Song of Sorrows and Fate: A Dark Fantasy Romance (The Broken Kingdoms Book 9)

“Stefan?”

My brother as I remembered him stood over me, smoke billowing from the paper herb roll between his teeth.

“Time to tell the tale, little one. Send them on their path.”

I cracked my eyes and woke to the dim light of a rounded throne room. Vines of silver moonvane lined the walls, and an oblong table had been arranged in the center. At one end sat a woman with satin dark hair, pointed ears, and night-black eyes. The Night Folk queen.

This was my Cursed King’s grandmother. How did I know it? It would’ve been right after the shift of the true kingdom. A time when worlds began anew with altered histories, and tensions, and enemies.

When mortals and Night Folk determined they were damned to hatred of each other.

Where were my Golden King’s folk? When the worlds shifted, did they fall backward, did they find youth again? Did they live in the turns where their fate could most likely align with the new tale that broke the kingdoms?

I shook away my curiosity and focused on the scene in front of me.

At the other end of the table was a man with icy pale hair, a russet beard, and sharp, cold eyes. His scalp was shaved on the sides, and gold chains and rings glittered around his neck and fingers. A small boy, no older than seven, stood stalwart at his side, dressed in a fur-lined tunic and boots that curled at the toes.

Near the Night Folk queen was another boy. Skin like brown soil, eyes dark like midnight, and sharp ears pierced in black bone studs.

“King Jon,” the Night Folk queen said, lacing her fingers over her belly. “We have offered our walls for turns. We want for nothing but peace between our people.”

“Peace with Night Folk?” The pale king chuckled. “How could we have peace when your fury coats these walls and have taken from our people all to keep the finer resources for yourselves? You do all this for the simple fact that we do not have the magic in our blood. Do not play games; you will bring us to your courts, only to rule over us.”

“Untrue.” The queen’s full lips pinched. She snapped her fingers and a bone-thin fae attendant scurried to her, bowing at the waist, as he held out a satin pillow. “In fact, we offer a gift of equality.”

My eyes widened. Twin battle axes were atop the pillow. The queen selected one, inspecting the sharp curve of the blade. “Twin weapons of equal strength. Forged from the fury in this soil. We wish our Timoran cousins to take one, a symbol of our friendship.”

King Jon slumped in his chair, sneering. “A single blade will not feed hundreds of hunters, it will not fill the bellies of children huddled in the snow.”

“No.” The queen placed the axe on the table. “But our crops are hearty, our furs are heavy, and our lands are open. I urge you to reconsider joining us, for there are omens of the Norns should you refuse.”

Her dark gaze landed on me. I swallowed the thickness in my throat when dozens of curious courtier eyes did the same.

“Tell them, little one,” Stefan said. He winked as though he knew some grand secret.

“Anneli, that was what you called yourself, yes?”

I nodded before I could think better of it. Truth be told, it was though I knew this conversation by heart. I’d given her my mother’s name, and I did not know why I’d not used my own.

The Night Folk queen smiled and beckoned me forward. “Speak of the power forged in these blades.”

My consciousness seemed to be locked in another body, another time. I had no power to refuse, no strength to keep my feet from stepping into the center of the room. In truth, I did not feel horribly like myself. My body was not as thin and knobby. My shoulders were straight, and the constant prickle of apprehension on the back of my neck was absent.

In the reflection of a grand window, the only parts of me that seemed the same were the braids of my golden hair.

I said nothing and slipped my hand into a satchel strung over my shoulder. From inside, I removed a goose-feather quill and a glass inkwell brimming in mahogany ink. Somewhere in the distance a voice hummed. The sound of it soothed my heart.

I am searching for something. Each step brings me closer. I let out a breath, repeating the words in my mind as I began to write a tale of hatred, of battle and blood. Of a people who would one day unite after suffering.

Pinched between my fingers, I held the parchment over an open flame. Too far to burn, but near enough it would take a simple flick to turn the tale to ash, then faced the suspicious glare of the ancient Timoran king.

“Find friendship today and you may walk a kinder path. Refuse, and you will be lost in a way you cannot understand.”

His angry eyes narrowed. Behind him billowed a dark cloud, some force unseen.

Damn battle lord was here, unknown to everyone.

“Is this some sort of manipulative threat?” The Ice King leaned forward, attention on the Night Folk queen.

“Not at all, King Jon.” She didn’t falter and held up one of the axes. “She has the power of the Norns, of prophecy. We do not wish unease between us, so will you take peace? Or do you keep our tensions while your people freeze?”

He slammed a hand on the table. The small, dark-haired fae boy jumped in surprise, the same as the pale boy beside his icy father. King Jon glowered. “Keep your blade. Perhaps in time you will need it. Send your ambassadors for future trade. We are done here.”

I watched him and his pale-haired guards storm from the room. Heart racing, I let the tale of war and pain ignite.

“Those blades will bring about a new Etta,” I told the queen, voice low and soft.

She tilted her head. “A new Etta?”

I said nothing and smiled at the small prince near his mother. “And you, young Arvad, you will be part of it.” I leaned over my knees, meeting his dark eyes. “I urge you to keep your heart and mind open to your neighbors in the North.”

His nose wrinkled. “I hate Timorans.”

“Perhaps there will come a day when you do not.”

By the time the final piece of scorched parchment landed on the table, I was all at once in a corridor with Stefan at my side.

“Our time is out, little one,” Stefan whispered. “Listen to your heart, listen to the voice you cannot explain.” He squeezed my hand. “Until the next tale.”

Swift footsteps came up behind us. I screamed as a short blade rammed through Stefan’s chest. No, no, no. I couldn’t lose him again, I couldn’t. I reached for him, but rough hands yanked at my arms and slammed me onto my knees. From the shadows, the Ice King materialized.

A dagger was in his hand. Slowly, he tapped it against his palm. “I do not trust Night Folk fury. But I certainly do not trust the magic of witches.”

“Offensive,” I spat through my teeth.

The same melodic hum built in my mind. It burned in my heart.

I’ll find you, I promised. Why I thought such a thing, I didn’t know, but my heart jolted when a voice answered. A broken voice, one that was young and thick with emotion.

Our song here is finished. Sing with me again, Little Rose.

King Jon lifted the dagger. I closed my eyes. A sharp burn filled my throat when the point of a blade rammed through.

I snapped up, gasping. My hands padded over my body. Alive. I was alive. “Silas?”

He was hunched over, a hand to his chest, heavy breaths coming through his nose. He blinked to me, eyes wet. “Do you know what it’s like?”

“I don’t . . .” My hand covered his over the frantic pace of his heart. Gods, he was trembling. “Silas. What . . . what was that? Did that happen? I-I died.”

He winced. “Until the next song. Until the next song.”

Silas cupped one side of my face, holding it for a pause, then shoved me back into a dark oblivion.

Brilliant stars were overhead.

“You’re certain this must be?”

I sat up, disoriented, and accompanied by Stefan once more. He was dressed differently. A high-collared tunic, wilder hair braided off his bearded face, but that damn smoke was still lit, still puffing around his head.

“Whisper, you’re certain this must be?” A woman, thin and pale with fiery hair like my Shadow Queen was looking at me. She shivered in the cold, swollen pillows of skin were under her eyes from exhaustion and bruises, and battle scars covered her skin.

Whisper? I was now called Whisper?

I stood. Hells, my body was different. More meat lined my bones, and pierced in my lips was a bone stud that hadn’t been there before. Tattoos of runes marked each of my fingers, and cords of golden hair hung down to my waist.

I was me, but . . . not at the same time.

I slowly drifted to the injured woman’s side. She held out a leather pouch, hand trembling.

“It is a curse. We should destroy it.”

“It must remain to restore this land one day.” I lifted my chin. “Your path of fate is opening, as it is doing in Northern realms. As it will someday do in the isles of fae.”

“I don’t see how this ends for our Eastern realms. Those kingdoms in the North, the South, the West, they will be overtaken should they win the ring.”

I offered a gentle smile. “Trust that there is a path in play that will lead to united lands once again.”

“Our people will be destroyed.”

“No. This ring will be found and lost many times by your folk, but someday she will bring an end to this pain. It will restore the true fated crown of this land.”

Recollection sparked in a truth so few of us knew. This moment was a time in the past of the Eastern regions when the bloodline of a first family of memory queens battled with a second bloodline that wanted the power.

This was the queen who’d lost to hateful wars, but there was a tale written here. In distant turns, a woman from the first family’s line would take vows with a man from the second. They’d fight to restore the crown. They’d fail.

But from that union would come a daughter. A girl who’d find a boy of shadows, and together they’d pick up this fated fight again.

“It is our damnation to remain in constant battles over that cursed ring.” Tears burned in the woman’s eyes when she stared at the pouch. “It has destroyed me, my armies. I know I will not live long. Already I hear the call of the Otherworld.”

She pulled back the hand she kept pressed to her side. Dark blood fountained from a deep wound. Her thin lips twitched in a tentative smile. “I do not wish to see memory manipulators on the throne, but . . . I have failed.”

“There is no failure. You have walked a path of pain through this battle. Their victory is but a small moment, a step toward the fated end.”

She closed her eyes and stumbled. Stefan wrapped an arm around her, holding her steady. “I yearn to rest. They made him forget me. They robbed me of my heart.”

“You will dine together in the hall of the gods.”

“I pray you are right. About it all.” Her voice was fading.

Stefan eased the woman to the ground, and I placed a hand on the side of her head. Never had I been a memory sharer, but somehow I knew she would see into the future memories of the bleeding Norns.

It was the gift of the ring, of the queens of the Eastern realms, to garner bits and pieces of past, present, and future memories from the damn Fates themselves.

She’d see my Shadow Queen. She’d see the future of her kingdoms united with a thieving king made of shadows at her side. She’d see the end of this fight she never wanted.

“I see it. The end.” With a trembling sigh, she blinked through tears. “May the gods protect them.”

“They will know what happened here,” I whispered. “They will make your fight worth every drop of blood.”

“Will I see him in the Otherworld?” She looked at me, her bright green eyes desperate. “Will I see Sindri at the table of the gods at the dawn?”

Sindri—her mate. How I knew it, I wasn’t certain, but I nodded. “He is already free of this world and saves your place beside him.”

Her breaths rattled. “May the fated queen have the fiercest devotion of heart.”

She let out a long breath, and never took another.

I brushed her hair off her brow, blinking through the sting in my eyes, and whispered, “The queen of your blood has every ounce of devotion. I promise.”

When I turned to walk away, I stumbled, landing on my knees, but I was no longer kneeling on frosted earth. Instead, much like it had been in the Night Folk palace, now I knelt before a wooden throne, a cruel-eyed man glaring down at me.

In his hand was the queen’s leather pouch. He unlaced the top and tossed the contents onto his rough palm.

“We have the true claim!” Between his thick fingers he held a glass ring, coated in dark runes. The glow of those runes was deadened.

Gods, the same ring had once been in the court of Riot Ode. A relic to be found on a cruel path of fate that would bring battle after battle until a masquerade where a young boy would be stolen from a young girl.

At my side, one of the attendants in the tent looked to me curiously. Warmth spread in my chest. Here was a final piece of this tale that would ignite the steps for my Shadow Queen. The attendant tilted his head when I grinned.

“One day, your house will protect the heirs with the true claim to that ring,” I whispered, speaking only to the attendant. “Teach your son of the fallen family, so he will teach his son, and his son, until the end.”

The attendant swallowed. He was unsettled, but there was a burn within him. One he might not be able to see. He did not believe his master was the true king of the land, yet he lived on both sides. Much like a man would do in future turns, a man who’d grow in power beneath an enemy while housing a forgotten daughter in his hayloft.

“House Strom,” I whispered, “will become the house of royals.”

He dipped his chin, confused, uneasy, but there was the slightest twitch to his lips as though he wanted to believe my words enough to smile.

Hot tears gathered in my eyes as the words for the path of fate that would unite Kase and Malin burned through my head. While the bastards of the war camp celebrated and taunted the fallen memory queen, I wrote the words in the dirt.

A song, a tale I didn’t think I’d ever truly seen, yet I knew it. From the depths of my soul, I could sing each word of pain and loss, of shadows and crowns.

“We are at the end of this tale, Princess,” Stefan said. “Find the voices you cannot explain. Until the next tale.”

“Sing my song at the end. Bring me back to you,” I whispered to the darkness.

Always, Little Rose.

Silas wasn’t here, but his voice was clear and sharp in my mind.

“You will fight to keep that ring forevermore,” I said to the wretched royal holding the ring. “You will never rid this land of the true bloodline.”

He smirked and tossed the ring, catching it again in his dirty palm. “Watch me, sorceress. Then again, I suppose you won’t be able to see much.”

The low hum of Silas’s voice surrounded the war camp.

I closed my eyes.

“Whisper?” I murmured the name I called the haunting voice. “What was your mother’s name? I’ve forgotten.”

My mother? The song in my mind paused. You remember me.

“I do.” I smiled and spoke the remaining words in my head. What was her name?

Another pause, then, Greta.

A smile flicked in the corner of my mouth. I think I shall be Greta then.

Heartache splintered through my chest. Agony, rich and palpable, burned through my blood. I wanted to tell him not to fret, not to hurt on my behalf. I wanted to tell him many things, but the song began again, one that fitted into the words I’d spun about a shadow king, and a queen who robbed folk of memories.

It was beautiful.

A guard wrenched my head back. A scream slid from my throat, but it faded to wet gasps when the knife rammed through my neck.

In my mind, a cry of anguish broke my heart more than the blade.

Find me, he pleaded. Live and live again. Find me, Little Rose. Please.

Phantom aches burned along my throat when I realized I was back in the gloom. I was free of the war of memory workers over a cursed ring.

“Silas?”

“Live—” He stared at the dark ground and cleared his throat. “Live and live again.”

“Until death at crimson night.” My fists curled. Panic grew, hot and cruel in my chest. “I wrote those words for months before the battle in the South. My daj said those words . . . the night he died.”

Silas lifted his head. “If you had no true lifeline, the battle lord could not find you.”

No. This was impossible. It couldn’t keep happening this way. I dug my fingers in my hair. “Live and live again. I died in those . . . dreams, those memories. Are you . . . are you telling me I’ve . . . died before, only t-t-to live again?”

My voice was shrill, not out of rage, but it had Silas recoiling like I might reach out and strike him. He was unaccustomed to others, that was clear, and he seemed wholly locked in despair when tears dripped onto my cheeks.

“Is that what you’re saying, Silas?” I softened my tone. “That I keep dying only to live again?”

He nodded, but kept his gaze trained away.

“But . . . it’s not possible. There aren’t multiple lifetimes. The Norns have one string, one path, for us all.”

“Yes,” he said. “The reason the king’s final song was against a natural order of fate.”

My pulse quickened. “This is why he died, isn’t it? To lose the magic of his blood, it would destroy him physically. And my mother! She could write simple twists of destiny, did she offer her strength only to succumb to a weak body and die with an arrow in her throat?”

Silas barred his body away from me and covered his face with his palms. “I hate it, Little Rose. I hate that this was the way to save you. Do-Do you know what it’s like?” He shook his head, muttering, “She doesn’t know. She doesn’t know the truth.”

His voice was laden in pain, a sorrow so agonizing I felt the ache to my soul. Tears lined his eyes, a wildness was taking hold, a sense of being lost in his countenance, as though the shadows in which he’d lived were pulling him back.

“Silas, we should stop. You don’t need to relive this again,” I said, a crack in my voice.

Whatever these visions were, they were breaking him. A fierce need to shield him, to touch him, to bleeding protect him, clung to my chest like a boulder crushing my ribs.

“It is too late to stop it,” he said in a dark whisper.

I scrambled toward him, reached out my hand, and before I could touch him, fell into nothingness.