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Crossing those stained floors, I survey all those who have been summoned today, seeing a variety of seasons represented. But not mine.
Never mine.
No, the only one who bears my season was stolen. Stolen. Stolen.
She will return to me. There is no other option.
Lowering myself into the large, ornate stone chair, I nod at Nimh. "Line up," she calls, addressing the crowd. "The Frostweaver is ready to receive you."
The fae may as well be faceless to me. None of them are remarkable. None of them are special. Not one. Their blood is boring. Most of them are happy to have a God here at all, with little to no care of what that means, as long as they can continue their lives and the humans stay where they are.
Do they not see that if not for their dirty magic, they, too, would be human?
They think the word as if it is cursed.
Human.
Human.
Yes, humans put me in this position, not bringing me back, but Lucinda had to have had her reasons. The fae are no different. The fae have ridden into this city on the back of magic that did not belong to them.
But not mine. Barely mine.
They never figured it out, did they? Why were there so few Winter practitioners?
I lost less magic than my siblings in the banishing. A little gift Lucinda hid for me in the ritual. And even still, the magic I lost that blanketed the land was toxic to almost all who tried to consume it.
Winter magic is only for those most worthy.
The powerful.
That is why the Shadowweaver is so important. So special. Few have been able to bear the burden that is Winter, and she has done it with such grace.
The daughter of my magic.
"Your grace?" Nimh says, clearing her throat.
I must have lost myself in thought for a moment.
"Right, yes, you, say your name," I say with a wave of my hand. My fingernails have blood under them.
"Bracken," the large man in front of me says, not bowing his head.
Why does he not bow? Does he not realize who I am?
"That name is familiar." I wrack my brain, trying to place it. "Nimh, why is that name familiar?"
"He made your throne, Frostweaver," she says from beside me. She is so small standing next to me, her long grey dress covering her bare feet.
Why is she so small? Are fae not made of heartier stock?
Bracken puffs out his chest and nods. "I did."
"It's a good throne," I tell him, nodding my head. "Sturdy. Come, let me judge you."
The broad man grits his teeth and steps forward, extending his arm to me. I drag my blade across the underside of his forearm, and it blooms beautifully as I collect the nectar on the flat of my blade. His blood smells like petrichor, and it makes my mouth water. I drag my tongue through it, my vision going fuzzy for a moment.
But all I see is rage.
