Page 43 of Fallen Nocturne

Eirik stopped them.

He took me into his household and raised me beside his son. Finn shared his food, his rooms and eventually his secrets. He was not merely my prince. He was my brother.

Now his father has tried to have me killed.

I take a sip. The liquid burns.

Did Finnbheara know about the betrayal? Is he part of it?

The possibility tightens something inside my chest. I don’t want to believe it. But I also can’t ignore that three of my own squadron tried to kill me on Morgaine’s orders. Three warriors I trusted.

If she can turn them, why not Finn?

The door opens. I tense, my hand moving to my blade.

An orc stumbles in, clearly drunk already. He weaves toward the bar.

Not a threat.

I force myself to relax, to breathe. Dice strike wood somewhere near the hearth, followed by a muttered curse. Conversations overlap in Orcish, Fae and the clipped mountain dialect of the dwarves. Beneath it all, the fire spits and cracks, failing to warm the room.

A hooded figure stands and moves toward my table. She sits across from me without invitation.

“You’re late,” she says in a voice so soft I nearly lose it beneath the tavern noise. “You were supposed to be here an hour ago.”

I lean back and allow myself a faint smile. “Do you know who I am?”

A pause follows. Then she gives a quiet sound that might be amusement.

She tilts her head, studying me. “You’re the Herald of the Hunt. The Shadow Fae. Eirik’s favorite weapon. And currently, someone with very expensive questions.”

I push a pouch across the table. It clinks softly. Gold, as promised.

The hooded figure doesn’t touch it yet. “Before we begin, you should know the price of information has gone up. War drives inflation.”

“How much?”

“Double.”

I consider walking away. This might be a setup. Perhaps Morgaine somehow knew I’d come here, that this person across from me is bait in a trap.

But I need answers.

I push two more pouches across the table, more than we bargained for. The extra gold reeks of desperation, but pride will not protect Rhianelle from an army.

The figure takes them all, weighing them in one hand. Apparently satisfied, she tucks them away. “What do you want to know?”

“Is King Eirik being controlled?” I keep my voice low, though the question feels loud enough to silence the room.

“Yes.”

The bluntness startles me. I expected careful words or denial. Not this.

“By Morgaine?” The name tastes bitter.

“By what wears Morgaine’s face.” She leans forward slightly. “The enchantress you know as the king’s mistress is not what she appears. What inhabits her body now is something old.”

My blood goes cold. “What do you mean?”