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The tears of a fairy from a wood so deep. The fig of a vorgrath from his mate’s keep. The scale of a selkie burnished gold. The bone of a wood witch a century old. The midnight sliver of a Shade Queen’s horn. The sacrifice of two lovers torn.
“And not just any royal Shade Lord. The Lord of the Netherworld. Of all the beasts in the land.”
Still, when Haven held the runestones, she could feel something. A connection, an emotion, as if an invisible thread ran from the stone connecting her to the Nihl—which was, for her, impossible.
Shade Queen. Curse Maker. Darkcaster. Ruler of the Netherworld and Queen of the Noctis.
In fact, the only Solis she’d ever met had stolen her from her family and sold her into slavery. This Sun Lord, pretty as he was, would be no different.
Haven turned up her chin. “All Solis are pretty and equally worthless. I’d rather have his horse.”
Maybe it’d been so long without a noble lightcaster that the Shade Queen had forgotten the cruel Curseprice for the murder of her daughter at the hands of a mortal prince.
“Oh, I like her,” Surai purred behind Haven. “We should definitely keep her.”
“Told you I’m quite useful. When I want to be.” She brushed by him, whispering into his ear in rough Solissian as she passed, “I think that solidifies our deal, no, pretty Sun Lord?”
“Magick is not free, Mortal. It always takes something of equal value in return. But it is an ancient master, with a mind of its own and desires we can only begin to fathom. And that makes its price unpredictable, sometimes ruinous—particularly for mortal flesh. Be glad mortals cannot harness dark magick. That price you cannot pay.”
A bitter smile curved his jaw. “What do I care for sunlight and greenery? I am a creature of wintery, midnight skies rife with stars and shadows. Darkness feels to me what the sunlight on your skin feels to you.”