Crescent

25.1

Vera made a mistake.

Wyn was never supposed to be sent out to hunt the fae-killer. All she wanted was for him to agree to let Zeno go, to expose that he was using a living being to fuel the magic of the moon fae and that doing so would never cut off the source of the problem. It was a flimsy solution, designed only to last for a short period, and she wanted everyone to know what a fool he was.

She was supposed to kill the unseelie. She was supposed to earn her magic, to protect her family, to become a real fae so that they could see her as their equal.

And now, Wyn was headed to his death in her place.

The roaring in her ears had never been so loud. The walls closed in around her, and she tasted the salt of her tears as she let out another scream. Pulling her hair, she turned to the crescent table, her hands itching to do something, anything.

The table was still covered in scattered papers and the occasional pot of ink. With another shout, she swept everything off, spilling ink and sending loose leaf pages flying. Puddles of black stained the intricate celestial patterns on the polished floor, shimmering like Orion's blood. She could almost see his face in the pool—his smile stretched too wide, his mismatched eyes gleaming with laughter, his teeth stained and crooked, his skin splitting where it no longer covered his misshapen face.

Her lips quivered, and she choked back a sob as she wrenched her gaze away. She wasn't like him. He drove everyone to madness in his quest for power before dying an agonizing, cursed death at the feet of his greatest success, the culmination of everything he had worked for. He wanted greatness and power so badly it destroyed him. All she wanted was the bare minimum—enough magic that Wyn wouldn't look down on her, enough that her parents wouldn't pity her, enough that her siblings wouldn't put her aside, enough that other fae wouldn't look at her with such disdain.

There's still time, a tiny voice whispered, distant and soft like the whisper of the wind caressing her cheek. It was hardly a voice at all, little more than the presence of words in her mind that could easily slip through her fingers, but it was enough. Time was short, and she couldn't waste it.

She had to convince Wyn to stop. If he faced the unseelie—the ancient, mist-covered creature who made her very soul quake—it would kill him. There would be no fight, no mercy, and nothing would be left of her brothers or any of the fae that went with them.

Steeling herself, she clapped her hands against the sides of her face. "Get moving, Vera," she murmured through the sting and, hiking up her skirts, she raced out the doors.

Wyn would never listen to anything she argued. Her words were useless against him, and he would always find a way to twist them so that he was permitted to do what he wished. There was only one way to stop him, but she had to catch him if she wanted it to work.

"Wyn!" she cried. Her voice bounced along the empty hall, accompanied only by the pounding of her boots against polished stone. Murals of the fae queen blurred as she sped past them.

The Council had long since cleared from the halls, emptying out into the foyer to chatter with the other scholars who had filed in. Sunlight streamed through open windows and lively babble rose through the air, deceptively light as though the world wasn't falling apart.

A hush washed over the crowd when Vera burst into the room. Throngs of fae parted like water before her. She scanned their faces—a myriad of smug, angry, confused, and disgruntled looks—but Wyn and Silas were nowhere to be found. Even they must be rattled if they hadn't stopped to mingle. Their father always said his former position on the Council was nothing if he didn't put on a friendly mask for others.