With a sound like rolling thunder, the horse canters onto the ridge of Waylan’s Tor, his midnight coat shining in the soft dawn light.
The black steed’s rolling eyes are fearsome, but his nature is warm and calm. In contrast, the rider’s beauty shines bright and fair, but his heart is as dark as coal.
The barren hill has a perfect view of the Crystalline Oak—distant and removed—and exactly how the golden prince prefers it.
Brow furrowed, he scans the grassy earth beneath the tree’s metallic roots.
Searching. Searching.
After long minutes, his broad shoulders drop, and he exhales a heavy sigh, white puffs of air swirling to join the mist.
An amber moon sinks low in the lightening sky and, once again, the girl is nowhere to be seen. Thank the Elements. His lids fall closed, the pound of his black heart slowing.
More times than he cares to remember, he has held his breath, standing on this rocky outcrop, silver eyes seeking—always looking for someone who never arrives.
Forever waiting.
Waiting.
Waiting for her.
He tears his gaze away from the hated tree, twisting the garnet ring on his left hand that proves he is the kingdom’s heir, for no other fae can wear it. Then even though he has no desire to view the tree and what may lie below, he forces his gaze to return—to be certain she isn’t there.
She isn’t.
Relief flows warm through his fouled blood.
Drawing wild lengths of hair from sharp cheekbones, he sneers with those wicked, kissable lips as he ponders his people’s prophecy. Perhaps the legends of his court are no more than tales to entertain children, stories spun from fanciful lies about him and the one who has the power to end his pain. She who is foretold to come.
One day.
The girl he doesn’t want.
Every day.
The girl he already hates.
Forever.
He recalls what happened to his older brother, Rain, the horror—and he knows the stories of the curse are true.
The cold bites through gaps in shiny armor, nibbling around snug leather, but it doesn’t matter; his veins are already filled with icy winter.
Why, then, does he shiver?
Maybe it’s the poison slithering its way toward his heart—the creeping magic from which only she, his fated queen, can save him.
He leans forward in the saddle, fingers stroking warm horse flesh, and squints over the dusty plain below. Checking—to be absolutely certain.
All is well. Not a creature stirs. This morning, no girl lies dew-covered beneath the oak’s grasping branches.
Brilliant. He won’t be saved today. Instead he will ride far and ride hard. And be at peace… as much as a cruel heart can be.
But one day—one very unfortunate day—under that tree is where he shall find her, the queen who can make him king.
And when he does… under that tree is exactly where he’ll kill her.
For Everend Fionbharr will never be king.
Never.
Never. Ever. After.
