The Forgotten Crown

Chapter Ten

Morana woke to footsteps puttering around her. Voices wafted to her in waves, but she couldn't pinpoint exactly where they came from.

Her mouth was so dry. Water. She needed water.

She finally found the strength to open her eyes. A wooden ceiling loomed over her. She blinked into the dark space.

It was quiet.

Morana swallowed again and turned her heavy head. Two men leaned against the wall. She narrowed her eyes. They were so familiar, but she couldn't quite place their names or how she knew them. She glanced at the man with curly hair and then the other, who leaned his head on his shoulder.

A wave of heaviness crashed into her. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again the room was bright, and the men were gone.

Morana wetted chapped lips.

The pain had tamed into a pulsing soreness. Bearable, at least. She pushed herself onto her side. Her shaking arms could only lift her so much at a time. She took a few deep breaths and then forced herself to sit. Her back muscles strained, but they were strong enough to keep her upright.

Morana frowned at her surroundings. Melted candles circled her and the crisp white sheets that she sat upon. Sunlight pooled into the only window behind her. The space was round, the walls built of stone. She blinked at the large cabinet next to the window and the odd vials and bottles, with strange liquids inside, that lined the shelves. A figurine of a curved woman rested alone on the center shelf, her arms outstretched above her in salvation.

Morana's jaw tightened when she noticed a long pink scar running down the length of her lower left leg. Her legs were bare. She pulled back the sheets, revealing a thin white chemise. She gaped down at her body.

She ran her fingers through her unbound hair. It was washed and recently combed. She touched her face. Her skin was clean.

Where the hell was she?

More light spilled into the room when an old woman, with russet-colored skin, pulled back a crimson drape and a white beaded curtain and stepped inside. She carried a wooden tray with a white cloth and a ceramic bowl on top. She paused when she met Morana's eyes.

Morana narrowed her sights on the woman's silver hair that cascaded over her shoulders. "Who the fuck are you?"

The woman frowned. She looked over her shoulder into a room behind her. "She's awake."

Morana's fists clenched at her side when two fae males entered the circular space. Her heart thrummed. They had been the ones who slept in the room with her. She glared at their faces, taking in a familiar scent. When she met emerald eyes, her memories came flooding back to her.

Jovah Windsinger. Alastair Immeril. They abducted her. She was a prisoner. No, she had escaped and—oh gods. She swayed, bringing her hand to her forehead. She caught herself with her other hand before she could fall over. She pulled back her arm, staring at the jagged pink scar. That beast—it attacked her. She was dead.

Jovah stepped closer to her, folding his arms over a raven-black doublet, adorned in golden vertical stripes, that clung to his figure a bit too tightly. "How do you feel?"

Morana blinked at the scar for several seconds. A mixture of shredded skin and pools of crimson flashed through her mind. She swallowed down the urge to vomit before glancing down at the chemise. Heat spread into her cheeks. "Where are my clothes?"

Alastair stepped around him, donning a deep green jerkin buttoned over a white shirt and tucked into khaki trousers. He rolled the sleeves up to the pit of his elbow. "She seems fine," he said and then kneeled next to her. He gestured to the old woman still standing in the doorway. "Your clothes were ruined, so Griselda cleaned you up and got you something to wear."