Page 87 of Of Iron and Moonlight

Njall took a deep breath.

He was Champion still—but the victory brought no joy.

It was dulled by Oorlon’s grin.

Chapter 41

Njall

The High King rose with leisurely satisfaction and offered no acknowledgment of the outcome. “Everyone out,” he said with a lazy flick of his fingers. “I will speak only with my Champion, Warden Haskir, and Damlor.”

None dared linger. The hall emptied in swift currents of obedience, and the door slammed shut with a thud into the silence that echoed through Njall’s bones.

“Loyalty without understanding erodes with time,” Oorlon began, then paused as Haskir dragged himself to his feet, a snarl still caught at his mouth. “It is time you understood the work you serve. Its importance. Then I have an ask of you.”

He descended from the dais and began to circle the chamber. A familiar choice. Njall glared at him, exhausted enough to walk the line between logic and fury.

“I have been sending you to collect a specific kind of human. Do you know why?”

Njall shook his head. Haskir snickered.

“Humans,” Oorlon continued, “are nothing more than fae who have forgotten what they once were. Thousands of years of mingling between bloodlines diluted what once existed.”

“They are descended from us…” Njall mouthed, more shaken than he preferred to be.

“We are their origin,” Oorlon confirmed. “They cling to iron to shield themselves, unaware that moonlight once ran through their veins.” His tone shifted. “We fae learned our lesson long ago. Well… not all of us.” His mouth curved. “No secret—one of my ancestors tainted our line.”

He turned sharply toward Njall. “And you are rarer still. A direct blending of bloodlines within our lifetime.” His eyes hardened with open disdain. “I will never understand why Loken ruined one of the purest Norrelian legacies for a passing fancy.”

“He loved her,” Njall snapped.

“Love,” Oorlon scoffed. He dismissed the thought with a shudder. “That is why we do not breed with the other kingdoms. Nor mix with humans. Our gifts decay when we do.”

“How does this concern the humans I brought you?” Njall demanded, frustration breaking through. Then survival instinct caught up with him. “Your Majesty.”

“Some humans carry traces of our blood that resurface after generations. You see it in the eyes: violet, green, amber. In them, our magic lies dormant, and for centuries we believed it would never wake.” A flicker of madness brightened Oorlon’s eyes before vanishing. “We were wrong.”

Njall swallowed, the sound loud in the silence. “Humans can wield magic?”

“Oraivane,” Haskir supplied, smiling as if pleased to know the word first.

“Oraivane,” Oorlon repeated with a nod. “A flower that grows thick along the slopes of the Niverna Mountains. It bleeds a black sap.” He paused. “Untreated, it is volatile. Sometimes awakening, sometimes killing. But refined properly, it can rouse dormant fae magic in humans.”

Haskir and Oorlon exchanged a conspiratorial glance before Oorlon continued his slow prowl. “The sap seeps into the earth and stains anything it touches. Diamonds, for instance.” Oorlon fluttered his ringed fingers. “Our favorite Lord Pietre spent years stealing those gems, never realizing the true prize bloomed just above.” A short, humorless laugh. “I care nothing for the jewels. They are merely grave markers of something divine.”

Njall frowned, turning the idea over. “If it can awaken it in human blood, then surely it can heighten the power in our own veins.” The thought landed like a lifeline. He could not help thinking of his own Norrelian magic, thinner than it should have been, and wondering whether this might answer every failing he had never spoken aloud.

“In theory.” Oorlon’s attention drifted to Damlor, who still stood unmoving near the dais. His voice softened, almost fond. “Damlor was among the first we tested, before we understood that balance was required. Instead of strengthening him, the mixture burned him from within. Healing slowed. Flesh scarred.” A slight shrug. “An unfortunate setback.”

Damlor’s scar shifted as he smiled. “A setback,” he said, “that served its purpose.”

Oorlon returned to the throne. “We have learned much since,” he said. “An improved mixture for fae is underway. Until it is perfected, humans serve as primary subjects.”

Njall turned away, clasping his hands behind his back. Concern over his own magic fell away, replaced by a surge of shame. This was what he had been helping Oorlon do. How many humans had he delivered into this fate with his own hands?

“Celestine Isle functions as both prison and laboratory,” Oorlon continued, oblivious to the shift in him. “Progress has been slow. I would like it accelerated.” He leaned forward on the throne. “You will depart tonight for the isle. Bring back to me the potion master. And two viable subjects. I expect your return by the week’s end.”

“Anything you require, Your Majesty,” Haskir said with a smug bow.