Fifteen Years Ago
Fingal was back in the palace. It was Freedom Day, the evening they’d stormed the castle in the capital. Mist swirled at his feet. That wasn’t there before. He looked around the empty stone corridor for the sciacath he’d knocked unconscious. The mist had nearly hidden the floor. His weapons were gone, and he wasn’t wearing the fae uniform: he was in his fighter clothes, the clothes he’d worn when he was travelling within Azara Forest to Cantlyn, with the children they’d rescued. That was only a day or two ago at most.
Wait, that didn’t make sense, wasn’t he in the palace to rescue the children…?
Her voice—the fae queen’s voice—gripped him as it had before, kept him in place as she buzzed around him, circling like a bee to the flower. She hovered in front of him, grinning with her sharp dagger teeth, her eyes wide and terrifying….