned and executed as such.

From the comfort of her own cabin, Maris watched the drama unfold.

Through the shifting smoke she’d conjured, she saw King Wystan’s advisors agree to everything, the brainless fools.

The king’s decree went out to every corner of Emberglade.

Phoenix shifters fled to whatever shelter they could find.

Others were trapped by phoenix hunters and the young prince’s mind magic.

Ordered by his father to protect his family and kingdom from the death-loving, fire-wielding phoenixes, the child manipulated his own citizens to turn themselves in.

To allow their hands to be bound by shackles crafted with forget-me-nots that rendered a fae’s magic useless—forgotten.

As the king grew greedier, he told his son to order them to slit their own throats.

But it wasn’t enough. The king spread rumors and threats, paraded imprisoned phoenix shifters before his people to instill fear in them so neighbors and friends and family would turn on one another rather than hide and protect a dreaded phoenix.

During one spectacle, a male didn’t only fight back as the king’s guard surrounded him.

Fueled by rage and terror, he spewed threats.

“We’ll burn your kingdom to the ground!” he shrieked as he shifted into phoenix form, his feathers bursting in shades of blue and deepest black.

Flames licked at them, never harming him but a visible threat to the crowd.

Smoke singed the air. Gasps and shouts rang out, some citizens turning to flee and nearly trampling one another.

But for King Wystan, it was all but a spectacle.

He’d read the male’s mind, giving a signal to one of his dedicated phoenix hunters before the shift started.

The arrow crafted with forget-me-nots pierced the male’s chest, and as he collapsed to the ground, instantly melting back into his fae form, pain and weakness wracked his body.

“Kill him,” the king ordered, and, more confidently than in times past and with more venom in his tone, his son stepped forward, those green eyes trained on the phoenix shifter.

The phoenix died swiftly and publicly, but his words echoed on in Emberglade’s knowledge.

We’ll burn your kingdom to the ground.

It became the rallying cry for all who feared and hated the phoenixes, the great argument that none could be trusted. That they had to be eradicated, those flame-wielding, death-loving creatures.

They were other.

Worst still were the portions of the city that erupted into flames, the casualties that occurred and were blamed on phoenix shifters as the bodies and the ash were cleared away.

If, on the eve of some of those fires, royal guards had been seen lingering in the area, no one questioned it.

They were everywhere, after all, protecting the people from the phoenix threat.

And still, the king lived uneasily, his son’s future forever clouding his mind.

The next time he set out toward Maris, she considered turning him away.

The rule was that each citizen received only one prophecy, but the truth was, King Wystan was no ordinary citizen.

He’d never been given a prophecy as a child, and he was hardly due one now despite the way he controlled Emberglade through fear and manipulation.

But she was curious. In all her long years, she’d never seen Emberglade’s people turn on one another quite like this. She wanted to see how the future would unfold, and, frankly, she wanted to play a role in it.

That curiosity was why she commanded her cottage door to swing open when he knocked and she let him step inside. He dipped his head in a rare show of respect.

“What do you want this time, usurper king?” Maris asked in her creaky voice, pulling the skin she’d dried for warmth over herself like a blanket.

King Wystan’s gaze flitted to it momentarily, the grey sheen of his skin leaching a bit. It was troll skin that Maris was warming herself with.

King Wystan cleared his throat, collecting himself. “Craft me a barrier to keep unwelcome souls out of the capital,” he demanded, his burning orange eyes filled with an uncertainty he never let the rest of the world see. “It must block fae and fae-like creatures.”

“Like trolls,” Maris said with a smirk.

The king merely dipped his head in acknowledgement. He wasn’t ashamed of what he was.

“When you crawled out of your cave and left your troll clan behind because you were different, did you realize you’d always be different among the fae too?” Maris mused.

“I don’t need to be accepted. I only want—”

“Power. Influence. To never be overlooked and insignificant again.” Maris grinned. “And you fear your son isn’t strong enough to fulfill his side of the prophecy.”

“His magic is strong, but his heart is soft. If you do not serve me—if the land refuses to recognize me as king, though none of the original Emberglades live—at least recognize that it protects the capital. It serves Emberglade.”

“The phoenixes are citizens of the land as well.”

“They’re death-loving demons. They scream to burn down the entire kingdom, not just harm my family.”

Maris smiled demurely. “Very well. I will erect a barrier around Rainsong. But know that I cannot oppose the will of the gods. If they ever deem that I interfered too much, that they don’t recognize your rule either…”

Wystan waved away her warnings. “The gods abandoned us long ago.”

Maris watched as the phoenix shifter numbers dwindled.

Watched as Prince Archer grew up, adored by a kingdom who viewed him as both their powerful protector and their charismatic golden male.

He was dedicated to wiping out the phoenixes they reviled, but he was also dedicated to a good bottle of wine, a conversation filled with laughter, and a revel seeking all manner of pleasurable magic, refreshments, and company.

Unlike his father, he was handsome and charming, and the people wanted to follow him.

If part of that was due to the way his magic influenced their feelings, the fae were none the wiser.

They only knew he wasn’t terrifying like his father.

But Maris also watched Isoria Gildmere grow in her safe haven tucked away in the Cinderwood.

Isoria cherished her peaceful way of life among her loved ones and showed no sign of wanting to pursue her prophecy.

Indeed, she was forbidden to leave the borders of their village, and she never tested that limit.

Slowly, Maris grew bored. She conjured visions in the smoke of more flames fueled by logs and bones and other unspeakable things. It continued to shift, but it still showed the same two possible outcomes: either Isoria would destroy the royals, or Prince Archer would destroy the phoenixes.

“Something must happen to draw them together,” Maris muttered to herself angrily.

And then, it did.

Something made Maris summon a sight of a distant, half-forgotten village tucked away on the far northern border. Of the tiny graveyard there, sitting still in the moonlight. Palm fronds waved in the breeze at its edges. Frogs croaked. Somewhere, a snake slithered through the shadows.

A sound made the earth shudder. A pale, dirt-encrusted fist punched through the freshly turned earth of a new grave.

A female tore out of the earth, her eyes blank and soulless, flesh colorless.

The gaping wound that had stolen her life—one that Maris knew, without having to see it, had been the result of a battle with greedy goblins, still marring her chest. She walked with grace and strength, her bare feet weaving a confident path back toward the home she’d shared with a sleepless husband within.

She pounded on the door, and he answered.

Confusion, hope, terror—those were his last feelings.

The royal message keeper, a light-wielding fae who could see events happening across the kingdom and keep the king advised, frantically requested an audience with him that morning.

Taking breakfast with Princess Briar and Prince Archer, King Wystan looked utterly annoyed until he saw the wide-eyed terror in Liana’s face.

Her voice wobbled as she shared her news.

“The dead are rising.”