1. Nora

1

NORA

1 YEAR AGO

M y mother said storms are omens of change.

There was one the night we discovered my magic and another the day my parents died; it seems fitting that one batters against the stained-glass windows tonight.

A strike of lightning flashes through the room, casting jagged shards of light along the oakwood four-poster bed that cradles Pride's sleeping body.

I shift in my seat, hugging one leg up to my chest as the other dangles to the floor, boot scratching back and forth over the hardwood like a heartbeat.

Is it beating in time with his? And if I stopped, would his heart stop too?

Could it be that simple?

My eyes narrow as they glide over Pride's thinning hair and the wrinkled lips that he licks whenever he knows something isn't going his way. His tongue darts out between each of his labored breaths, coating the chapped skin with a thin film that glistens before drying up again. A near-bloody crack rips down the center, so close to splitting open entirely.

I bite the inside of my cheek.

No , it's never that simple.

It will be a slow death. My adoptive father is too stubborn.

A crack of the storm rattles the windows at my back.

All fae go through the Fading if they live long enough. And Pride has lived a long time. Though, the gods only know he wouldn't think three human lifetimes were enough.

I reach into the bedside table drawer, pulling a small bottle from its hiding spot. The amber liquid sloshes against the clear glass when I twirl the flask by its neck. It's not unlike aged whiskey in color and scent, though its effects are vastly different.

Seelie tonics stave off the more obvious symptoms of the Fading—keeping a fae's mind sharp and steadying their stride until the end of their days. For the most part, Pride's gotten away with hiding his decline. But the Unseelie ranks can scent weakness like a bloodhound can a hunter's prey.

Pride hasn't left his bed for a week. For the past twenty-four hours, he hasn't woken from his slumber.

It won't matter how much of this tonic he downs when he wakes; it's obvious that his body is failing. And it won't be long before his mind goes too.

It's an inconvenience—of which I am left with two options.

I can let this illness run its course. Risk the stability of House Pride as we watch our leader fade and open the door for someone to question my place as his successor.

Or… I can end it now.

I should be more nervous, but when I search my gut for the throbbing ache of anxiety, I'm left with only calm in my belly. It may be coming about differently than I'd planned, but I've spent the last decade preparing for the moment when I'd take his place as Pride of the Unseelie.

I've waited patiently for this promise of power, yearned for the brand of freedom it offers.

My choice isn't a hard one to make.

And I know it's exactly what Pride would do if he was in my place. He's the one who taught me to be ruthless, after all.

My eyes narrow on the bottle's label, the cream parchment glued on the glass with chicken-scratch directions on it. No name, no company, just 3tbs 3x daily scrawled in black ink.

Funny how such a tiny bottle could hold such immense value to the members of this Court. Of course, the catch is that Seelie goods are illegal on this side of Faerie.

I pull myself from the comfort of the leather armchair and perch on the sliver of bed at Pride's side. Sinking into the plush comforter, I keep one foot planted on the floor, grounding myself in place while I sit on the other.

Uncorking the bottle with a pop , I take a whiff and wince at the pure alcoholic stench before pouring a few drops down Pride's parched throat. It takes a second for the tonic's magic to kick in—it's not enough to get him up and walking, but enough that he soon sputters awake with a coughing fit.

Piercing pale blue eyes slide across the room with calculated precision, clocking their surroundings before meeting mine. Steely recognition frosts over those icy irises, like he knows this isn't a gentle bedside visit from a loving daughter.

"Nora."

Pride's voice is rough from disuse. He licks his chapped lips, smacking them together in a way that makes my own curl into a grimace.

"I'm sorry I had to interrupt your nap, but I have a rather important question," I say, holding up the tonic and giving it a little swirl. "I need to know how you got your hands on this."

Lightning strikes, spearing the low-lit room with shards of pure white; it's a stark contrast to the warm wood tones and amber sconces dotted across the walls. With the windows behind me, I'm sure I resemble a storybook villain, backlit and looming over Pride.

Thunder sounds not long after, the eye of the storm inching closer to us.

Pride's focus shifts to the bottle in my hand, greedy desperation tightening his features. He manages to lift himself into a sitting position, though his arms shake, and his nose scrunches in pain with each movement.

One trembling hand reaches out to me.

"Give me the tonic," he says. "I need a stronger dosage."

I place it in my lap, out of reach.

"Tell me who made it, then I'll think about giving you more."

A growl rips from his throat, rage pinching his brows. "You've always been an ungrateful child, but you know better than to disobey a direct order. Now, hand me the tonic."

"And I thought you'd have better sense than to bring banned Seelie goods onto this side of the Veil. It's one thing to use it while you're in the Human Realm. But here? What would Silas do if he found out?"

The mention of the Unseelie King has Pride's jaw clenching.

I flip the corked bottle, tossing it in the air and catching it like a baseball.

"Tell me who," I demand.

"The Seelie exiles. Some are healers," he says between bared teeth. "They need the extra cash."

I tongue my cheek. "For how long?" I ask.

I have my suspicions, but I want to hear it confirmed by him. The pieces of the puzzle I've long sought to solve are slow to fit together, but between bits of memory and this new information, the truth takes shape.

Pride chews on the inside of his cheek, a petulant frown marring his face.

If he was strong enough, he would have used his magic to take it from me already. But I've yet to see even a whisper of shadow come to his aid. Magic has abandoned him, and he knows just how helpless that makes him.

Especially against me; the realization sends a thrill down my spine. My magic is of a different breed. It likes to kill.

It thrums at my fingertips, impatiently waiting for my call to action.

"Do I need to resort to discipline , Pride?" I ask. "Your methods of parenting may have been unorthodox, but they did teach me exactly what I need to do to get someone to talk."

I clock the moment resignation softens his jaw.

"Your father helped me find a healer years ago," he chokes out, as if he's ashamed of his answer. "You know who."

My smile falls, but I quickly school my features into cold neutrality.

It doesn't change the past, but it's a comfort to know with finality. Someone else pulled the trigger, but Pride's greed loaded the gun that killed my parents.

"Thank you for your honesty. This will help greatly as I consider the next steps for our House." I pause, then smile. It's a fake, overly cheery kind of grin that drips sarcasm. "See? I can be grateful."

Twenty-two years ago, Pride saved me. He swept in, a false hero, and took an orphaned six-year-old in as his own. But I wasn't wanted in the way that a parent desires a child. I was a happy accident that fell into his lap. An asset he added to his collection. A tool to mold into a weapon that he could lord over his enemies.

I wasn't going to be that any longer.

Reaching across Pride's chest, I grab his hand. He tries to pull away, but I hold on to it tightly. He's not strong enough to fight.

It's softer than I thought it would be. I took my gloves off earlier as I had pondered this moment, wondering how they'd feel under my fingertips. He's played the role of father for two decades, but I've never once held Pride's hand.

I run my thumb over his knuckles; the clammy skin is pulled taught over his bones, nearly translucent over his protruding veins, and somehow paler than my alabaster skin.

Pride's body has gone tense. His breathing quickens with each passing second of silence.

I lean forward.

"For what it's worth, I don't enjoy seeing you like this," I say.

"I doubt that," he growls.

"No." I hum, pursing my lips. "I wouldn't say joy is the correct emotion to describe what I'm experiencing right now. It's something softer than that. Is this what being content feels like?"

Pride surges forward with what little strength he has left. "One day, they will realize?—"

"No, no," I tut, quickly clamping my free hand over his mouth. "You don't get to talk anymore."

I meet Pride's furious gaze with my own determined one. Nails dig into my wrist as he tries to push me away, but it's a fruitless effort. His muffled protests vibrate against my palm, and I wonder if he has any regret, staring into the emerald eyes of the girl he raised.

"They will realize I am exactly what they need."

There's a knowing—an inevitability to this moment. It never mattered how long it took; we would always end up here. It was simply a matter of when .

"I'm going to build a better Anwynn for our House. And I will be so much better than you," I promise, more to myself than to him.

I call upon my magic. It bubbles to the surface of my skin and eagerly flows from my fingertips into Pride. It seeps through his skin and into his blood. An invisible serpent, it slides through his veins at my discretion, taking its time on its journey to his heart. Veins and arteries clog and collapse in on themselves in its wake. And when my magic reaches his heart, it squeezes.

The organ falters.

It's a quick death, in the end.

His last breath catches on itself; it's not quite a gasp, but a stutter—the grinding of rusted gears coming to a halt.

Warmth slides over me, raising gooseflesh on my arms as I bask in my magic's satisfied hum.

I release Pride's hand; it lands with a dull thud against his chest. My own breath catches on my inhale, but on the exhale, relief sinks my shoulders. Closing my eyes and tilting my head to the ceiling, I let the sound of the storm wash away all my thoughts except for one.

Tomorrow .

Tomorrow I'll be Pride of the Unseelie.