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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.”
Archeron Halfbane, bastard son of the Effendier Sun Sovereign, was a slave.
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.
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?”
The only sign of her newfound energy was her foot jumping wildly over the muddy shore like a dying jackrabbit. She kicked the errant appendage, happy when it finally quit its wild flailing and behaved.
“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.”
