Keeper of Storms (The Fallen Fae #3) - Jenna Wolfhart Page 0,5
in the next room, waiting for him. It was hard and cold and wrong.
But it was his.
Druid Aric led the way out of the Meeting Hall where his new court waited for him. The citizens of Findius had packed into the Throne Room, a large and lofty hall with midnight pillars holding up a high, arched ceiling. Frightened eyes peered up at him. Rags hung off the fae’s gaunt frames, their sunken cheeks a reminder of why he’d agreed to this madness.
The shadow fae were dying. Surrounded on all sides by enemies, they had little hope of surviving another month, much less a year. Their High King was gone. No one else had stepped forward to claim the throne, not even the lords from across the mist-enshrouded lands.
Lorcan was all they had. And he could not turn his back on them.
“Are you ready, Your Grace?” Nollaig murmured from beneath her cloak as Lorcan positioned himself in front of the throne. He cut her a sharp look. This was all her doing. Hers and Commander Segonax’s. They had plotted and schemed like the worst of the courtiers. Just like the fae in the Air Court they were so desperate to overcome. He understood why they’d done it. He could appreciate their need for a leader better than his father, Bolg Rothach.
That did not mean it sat well in his gut. The knowledge of what they’d done hung in the air like the mists. Dark, dreary, and full of menace.
Still, Lorcan gave a nod. Conniving or not, his two friends had succeeded. Lorcan would become the next High King of the Shadow Court. The Seat of Power would bestow its strength upon him, and he would try his damnedest to use that power for good. Whatever it took, he would save the innocents from certain death.
“I’m ready,” he said.
Druid Aric knelt before him, holding the crown of twisting antlers in his hands. Lorcan stared at it. His father’s crown.
“Prince Lorcan Rothach, son of Bolg Rothach. Do you swear to serve this realm until your dying breath?”
“I swear it,” Lorcan said, clenching his hands.
“And do you swear that you will serve no other realm but this?” Druid Aric glanced up at Lorcan, his eyes flickering with intensity. And Lorcan knew why. Would he serve the Shadow Court first and foremost? Or would he turn his back on them to aid the Air Court, as he’d done before?
Through gritted teeth, Lorcan spoke. “I swear it.”
Druid Aric smiled. “And, finally, do you swear to behold the Dagda’s laws, serving him as you serve your realm?”
A few gasps peppered the silent hall at the sound of the Dagda’s name rather than Unseelie’s. Priest Tighe cleared his throat. Nollaig shifted on her feet, even if she had agreed with Lorcan on this.
“I swear it. To the Dagda.”
Druid Aric stood, his face and eyes shining with pride. He gave Lorcan a gentle nod. The sign that it was his time to kneel, the only moment he would ever bow his head before another. Lorcan knelt. The stone beneath his knee was cold and hard.
Druid Aric leaned forward and placed the crown on top of his head. The twisting antlers curved across his forehead, cinching perfectly into place, almost as though it had been made just for him.
Lorcan slowly stood and gazed out at the low fae waiting with bated breath. And then he sat. The throne rumbled beneath him, and the trembling shuddered through the entire hall. Low fae cried out, clutching onto each other’s arms. A strange burning sensation rippled through Lorcan’s body. First, it was nothing more than a spark, but then it grew into a blazing heat that almost made him fall to the ground.
Suddenly, the heat and rumbling stopped.
The crowd erupted into cheers and applause. Lorcan swallowed hard, still feeling the remnants of the throne’s powers buzzing across his skin. There was no going back now. He was the High King of the Shadow Court.
And they were under siege.
As soon as the low fae filed out of the Throne Room, Lorcan took a detour to the battlements at the top of the wall. They stretched high over the city, providing a sweeping view of the wood fae realm, the Sea of Fomor to the left, and the Mag Mell Sea to the right.
He could not see the ships, but he knew they were there. They’d circled the bay two weeks before, and they now sat waiting—unseen—for the castle to raise its white flag.