Chapter 3
Zara
Hushed whispers drifted through the scratched wooden door, and a cruel smile curved my lips.
The expression felt wrong, foreign, but I shoved the discomfort aside.
I had found them. The rebels—or at least some of them.
They were holding a meeting in Bevermere, and they had made it too easy for me to find where they were gathering.
The rebels hated Morgana, and wanted her dethroned.
The majority of them were essentially human, although that species has been nearly extinct now for over a century.
The rebels were mostly low-powered Fae, those who hadn't been chosen as children and forced into a life of labor, prostitution, or to serve as sources.
The latter often went hand-in-hand with prostitution, though depending on age, there were laws in place to protect the young from that aspect of it... at least for a time.
They'd been quiet for years, likely regrouping, and have now resurfaced. This time, however, other fae, powerful ones, had joined their cause, and Morgana wanted them dealt with.
My hand hovered over the bronze handle, hesitation creeping in as laughter sounded from inside. I flinched, cursing under my breath. There were children inside that room.
That thing in my chest thrashed and tightened beneath my ribs, as if she sensed my hesitation. But the doubt wasn’t new. Neither was the guilt. Morgana’s command echoed through me, my blood pulsing, demanding obedience.
It never used to feel this forced, but as I've gotten older, I started to question whether I truly wanted to obey her, or if she had simply made me believe I did. She had taken my magic—my soul—so young that I don’t remember her ever asking.
I just remember wanting to please her, make her happy.
I never knew the cost of what it would do to me until now.
Until I was made to do things like this.
Morgana didn’t care that there were children here, but I did.
Morgana had told me she needed to take my magic, use it to save our kingdom.
Defeat her enemies. When she wasn’t able to wield my magic the way she’d planned, I remember feeling guilty, as though I had failed her somehow.
She had been furious, but she quickly learned that she could use my powers through me.
That she could wield me. But all I've ever seen her use it for is against her own people.
I tried to resist once, but I learned the hard way that resisting only led to blacking out and when I woke, I found that I had obeyed anyway, just more violently.
At least conscious, I could find ways to lessen the damage, and find loopholes.
But there was no loophole today.
My skin continued to itch, and I sighed, finally grasping the smooth metal handle.
The door swung open, and I met the gaze of a young boy. Fear and recognition shone brightly on his face, and his lips began to part. A silent plea glistened in his dark eyes.
They would haunt me—just like the others.
Before he could scream, before anyone else could react, I raised my arms. Shadows surged from me like snakes, spearing into the room, and I struck.
*
My gaze traced the sculpted planes of the male's bloody chest before fixing on his molten silver eyes. His attention was locked on the dying man at his feet, blood pooling beneath the still twitching corpse.
Atticus Ranthorn was now the new duke of Amberwood.
A deliberate smile stretched across his lips, as he turned, his dark wavy hair falling away from his face as he made his way toward the dais.
Atticus dropped to one knee, his right arm crossing his chest in a gesture of respect, as he knelt in front of Morgana and my father.
His molten silver eyes, however, moved past the thrones and crashed into mine.
My brow rose at his boldness.
I have heard rumors about this man, stories about his ruthlessness. He had made a name for himself within my father's ranks, and that was why he had been invited here today to prove himself, his power, his worth.
Atticus had a dark aura about him, twisted, similar to my own. His unique ability to manipulate metal made it nearly impossible for anyone without any significant magic to deflect. And the last duke was nothing compared to this man.
His particular skills made him indispensable to them, to her.
Atticus could bend metal, mend it, even pull on the iron in our blood. That skill alone was what gave him the most value, his ability to kill so easily.
That wasn’t why I kept staring at him, though. It was his lack of fear that kept me looking, noticing. His gaze held none of the usual fear that other men typically felt when looking at me. He wasn’t cowering away or diverting his gaze. No, this man's eyes were swirling with curiosity. Lust.
He was foolish to stare so brazenly, especially while kneeling before the queen and king, the only ones who should have held his attention.
I’ll admit that recklessness alone further piqued my interest.
He continued to stare, the metallic depths swirling with unspoken promises.
I couldn’t help but let a small smile show.
We were in the ballroom–Morgana’s throne room, she preferred to call it.
The villagers were quietly packed into the room, a stark difference from moments ago when they had been cheering on the now deceased duke, who was still bleeding out on the marble floor.
Everything was always a spectacle with Morgana. She liked drama and violence. The bloodier the better. Atticus could have killed the male instantly, but he must have known this about her and had dragged out the fight longer than necessary.
A cough rang out, and Atticus snapped his attention forward. Morgana was now standing, and Atticus bowed his head further as she approached.
“Stand.”
Atticus did so, and I felt a brush at my shoulder.
Lana side-eyed me, concern etched between her brows.
“What was that about?” she whispered, twisting her hand and casting a silence barrier so that our voices wouldn’t be heard.
“I don’t know,” I said, my smile growing. “But I definitely plan to find out.”
“You shouldn’t,” she snapped but kept her attention forward toward the ceremony taking place. “He has a nasty reputation when it comes to women, to anyone for that matter.”
“Is that concern, sister?” I said, raising a brow at her but giving her a bland look. I knew Lana stopped caring about me long ago.
“I'm just saying, be careful.”
Wait…was she actually concerned?
“It is you who should be careful. We don’t want mother dearest to see your humanity showing. It would earn you a few fresh scars.”
Lana growled almost imperceptibly, and I chuckled, feeling only slightly bad about what I said. “I just want to have some fun. It's not like anyone else is trying to jump into my bed. At least he doesn’t look like he will cower in fear afterward.”
“You can't trust him.”
“I don’t have to trust him to sleep with him.
It's not like I'm going to fall for the guy.
Anyway, Morgana won't let anything happen to her precious pet…
I'm the chosen one, remember?” I said, lifting a sarcastic brow in her direction.
I was trying to joke with her, but Lana stiffened at my words, her features hardening.
“Whatever. Do what you want. Just don't come crying to me when it blows up in your face.”
She lifted her spell with her words, and I had to bite my tongue on the retort that threatened to roll from my lips. I swallowed the insult and fixed my attention back on the ceremony.
Lana hated that her own mother preferred me over her. I saw the bitterness, the jealousy in her eyes at being overlooked again and again. But what did she expect me to do about it? At least she could make her own choices, decisions, and know without a doubt they were hers.
But this man could be my choice.
Morgana didn’t care who I took to my bed. She only cared that I did her bidding, and I might be stupid for feeling it, but it gave me the smallest hope that I might be able to have something for myself.
And I needed to know I still could.
*
The bare stone walls of the hallway irked me as I made my way to the parlor room.
Morgana could at least get a few more tapestries to hang in the hallways.
She could certainly afford it. Turning a corner, I nearly ran into a skinny woman with dusty blonde hair, dressed in a guard's uniform.
The black and gold looked as dull as ever as she scowled at me, her mouth opening on what I could assume was going to be an insult.
But her eyes widened, mouth slamming shut when she finally registered who I was, and averted her gaze.
“I'm sorry, I didn’t realize.”
I rolled my eyes, ignoring her and continued down the hall. My shadows slipped from my shoulders, and I heard a shout and a crash as they pushed the guard to the floor.
Smirking, I pulled my shadows back to me and stopped in front of the parlor room doors.
Rolling my shoulders, I pushed the door open with a loud creak and tried to plaster a polite smile on my lips.
It instantly fell when my eyes landed on Duke Wellington lounging on a crimson velvet chaise next to the fire.
Morgana was seated next to him on an armchair to his right, and she narrowed her eyes on me as I entered the room.
Thick velvet curtains partially covered each large window, snuffing out most of the light. They matched the crimson furniture littered throughout the room as well as the large rugs, all lined and stitched with gold thread.
My gaze slid to the duke again, and I sneered at him as I approached Morgana.
The duke was in charge of Kinsdale, the castle village, and unfortunately had a permanent residence here in the castle. I knew he had one in the village as well, and I wished he and his pompous wife would stay there more.
The last time I saw Wellington in this parlor, he had been alone with a source child. And he had been after much more than their blood.