The Bound Mage (The Eldergreen #2)

Prologue

Garrick Shaw stepped over the broken threshold of the fae palace, scorched runes crumbling under his boots.

They had taken the palace days ago, but the air still stank of blood and magic.

Soldiers sifted through the wreckage, glass crunching under their boots as they searched for anything of value.

It had cost the Arcanum a great deal to take the seat of the fae monarchy—and even more to hold it.

“We’ve secured most of the lower levels.” The Commander escorting him scrubbed a hand over his face, smearing soot and blood across his skin. “Our forces are sweeping the western groves for stragglers. Any fae we can subdue, we bring in alive–most have stopped fighting.”

Garrick nodded. It had been the same in Aetheris—where they’d taken the fae so completely by surprise that their governors had been killed or clapped in iron before they even knew they were at war.

Even Prince Loren hadn’t realized he’d been betrayed by the man he’d called a friend until the chains closed around his wrists.

But here, there was only one fae the Arcanum cared about.

“Where is she?”

“She’s taken refuge in the grove, sir.” The Commander shifted on his feet, tugging at the black sash that crossed his chest. “We’ve surrounded it…but our forces haven’t been able to get past the first line of trees.”

“Of course you can’t,” Garrick snapped. The Eldergreen wasn’t just another stand of trees. It was the soul of the fae, a snarled web of ancient power far older than anything that stood around it. It would protect her—or try to. "Let me try to speak to her."

The commander shifted his weight, his eyes flicking to the trees. “With respect, sir—I’m not certain that’s a good idea.”

“We have to act now.” Garrick shook his head, already turning away. “The king is still trapped on Eluneth. Take his queen, and Corwin Shadowbane will kneel. Fail, and this war drags on for generations.”

He crossed the ruined hall with long strides.

He’d bowed here once, falling to his knees before the King and Queen who had deigned to allow him to study the power flowing through this land.

They’d welcomed him as their son’s friend—and now, he walked through their ruined home with a ring carved from the bones of their dead on his hand, the power they coveted so desperately burning through his veins.

The fae had brought this on themselves. For years, they’d refused to share their power—banning humans from their institutions and outlawing the use of amplifiers.

If they had bent even a little—if he’d held even a fraction of this power when Selene fought to bring his son into the world, his wife would not have died in her birthing bed, one of thousands of humans lost to the fae monarchy’s blind insistence that magic belonged to them alone.

So now it would be taken from them—by force.

The air changed as cracked marble gave way to living earth, growing wetter and warmer with every step he took into their sacred grove.

Even the light was different, slanting through the twisted canopy like moonlight through stained glass.

His ring buzzed against his skin, its hum deepening to a low warning as the grove’s power swept over him—and found him wanting.

Vines wrapped around his boots, forcing him to stop as the trees leaned in around him, thorny branches blocking his path.

Magic lived here, but not the kind he knew.

There were no structured runes like the ones his human peers used with studied precision, no trace of the channeled intentions the fae wielded as easily as they breathed. This was older—wilder.

“I just want to talk to her,” Garrick said into the crushing silence, as if the trees themselves might hear him. “No harm will come to her by my hand.”

For a long, tense moment nothing happened. The vines held fast around his boots, the air heavy in his lungs as that presence weighed his words. Then, at last, the vines loosened, the trees drawing back just far enough to let him pass.

“Thank you,” Garrick murmured. He pushed forward, branches scraping across his neck and shoulders in silent warning as he pressed deeper into the trees.

He found her at the center of the grove.

Uncrowned, her pale hair hung loose, surrounding her like a silver cloud.

She wore only a simple shift, her feet bare on the soft green moss that blanketed the clearing.

But a sword hung loose in her hand, its blade dark and wet with blood and its edge still humming with magic.

She hadn’t run. Hadn’t begged.

She’d waited.

Garrick drew to a halt just short of the clearing, roots rising in front of him in silent threat. Their message was clear—the grove had allowed him to come this far, but he wouldn’t take another step without a fight.

“Your Majesty,” he said. “Lysa.”

She looked up at the sound of her name, and for a moment, he saw the queen who had stood at her king’s side. That female had smiled at him, welcomed him into her home. But this one–this one only looked at him, her fae-green eyes as cold as they were bright and wild.

“Your son is alive,” Garrick said when she didn’t speak. “Loren was captured without injury. He’ll remain that way–”

“If I surrender,” the queen finished for him. She lifted her chin, her hands tightening around the hilt of her sword. “Is that your offer? My son’s survival in exchange for me?”

Garrick held her gaze. “His safety. Your daughter’s safety–she’s still just a child, by your standards. What will happen to her if this becomes a war? This doesn’t have to be–”

“You think this isn’t already a war?” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t have to. “You broke your word to us the moment you slipped that ring onto your finger. How dare you wield our dead as a weapon and speak of peace to me?”

“This ring only levels the field,” Garrick snapped, the protest spilling out before he could bite it back. “The fae have hoarded magic for centuries–”

“Hoarded?” She laughed, the sound ringing out bright and hard like bells through the trees. “We protected it. But we failed to protect it from you.”

Her gaze pierced him, pinning him to the spot.

“We do not lie,” she said. “We are bound to the truth–even when it breaks us. But you? You smiled at me, at my children. You studied our texts, shared our food, called my son friend. But every word you spoke was with a blade hidden behind your back.”

“I tried to work with your people—”

“No.” The queen shook her head, her voice like steel. “You tried to use us. And when we did not bend, you decided to take what you wanted by force.”

The magic surrounding them stirred with her anger—roots coiling tighter, leaves rustling in a wind that didn’t touch Garrick’s coat. Deep in the grove, stone cracked and groaned, the air coming alive as something vast and ancient roused from its slumber.

“This is your last chance, Lysa.” Garrick took a step closer, pushing forward despite the roots that clawed at his ankles. “Come with me peacefully. Or I’ll break this grove to take you.”

She stared at him, and for a moment Garrick thought she was going to fight–but then the sword fell from her fingers, landing soundlessly at her feet. He held out his hand, relief flooding him as she raised her gaze to his. But instead of taking it, she stepped back, her chin lifting.

“You’ll try,” she said.

Garrick lunged, but vines tangled around his boots, thorns whipping across his neck and shoulders. He staggered, nearly falling into the clearing as she tipped her head back, a low, shuddering moan rolling through the trees.

“Lysa!” Garrick cursed, fighting his way forward. “Stop! There’s still a way—”

She opened her eyes.

They glowed, bright with power as aether rose around them, pulled directly from the marrow of the land. Light poured from the moss under her feet, threading through the roots and racing up the trunks before bursting from the canopy like a storm of stars spilling into the sky.

“You were never meant to touch this power,” she said.

The ground heaved under his boots, roots tearing free like serpents.

The glow illuminating the clearing turned white-hot, searing his vision and filling his nose with the reek of scorched bark and the tang of molten magic.

Every hair on his body rose, the breath crushed from his lungs by the terrible certainty that he had made a fatal mistake.

But it wasn’t lightning that struck.

It was magic.

Garrick clawed for his power, smearing his fingers through his own blood to sketch the first strokes of a warding rune. Desperation sharpened the lines, his voice breaking as he tried to give them shape—

“Thyra,” he rasped, hope surging as the rune flared once, power humming through the bone around his finger.

But then the hum became a scream, a hairline fracture splitting the bone an instant before it shattered.

Pain lanced through his hand, racing up his arm as his grip on his magic tore loose with a crack that drove him to his knees.

He crashed into the moss, that ancient power grinding him into the ground. Dirt filled his mouth, choking off his voice. His vision swam with black spots, blurring. But he could still hear it—his entire world narrowing to the low, thunderous heartbeat of the Eldergreen surrounding him.

It wasn’t trying to push him out any more. It was consuming him.

Garrick clawed at the earth, scrabbling for purchase as more roots lashed around him, binding him fast. Thorns pierced deep, blood slicking his hands as he dragged himself forward against their hold. But he didn’t stop. If he didn’t move—if he didn’t get out—he would die here.

He tore free, scrambling through twisted roots and thorns—

But then, the world went still.

And Garrick Shaw knew nothing more.

The first thing Garrick registered was the light—bright and sterile.

The second was pain.

A low, radiating ache throbbed deep in his bones, humming beneath the skin like an old wound newly cracked. He tried to move, but something tugged at his arm. A restraint? No—a bandage. He ripped at the gauze, suddenly desperate to see what remained–

“Easy,” a voice said. “You’ve been under for three days.”

Garrick turned his head. Slowly.

Darian Hale sat beside his bed, as immaculate as ever. His dark uniform was spotless, his hair tied back with not a strand out of place. He held a folio in one gloved hand, his sharp blue eyes raking over Garrick with surgical precision.

“How many casualties?” Garrick croaked.

“Twenty-three dead. Fifty-seven wounded—most from the pulse of power when the grove collapsed. You were the only one inside. If you hadn’t managed to crawl to the edge they wouldn’t have been able to pull you out.” Hale paused. “You’re lucky to be alive.”

Garrick wasn’t sure he agreed. He turned his hand, flexing his fingers despite the pain.

Deep lines of charred flesh crawled up his forearm, and the skin where the amplifier ring had sat was nothing but a blackened ruin.

Treating a wound like this would have been impossible for a human Healer before, but with fae magic at their disposal he might use his hand again.

“The queen?”

Hale didn’t even blink. “Dead.”

Dead. Garrick closed his eyes. He should have been relieved. Or angry. But he just felt…empty.

“Did they retrieve her remains?” He’d craft his next amplifier from her bones.

“No.” Hale sighed, closing his folio with a snap. “You lost the Eldergreen, Garrick. Our forces were driven from the palace–from the forest entirely. Anyone who tries to enter now…” He shrugged. “It will have to be retaken in pieces, at great cost.”

Garrick stared at the ceiling. “I failed.”

“Yes,” Hale said pleasantly. “And they voted you High Magister anyway.”

Garrick’s head turned sharply. “What?”

“The Arcanum convened while you were unconscious. Unanimous decision.” Hale shrugged. “You’re a hero now. The man who walked into the Eldergreen and lived. They’re saying the grove spat you back out because it feared you.”

Garrick’s throat worked, but his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. How would they have voted if they’d known the truth?

“Oh, and I’ve been appointed High Inquisitor.” Hale rose, smoothing his coat. “Which means I’ll be the one cleaning up your mess. Try to pull your weight, Garrick.” He paused, his shadow falling across the bed. “After all, you didn’t crawl out of that grove just to quit now, did you?”