by Kyra Quinn
She flipped the page to the next chapter, eager to finish and find her way to bed. Morrigan had made a valid point about the consequences of working herself too hard. What if she’d missed something in one of the earlier books? Worse, what if there’d been nothing to miss?
Bed. She needed to blow the candle out and head to bed before her brain turned to mush. She’d revisit things in the morning with a fresh eye and a rested mind. She—
The picture of the massive oak tree surrounded by a circle of flames turned Aster to stone. The bold script at the top of the page declared the chapter Mages and Magic. Her heart fluttered as she scanned the pages with the care a surgeon showed his scalpel.
The passage offered no explanation as to where or how the first mages originated. A few paragraphs were spent on differentiating between soul mages and blood mages and the different sources they drew power from.
Soul mages, it said, channeled their power from the Gardens themselves, though each spell performed not in service to the gods cut time off their total lifespan. Blood mages, by contrast, bargained their power from Zanox and the Shadowrealm in blood. Each spell consumed a portion of their soul, the damage all but irreversible.
The covens were responsible for instructing their young on safe magic usage and the cost of power. Though the Grand Council presided over all covens, they rarely liked to involve themselves in trivial matters. By the time each mage reached the age of thirteen and received their soul gem, the elders expected them to know all they needed to make wise decisions.
But Aster and Chay were proof things didn’t always go to plan.
She had almost closed the book and marched off to bed when a line at the bottom of the eighth page in the section on mages caught her eye. Alternate Sources of Power. A shudder ran down her back. She flipped the page and cautioned herself not to get her hopes up.
The first two tips were useless, temporary spells proven to wear off and leave the user weaker. The third, however, sent her heart racing. She read the paragraph twice. A giddy excitement rushed over her like a girl on the morning of Midsummer Celebration.
The mages had whispered stories about the blood stones of Killara in her time with the coven, but she’d always written them off as tall tales. Some said passives without a drop of Fey blood could earn access to magic if they demonstrated their worth to the demigod Mekthos. The half-mortal son of Namis raised amongst the gods in the Gardens, Mekthos supposedly crafted the magical blood stones and buried them in the darkest caves in Killara where only the worthy might find them.
She slammed the book shut, the gust of air extinguishing the candle. Aster sprang to her feet and raced up the stairs, her movements clumsy and eager. She’d faced the Mother of Darkness and lived to talk about it. No Shadowfey in Killara scared her anymore. They all answered to a boss she’d evaded once before. If her only hope of magic waited on the cursed island, she’d fight her way through the caves without hesitation.
* * *
Aster’s heart raced as she flew around the lower half of her shadowy home and gathered her things. Two pairs of pants. Four shirts with varying sleeve lengths to accommodate all weather conditions. Two books, only the most important ones for her mission. A vial of blessed blood and a handful of Elysian rose petals for protection and luck. Morrigan’s ring for courage. A small jar of nuts and berries for nourishment.
Aster shoved the items into her satchel, her movements hurried but silent. She tapped her finger against her lips and peered around the den to ensure she hadn’t missed anything. Her eyes landed on her socked feet. She shot a glance towards the staircase and frowned. If she went into the bedchamber to retrieve footwear, she’d wake Morrigan the moment she touched the door handle.
The sky outside the window was still dark, night’s spell still not lifted. The shadows meant a higher likelihood of demons in the area, but it also meant Aster’s presence alone in the streets was less likely to attract attention. Only the guards would roam the streets so late. It wouldn’t take much effort to sweet talk a guard into letting her walk away unharmed.
A small voice in the back of her head urged Aster to leave a note, but she batted it away like an insect at a picnic in the summertime. Morrigan still had her full powers. She could perform a scrying spell if their need to know grew desperate.
Managing her own desperation took more effort. Excitement and anxiety took turns knotting and unknotting her chest. The book had to be at least a century old. What if she couldn’t find the blood stones? What if they no longer existed?
“Aster?”
Lili’s voice sliced into her thoughts like a sword. Aster whirled around to find Lili standing in the shadow of the doorway, her brow arched as her eyes darted around the room.
“I thought you were asleep,” Aster said, at a loss for better explanations.
“I was. But the nightmares came back, and now I can’t settle my mind enough to slumber.”
“I take it the booze has worn off?”
Lili laughed, the sound empty of humor. “A while ago. Now my head hurts.”
“Lucky girl. You smelled like you drank enough to kill a grown man.”
“I would love to disagree with you, but I can’t recall everything I consumed.”
“Don’t make it a habit.” Aster’s eyes narrowed. “If your mother’s pets find you stumbling through Carramar sloshed, no one in Astryae will hear from you again.”
Lili’s cheeks flushed, but she nodded. Her eyes avoided Aster’s face as she gestured towards the satchel. “What’s this?”
Aster cleared her throat. She hadn’t prepared an excuse or practiced an explanation. She hadn’t intended to speak with anyone. “It’s, ah, it’s nothing. Few changes of clothes.”
Lili blinked. “For what? Are you going somewhere?”
For a moment she considered telling Lili the truth. Morrigan wouldn’t approve, but Lili might understand. But something about the unspoken sparkle of hope in Lili’s silvery eyes made Aster swallow the words. What if she inflated Lili’s hopes only to crush them if her plan failed?
“To visit a friend in Starbright. An old coven member. She might have information we can use to our advantage.” She spoke too quickly, her words falling between them in a nervous tumble.
Lili’s eyebrows scrunched, but she nodded despite the skepticism in her voice. “When will you return?”
Aster bit her lip. In truth, she had no idea how long her quest might take. She’d explored most of Astryae in her time away from the coven, but she’d never considered leaving. Something about traveling the unpredictable and unruly ocean twisted the knots in her stomach. Like a cat, heights had never bothered her the way they had Chay. But where her sister loved to listen to the waves crash against the shore, Aster had done her best to avoid the coast at all costs.
Aster reached for her bag and slung the thick leather strap over her shoulder. “Soon. I’m certain Morrigan will stay with you.”
“No.” Lili shook her head so fast Aster worried it might fly from her shoulders. “Morrigan is nice, but I don’t need supervision. I can handle myself for a few days.”
Aster chewed the inside of her cheek and considered whether she agreed. Lili’s powers outmatched most of the Feyfolk Aster had encountered over the years, but her inability to access them at will left her vulnerable. Her insatiable curiosity and lack of life experience only heightened the threat.
“The demons and angels are still out there.” Aster shook her head. “It’s only a matter of time before someone locates you. I’d prefer if Morrigan stayed nearby and kept an eye on things.”
Lili puffed her chest as her eyes narrowed. “If I’m powerful enough for every force in the universe to want me dead, why do you still treat me like a useless passive?”
Aster groaned. “Please, Lilianna, not this again. We can revisit this conversation when I return.”
“Whenever that is,” she muttered under her breath. “This isn’t fair, Aster. How did you feel when the coven tried to
keep you trapped in a box?”
Aster tensed. What did Lili assume she knew about Aster’s youth or her time with the coven? She shoved past Lili and marched over to the front door, no longer concerned with her volume or waking Morrigan. When she reached the door, she paused with her hand wrapped around the handle.
“Even if you don’t agree with my decisions, I need you to respect them.”
“Why should I?” Lili demanded. Aster couldn’t see her, but the sharp edge in her voice communicated enough.
“Because this is bigger than you or I and our hatred for following orders. This concerns the fate of Astryae. Try to put someone else first for once.”
Aster tore the door open and flew into the darkness of the early morning without waiting for a response. Lili was only eighteen. The fate of the world was a difficult concept for anyone to comprehend, let alone at her age. With the weight of the world on her narrow shoulder, it was no wonder Lili ran off.
Aster scurried down the well-trodden dirt path and through the gate without a glance behind her. She held her head high as she walked, her steps heavy and determined. Her heart broke for Lili, but she couldn’t stop. Not to apologize or explain. The only way to protect the people she cared about—and herself—was to find the blood stones in Killara.
There would be plenty of time left to plead for forgiveness after she’d secured the blood stones and channeled her power once more. The safety of the world had to come first. Aster could do nothing for them without her magic. She’d handle the power with care and use it sparingly, never enough to consume what remained of her soul.
She increased her pace, pulling her cloak closer to her body to block the frigid winds. Her body buzzed with anticipation. The sooner she reached Killara, the sooner she could locate the blood stones and return someone her friends could count on.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Fit for a King
Anja bestowed upon her children a small village in the north tucked in between snowcapped mountains. She assured them that if they might set their differences in appearance aside, shapeshifters could become the most powerful Feyfolk in existence.
-The Sacred Texts, 321:67-69
Viktor trudged a few paces behind Jett through the cold desert a hundred miles outside of Starbright with his hands in his pockets. Harsh gusts of wind nipped at his earlobes and face. They’d said little on the hike from Carramar, Jett only speaking long enough to caution Viktor against shifting into his wolf form. They had an uphill battle ahead simply to earn an audience with the royal family. Their chances would diminish to nothing if they strolled into the palace nude.
And so they marched on, the sky above changing from dawn to dusk twice already. The thin air left Viktor’s throat raw. He had asked twice why Jett was leading them in the opposite direction of the castle, but Jett had elected to remain silent. A nervous tension weighed on Viktor’s shoulders. In the short span of time since he’d first met Jett in a tavern in Carramar, things between them had always felt easy. Natural. As though Jett were a long-lost brother he’d always known.
So why had every conversation since their disagreement at camp taken more effort than averting the end of the world?
The stars above their heads twinkled like diamonds, the moon overhead painting a pale white glow onto the ice. Each breath left his lips in thin trails of smoke. His feet ached for a place to rest, but he ignored the discomfort and pressed on. If Jett sensed any sign of fatigue, he’d tease Viktor until the end of their journey.
Viktor cracked his knuckles, desperate for a sound other than the ice crunching beneath his boots. “How long were you with the Clans before…”
“Before Grace and Norrix were murdered?” Jett asked, his voice flat. He didn’t turn to face Viktor, but his tone alluded to a frown. “Since I was a pup. My father swore his fealty oath to Norrix during the war. I grew up in the pack.”
Viktor had never realized his father fought in the Siege of Starbright. Jett had never mentioned his own family. He hesitated, his next question heavy on his tongue. “What happened to him?”
Jett didn’t respond, and Viktor wondered if maybe he hadn’t heard him. He opened his mouth to ask again when Jett said, “Never found out for sure. He vanished the day Norrix and Grace died. The pack figured he must have given his life to save Norrix’s.”
Viktor swallowed. “My condolences. You must despise everything to do with Clan Kinzhal.”
“Hardly.” Jett paused and turned, his expression firm as he locked eyes with Viktor. “If my father gave his life to uphold his oath, he died with honor. I only wish his sacrifice hadn’t been in vain.”
Viktor nodded as Jett resumed his steady march through the ice. Scanty patches of grass and shrubs lined the ground, the frozen soil around them barren. “Why did Norrix’s death unravel the pack? I’ve met other packs who transition leadership to the beta without effort.”
“Ahh,” Jett said, holding up a finger, “but those packs are often made of fewer bloodlines. Clan Kinzhal was different, largely thanks to Norrix and Grace. How much do you know about the Purity Purge?”
“Is that a drink?”
Jett snorted. “This is why raising pups with the pack is so crucial. You don’t know the history of your own people.”
“So enlighten me.”
Jett sighed. “Well, we do have the time. In most of the Clans, shifters are born with their abilities. Each race has its own trigger for the transition, but the power is with them from birth. Wolves are the one exception to that rule.”
“Some are bitten and transformed into wolves,” Viktor nodded. “So what?”
Jett laughed. “Not all shifters share your relaxed attitude towards it. Many see the born as the only true shifters, while the bitten are shunned more than a barren woman.”
A pair of birds cawed to each other. Viktor chewed over the information, unsure what response Jett expected. Viktor had never thought to ask if Jett was bitten or born. He had never wondered or cared.
“Clan Kinzhal welcomed both with open arms, though,” Jett said, oblivious to the racing of his thoughts. “Kind of had to after Norrix married Grace.”
Viktor stiffened. “Why?”
“Grace was one of the bitten. The first ever allowed into local politics. The other Clans resisted her at first, but her charms won them over the same as Norrix.”
The air in Viktor’s lungs deflated. His head spun as Jett’s voice echoed in his ear, prattling on about the union of the bloodlines and how progressive Norrix Kinzhal’s decision was for its era. He pictured his mother’s face, her warm smile lighting his bedchamber like his own personal sun as she kissed him goodnight.
His mother wasn’t born a shifter. The news changed nothing. So why had his chest become heavier? Why couldn’t he breathe?
“What was it like?” he asked. “Life with the clan?”
Jett rubbed the back of his neck. “We had a sense of community back then. Family. Every wolf had a pack, and every pack could count on the protection of Clan Kinzhal if something went wrong.”
Viktor’s thoughts wandered back to racing his father through the snowy hills behind the clan’s tower, to the way the hallways always bustled with people and conversation. He’d overheard a few minor squabbles over the years, but most days the wolves moved with a lightness to their step that left him wishing he could purchase or steal their contentment with life.
“When Grace and Norrix were killed, people suggested Anja had allowed it because Norrix sullied the purity of the clans when he chose Grace as a mate.”
Viktor said nothing, unsure how to respond. A thousand questions raced through his mind, none of them appropriate to ask without coming across as overly interested. Had Jett been bitten or born? What were Viktor’s parents like? And did his mother’s bitten blood in his veins make him less of a wolf?
Endless miles of empty nothing stretched ahead of them. Viktor shot a glance at the sky, the brightest blue star like a beacon in the darkness. He glanced around fo
r tracks or footprints, but the ice sat undisturbed. No chance of catching a bite to eat anytime in the foreseeable future.
“You never told me where we’re going,” Viktor said, eager for a change in subject. “You said we needed to speak with King Dyius, but Wyvenmere is the other direction.”
Jett chuckled, the sound bitter. “True, but we can’t prance into Court and beg for an audience with the King. We aren’t noblemen.”
“So how do we get in?”
Jett smirked. “Haven’t you learned yet? Bribery will carry you everywhere in life.”
* * *
It took another full day to complete their journey. Jett led Viktor through the mountains of Starbright and into Redwood. His hand remained on the sword strapped to his hip as he hiked, ready for a fight. His eyes darted in all directions as they marched through the woods. His spine was stiff and formal, his shoulders squared. After a while, the tension in his body crept into Viktor’s and planted an uneasy feeling into his bones.
“This isn’t the way to Wyvenmere,” Viktor finally said. “If you can’t tell me where we’re going, I don’t see a point in continuing.” His teeth chattered as he spoke. He licked his chapped and blistered lips as he studied the sea of towering trunks covered in brilliant shades of jade, ginger, and marigold. Though prolonged exposure to the frost would kill a man, the forest surrounding Redwood appeared immune to the harsh winter.
“It isn’t.” Jett didn’t turn towards Viktor as he spoke, his eyes glued forward. “We have a stop to make before we meet the King.”
Viktor huffed. “Is now the best time?”
“Now is the only time. It won’t take long. Come.”
Viktor followed behind Jett, his steps heavy. He hadn’t planned to travel anywhere near Starbright. He avoided the Clans and all their chaos at every opportunity. Now, only miles from the ruins of what had once been Clan Kinzhal’s estate, his movements were heavy with the weight of unspoken responsibilities.