Lore of the Tides (Lore of the Wilds #2)

by Analeigh Sbrana

But this was a new type of ache, one she was not accustomed to—the agony of loving someone who was not who they had pretended to be.

To them, she wasn’t just a lowly human, but a criminal. One who had committed the most heinous of crimes: discovered a way to pull herself above her “station” by pilfering magic, a resource that should only belong to, well, anyone else, they didn’t care who, as long as it wasn’t her kind that benefited from it.

She couldn’t see his face, but she knew his thin lips would be pulled into a sneer at just the thought of being allowed the pleasure of killing her.

“One day, Lore,” he rasped, his voice thick with emotion, “I will lay myself bare before you. I will reveal every harsh truth, every revolting action I’ve been forced to take to mend the destruction my great-uncle’s unnaturally long reign has wrought upon Alytheria. You will understand that my hands have been tied, bound by duty.” He closed his eyes for a moment as if steeling himself against the weight of his words. When he opened them again, his midnight-black irises seemed to pierce her soul. “And you will see,” he uttered, “that when it comes to you, I am engulfed in a constant battle to stay the course, to continue what I have worked toward for a decade.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “When it comes to you, Lore, I am utterly lost.”

She would take everything from him. She would be his utter ruination. And then, she would set his entire beloved kingdom on fire.

It was a revelation, refreshing—and somewhat healing—to discover that there existed royalty who truly cherished their empires and subjects, fostering a reciprocal love and loyalty within their realm.

Music from the orchestra pulsed through the walls, punctuated by bursts of laughter and the clatter of revelry. It would be a full day of celebration, one that, if siren chatter were to be believed, would likely last through the following dawn. A bittersweet pang settled behind Lore’s ribs, wishing she could share in this uninhibited joy. As though the queen knew what she was thinking, she bumped Lore’s shoulder with her own and said, “Do your people celebrate as mine do?” Lore gave a cheeky smile. “Oh, we aspire to, but I don’t see how we could ever compare to this revelry.” Her smile wavered. “Truthfully, we are more restrained—an inescapable aura of fear stifles our merriment.”

As Archivist, one branch of the six councils the humans had elected, she could not advocate they start their civilization in anyone’s debt. Help from her neighboring empires was wanted and welcomed; handouts from them, however, were not. Of course, the gold she’d purchased the islands with had come from Alytheria’s immense reserves. Reparations for four hundred years of subjugation of every single human who’d lived and died in Duskmere under the demon king’s rule.