Quill of Thieves

Epilogue: Abel Venande of Eilibir

Legends claimed that Eilibir was a fishing village without any fish.

If that were the case, then the Realm of the Fae was a faery land without any faeries.

Where were those winged little bastards?

Of course, Abel knew the Fae were not actually winged, not like the Aerie who remained tucked behind the Gates of Elaerien, but the humorous thought of those hunky faery warriors with tattooed butterfly's wings kept Abel company as she ran.

And she did run. As if wind's threads boosted her feet and sent her soaring across Rainier's mountainous borders. Well, technically, she supposed the credit truly went to the magnificent white stallion she had stolen from the Halorian stables as those war drums had thrummed. At least Astrid hadn't lied about her horses' speedy ability. One point to Princess Bitch on that front. Because the horse Abel currently rode upon had been the male with the most muscular, portrait-perfect legs, snorting and biting at his bit to be let out of his stall.

Naturally, she had felt it best to oblige the strong, caged creature.

So, to be fair about such matters, Abel supposed the wind bolstered the stallion's hooves and not her own feet. Regardless, she was the one who steered him—she had taken to calling him Sleet—and he carried her through the snow-covered ground of the Serac Mountains until it eventually blurred into slushy, muddy grass and into the rolling hills of Belsynen. The Fae Realm. Clumps of dirt flew up around the horse's legs and stuck wetly to her neck as she urged Sleet into a faster gallop.

Perhaps stealing a purebred white horse hadn't been Abel's brightest idea. Sure, with that white coat of his, he must have blended in perfectly in a place like Mount Halum, offering camouflage against the constant snowfall and icy cliffs. But, as the horse flew into the first round of thick trees, Abel realized, though Sleet's coloring was beautiful, it wasn't the most ideal for running through the absurd lush green foliage of Belsynen. The two of them would surely stick out as sorely as a sword in a battle with arrows.

She clucked her tongue against Sleet's sweaty neck, urging him somehow faster.

And as the sun began to set on their first day of riding, Abel had not come across a single soul or spirit. Neither fae or elf nor fox or squirrel.

It unnerved her.

Even eerier was that Abel had been able to sense the exact moment she and Sleet had crossed over Rainier's border and into the Realm of the Fae. Norham's map lay spread out across her lap, crunched between her stomach and thighs, but she hadn't needed it. Because when they had entered Belsynen, Abel's lungs had expanded, the oxygen in the air smelling richer, sweeter; the blood in her veins thrummed as it extended from her very soul and dove into the damp scent of soil that permeated from the earth.

The malachite stone, which she clutched in her right hand, had even flared, warming against her palm hot enough that it had left a red, circular mark on her flesh.

Elf, it seemed to claim her. You are of us.

She gripped it tightly nonetheless.

"Keep it," Matthias had insisted before they had separated: him to the portal with Sebastian and Astrid. Her, back to the fortress only to escape it on horseback. "Remember, it can offer protection. Concealment. You felt it in Lambert's office. Feel for it again when needed."

Abel had nodded, curling her fingers back over the magical stone. "It concealed you, didn't it? Hid your true self? Whatever it may be. Manticore or dragon, perhaps?"

"Why do you both suspect I'm a dragon-shifter? A female breed?" Matthias had huffed and then had bowed his head to the stone. "It must be touching you. To work. Preferably contact with your blood. Keep it close."