“They do,” my father says. “But it is not a bad thing. Elore is very beautiful—and her magic is impressive. It’s why I chose her.”
My mother twitches. The back of my arm itches again.
“I hope they don’t take after her completely,” Uncle Iberik says with a laugh, hand swirling his cup of wine.
Tobir keeps chewing away. “Mmm, yes. I’ve seen plenty of fae and Orean pairings where the child doesn’t develop magic. Dreadful.”
“My sons will both have magic,” Father says, voice like a whip to punish anyone who should say otherwise.
“Of course they will.” Netala smiles. “I’m sure they’re more fae than Orean, at any rate. Elore herself has been fae-blessed as a diviner. And you—you’re The Breaker. The most powerful fae in the kingdom, aside from the king.”
I look over at Ryatt as he squirms in his seat, and I want to do the same.
The Breaker. That’s what everyone calls my father, and for good reason. Because his magic does just that—it breaks.
I’ve seen him break rocks, break fingers, break a lame horse’s neck. I’ve seen him break a roof, making the whole thing cave in.
His magic is scary.
Before he retired, he used to help break whole cities for the king. It’s why he got this estate. It’s why we have forty-three rooms and Orean servants. It’s why he was allowed to go for one last trip to Orea to bring people back with him just before both he and the king broke the bridge and ended the tie between our worlds. It’s why he was permitted to choose my Orean mother.
But just because she lives here and has two half fae sons and amazing magic doesn’t mean that the rest of the fae will ever look at her as an equal.
The three of us continue to eat dinner while everyone else talks, even though every bite of food I take tastes gross. I eat it anyway, because no one else is saying anything, and I don’t want my father to notice me not eating.
Finally, the servants come in to clear the tables, and I set my fork down, feeling queasy but glad to be done with it. All of the servants are Orean, just like my mother. I think she feels guilty sometimes that they’re serving her.
One of them, a man named Jak, comes to collect my mother’s plate, and she turns her head up to smile warmly at him, and he gives her a smile right back. All the servants love my mother. I don’t know if it’s just because she’s Orean like them or if it’s because she’s so kind, but when my father isn’t home, it feels more like they’re family than our servants.
Luckily, the adults decide to go into the parlor for pipes and drinks, so my father excuses my mother to take us to bed. Even though we’re free from being around his guests, I’m still feeling mad and gloomy. My mother’s brows are pulled down, and Ryatt is scowling.
But when my mother brings us into our bedroom, we get ready for bed, and then she sits down in the chair set between our beds and tells us a story about Orea. About a place split up between seven kingdoms. About a land where people didn’t even have power until fae came. And it doesn’t matter that Orea doesn’t have magic of its own, because hearing her talk about it makes the whole place seem magical anyway.
When my eyes get tired, I shift on my pillow and yawn. “If the bridge of Lemuria weren’t broken, I’d take you back to Orea, Mother.”
I’m too sleepy to open my eyes, but I think she sounds both happy and sad when she replies, “I know you would, Slade. I know.”
CHAPTER 4
SLADE
I’ve raced against a storm before.
Many times, in fact.
Most of the storms have caught up to me in the past. Drenched me in a pouring shock of tepid water that smeared my mood and cut through my clothes with benign heat. Or pelted me with icy sleet so sharp it cut through my skin.
But to have to race against it now feels like a betrayal of the gods and goddesses. That they could be so fucking cruel as to add this to an already dismal fucking situation.
So I refuse to let the storm win this time. I refuse to let it catch up to Auren.
Argo is the fastest timberwing in Fourth Kingdom. Probably the fastest beast of his kind, and his stamina and skill alone give us a fighting chance. I demand every burst of speed he can give me, drive him harder than I ever have before, and he allows me my demands.
We race the tempest who’s clotting the clouds as she wails and beats at our backs, throwing a fit to catch up to us. But Argo isn’t going to let the bitch win, and neither will I. I won’t allow another storm to touch Auren. She has been flooded and wrung out, left to take the barrage without shelter. But so long as I’m here, I will be her shelter.