36

Mor Trisencor and the Day He Watched Luc Die for the First Time

Eleven Faeborn Years Ago

It was the week after Luc and Mor had gotten back from interrogating the rogue fairy. News had spread through High Prince Reval’s division that the troll fairy had lived, and not only had the fool lived, he’d stolen from the Shadow Army once again. A whole basket of charmed arrows this time and a satchel of rare gold-peeled grapes.

Luc and Mor stood in the forest. Five more steps and Luc would be in the clearing where the commanders had set up their twig throne circle. The commanders would arrive any minute, and Luc would face their judgement for failing his mission.

But it seemed the fox’s feet were stuck.

“I guess you should have taken the rogue’s bargain. Perhaps ruling over the village as a noble would have been better than facing this,” Mor said. He lifted his boot to Luc’s back and shoved him into the clearing with his foot.

Luc stumbled into the throne circle, the muted daylight coming over him where he couldn’t hide. He looked back with a glare, and Mor cast him a gloating smirk. But Luc’s face changed when Mor walked into the clearing and took his place at Luc’s side. The thrones were empty—for now. They’d be filled with very angry and very powerful fairies soon.

“I was there, too,” Mor said simply in response to the look of question on Luc’s face. “It’s only right we face the punishment together.”

Luc worked his jaw, then tore his glare off Mor and rested it on Prince Reval’s twig throne. “My father will go harder on you than he will on me,” he warned.

“Yes, well, I’m far more resilient than you. I can take it.”

Luc rolled his eyes, and before Mor could see it coming, the nine tailed fox kicked him deep into a prickle bush on the cusp of the forest. Mor rolled over thrice before he caught himself on his palms, and he stifled a growl as he looked down at his hands now burning and red with little pins sinking in everywhere. He scampered out of the bush and onto a forest path, surveying the hundreds of thistles that would take him hours to pick out. He nearly stormed back into the clearing and dealt Luc a fresh punch, but when he looked up, he saw through the branches that the commanders had entered the circle. Prince Reval stood over Luc. Mor leaned forward with a spying eye and tilted his ear to eavesdrop.

He went rigid when the Prince of the Dark Corner drew a dagger and plunged it into Luc’s heart.

Time seemed to stand still for a moment. Though it was Luc who was killed, Mor felt he’d faced that fate himself. His hand had sprung to his faeborn heart—he was sure it had stopped.

Luc’s body was pale and flat on the grass. The fox tails at his throat shivered in a shadowy breeze, the wind stealing one of them clean off its chain as its fur dissolved into nothing. Luc was a lifeless fairy corpse—Mor could not tear his eyes away. A second passed. Then Luc moved, flinging his arm up and ripping the dagger out of his own chest, sending Mor staggering back a step.

Luc sat, dragged his limbs beneath himself, and stood face-to-face with his father.

“You have only eight more chances. Don’t disappoint me again.” Prince Reval’s cold words sailed into the forest, and Mor watched as Luc lifted his silver-brown glower to the Prince.

“I won’t fail you, Father,” he said. The words were clean and crystal clear, yet…

Luc had never looked at High Prince Reval the same way again after that.