A Fae's Tale 2: Curse of Destiny
Author
Nicole Woodward
Reads
90.9K
Chapters
64
Newly winged and newly betrothed, Ella Briarsand is the realm's brightest hope—and its biggest target. While celebrations fill Sablewood's halls, a spreading curse and clerical enchantments tighten around the people she loves, including her cousin Rosalia, now possessed by a dark force that must be banished before it destroys her. At Ella's side is Prince Alaric, her shadow-born, half-Fae love, bound to a destiny of his own. As her orange aura grows stronger, Ella faces a cursed dragon and a mission that could change the future of Elarion—one that forces her to decide what kind of leader, and legend, she is destined to become.
1: An Evening Unlike the Others
Book 2: Curse of Destiny
“Ale for the winged wonder!”
Ulrich’s shout echoed through the atrium, a heartbeat before he stumbled on the dais steps, sending his tankard skidding across the marble. Foam streaked the stone, followed by a collective groan from nearby guests.
Still warm with that lingering glow—inside and out—Ella barely had time to react before Conric bounded up after his brother, a grin wide enough to get them both into trouble.
King Mazale didn’t even blink. “In all my years, I have never seen ale sullied upon an atrium platform.”
Conric ducked his head, his dark curls tumbling forward. “In my defense, Your Majesty, this was Chef Gael’s idea.”
“Guilty as charged,” Gael called from the aisle. “But Lady Moriella deserves a proper celebration.”
Ulrich straightened, beaming. “That’s right! And you made it look so easy, Ella!”
Her wings fluttered instinctively. “Easy?” she teased. “Was my screaming banshee impression not convincing enough?”
A warm bubble of laughter rippled through the crowd, relief settling in every face.
Sylvan slipped up beside her with a wink. “Ella, I swear your wingspan’s bigger than mine.”
“You know what they say about wingspans—” Conric began, waggling his brows.
“Um…a little help?”
Gwenne was halfway tangled in her skirts on the steps. Sylvan extended a gallant hand; Ella reached for her next.
“Ellie,” she breathed, folding into her. “You’re radiant. After everything… I don’t have the words.”
Ella pressed their foreheads together, closing her eyes for a heartbeat, a moment stolen from the noise. “I couldn’t have done it without all of you.”
When Gwenne stepped aside, Alaric slipped in at Ella’s side, his arm anchoring her, his presence settling the tremor beneath her skin.
“Say the word,” he murmured, “and I’ll clear the room. You’ve earned peace, my love.”
She leaned into him, adjusting her wings so they wouldn’t jab his ribs. “As long as you’re next to me, I’ve got enough peace to go around.”
Ella raised her voice. “I’ll have one drink—one—but let me get through this line first.”
Even with a small guest list, the line of well-wishers felt endless. The mirrored atrium shimmered with candlelight, each surface quietly confirming identities and giving Ella glimpses of herself, newly winged, her orange aura radiant.
Puck reached her first.
His enchanted chair rolled to the dais edge, eyes shining with tears that did not fall.
“I knew you’d get your wings,” he whispered.
Ella laughed softly, the sound fragile at the edges. “And I promised I’d fly with you, remember?”
His breath hitched. “I remember.”
She drew a magicked leather tether from her gown, the same one Lysander had used to keep her from falling when she first left home.
“Fancy a quick flight before I greet the rest?”
Puck’s hand hovered over the strap. “Just…don’t drop me, Ellie.”
“Never.”
She fastened the tether, snug, secure, and lifted him from the chair. His trust settled into the space between them as surely as his weight.
Alaric gave a nod. “Enjoy yourself, Puck.”
Ella’s wings flared as they rose toward the skylight. The mirrored walls caught them in a thousand reflections, her aura scattering like dawn breaking through storm clouds.
Puck let out a triumphant whoop, tears spilling free at last.
The guests below tilted their chins, hands over hearts, the hall hushed in awe.
“Proper flight later,” she promised. “Open sky. Wind. Distance. I swear it.”
“I’ll hold you to it,” he whispered.
They touched down together, breathless. Ella eased him back into his chair as the crowd erupted in cheers.
Her parents followed, full of warmth and quiet pride. Tutors, attendants, and Consuls: all came with formal praise and well-wishes.
Harley and Lysander were last, just returning from dealing with the clergy.
“Did they leave without trouble?” she asked, eyes flicking to Lysander.
“They took the antidote without protest,” he confirmed. “We informed them that escorts will be sent for Lady Rosalia and Sir Soric within the week. Barnabas didn’t argue, but he did say they’d ‘be in touch.’”
“Ominous prick,” Harley muttered, then paled when he realized Lady Seraphina was within earshot. “I mean, uh, it was an honor to serve as your scribe, Lady Moriella.”
Ella laughed, tension finally breaking.
Sir Darin sidled in. “Might I suggest Rosalia travel through Drakensridge before the kingdom? It’s safer during autumn storms.”
Ella’s smile softened, seeing through his thinly veiled excuse to be near Rosalia. “We’ll consider it.”
When the final guest stepped away, Ella exhaled slowly, her shoulders finally settling.
She turned to Alaric. “Now, about that drink.”
Right on cue, Chef Gael activated a mechanism. Wooden benches swiveled as tables rose from the stone floor, vines blooming around their bases.
Guests drifted into their seats, some gravitating to familiar faces, others striking up conversation with newfound acquaintances.
Then came a gleeful cry.
“Father!”
A wild-haired boy tore through the atrium doors, Elven ears poking through his curls. His poor lady-in-waiting flailed behind him, wings and patience in tatters.
The boy reached Lysander and threw his arms around his waist.
“Well, well,” Lysander said, ruffling his hair. “If it isn’t the fastest sprout in the Realm.” He looked up. “Lady Moriella, meet my son, Caspian.”
Caspian’s eyes widened at her luminous wings. “Whoa.” Remembering his manners, he gave a hasty bow. “A pleasure, Lady Moriella. You can call me Cas. That’s what Al calls me.”
Ella’s grin spread. “Then call me Ella. And, Al, is it?”
Alaric shrugged one shoulder. “My full name confused his young ears.”
The lady-in-waiting finally caught up, wings folding in exasperation. “I apologize, Lord Lysander,” she panted. “He insisted on seeing you.”
“No need for apologies, Briar,” Lysander replied. “We’re about to celebrate Lady Moriella’s coming-of-age properly. There’s room for two more, I assume?”
“Of course,” Ella obliged. “It’s wonderful to finally meet your son—and his very patient lady-in-waiting.”
“One of three,” Caspian said proudly, puffing up his chest. “They can’t keep up with me anymore. Father keeps hiring more.”
Briar shot him a sharp look. “That is not something to boast about, young sir.”
Laughter followed them to their seats. For a moment, Ella missed Gael’s round kitchen table, where everyone fit. But tonight, this would do.
The doors opened again, and silver platters streamed in: roasted pheasant, pear tarts, bowls of sugared berries. Steam rose in curls of rosemary and citrus and smoke.
Alaric slid in beside Ella just as her stomach gave a traitorous growl. “Sounds like someone’s earned a feast.”
“It’s not just hunger,” she murmured, wincing faintly. Her courses had arrived early, of course.
His smile faded to concern. “Do you need—?”
She cut him off with a reassuring smile. “Just food and a pint.”
Harley passed behind her, setting a tankard of ale onto the table. “Handled,” he announced with a grin.
Ella caught it, droplets of foam spilling over her fingers. “Perfect timing. Let’s eat.”
A few tables down, torchlight gleamed off Erannon’s emerald wings as he rose, calloused fingers clenched around a mug.
“I am but a humble farmer,” he began.
“Best selming farmer in the Realm!” Tuck shouted.
The room erupted in laughter and clinking mugs.
Erannon smiled, but his voice was heavy with feeling. “And yet, every day, I find myself fortunate. Two remarkable children. A wife who’s my bedrock. And now you, Ella—no longer my girl of running feet, but my daughter with wings.”
The laughter quieted.
“You’ve become more than I imagined. Strong, brave, and wise beyond your years. But no matter where life takes you, you’ll always be our daughter. And we will always stand—or fly—with you.”
Ella’s eyes burned as her father nodded toward her.
Ulrich sprang to his feet, nearly sending a candelabra crashing. “Enough tears. To Lady Ella!”
Cheers erupted. Mugs clanked. Even Wilia’s lips curved into a smile as Sylvan draped an arm around her shoulders.
And yet, beneath the celebration, a chill crawled down Ella’s spine. Twelve hours ago, she’d been held captive by Quillen Waylocks. And now here she was: with wings, Quillen dead, and the clergymen unceremoniously cast out.
“You sure you’re all right?” Alaric asked.
“If you ask me that again,” she muttered, “I’ll step on your foot.”
He winced theatrically. “Lady Celeste would be proud.”
She sighed, waving a hand. “Sorry. Blasted emotions.”
He caught her fingers and brushed a kiss across her knuckles. “You survived two trials today. One nearly broke you. The other gave you wings. You’re allowed a little fire.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then shrugged. “I suppose I am.”
His grin went wicked. “That’s my Ella.”
Across the table, Caspian leaned in. “Are you two married yet? Where was my invitation?”
Lysander gave a smile. “Not yet, Caspian. Likely at the Winter Solstice.”
“Not tonight’s concern,” King Mazale added. “Let us focus on Lady Moriella’s present triumph.”
Ella dipped her head. “Thank you, Your Majesty. And for your commentary during the ceremony. It helped more than you know.”
Mazale’s fangs gleamed. “I did perform rather well, didn’t I?” he drawled. “Though I must admit, your loved ones lightened the mood; I was ready to chew out the clergy, quite literally.”
“Your Majesty, please,” Lysander said, shaking his head, “my son is present. No talk of chewing people.”
Caspian snorted. “Father thinks I’m innocent.”
“But we all know better, don’t we, Cas?” Alaric quipped with a wink.
Between forkfuls of food, Ella’s gaze drifted to Lysander and Caspian. So much had changed for them, too. Isabeau’s Withering Veil, once thought incurable, might finally have an answer—the antidote made with her aura.
Her feathers rustled, aglow like candlelight. Most Fae lost their aura within half a day. Hers pulsed like it meant to stay.
A loud scrape broke the moment. Conric leaped up, heading straight for the musicians. The band paused mid-note as he turned with theatrical flair.
“I have a confession!” he boomed. “I didn’t write a coming-of-age report for the clergymen. Sod ’em all!”
Lady Seraphina’s gasp was promptly ignored as laughter echoed across the hall.
Lysander made a half-hearted attempt to cover Caspian’s ears. Too late.
“But!” Conric continued with a grin. “I did witness Lady Moriella’s triumph. I just…composed something instead. A birthday gift.”
He turned to Ella, eyes gleaming. “May I?”
She eyed him warily. “It better not be awful.”
“I only used your full name once.”
“Treason!” Alaric declared with a laugh, raising his goblet.
The band, clearly in on the fun, struck up a bright, lively tune. Conric bowed low, parchment in hand, and began:
“Oh gather ’round, both far and near,
“For now’s the time to sing and cheer,
“Of brave Moriella, twenty strong,
“Her wings unfurled, her heart in song!
“With feathers bright as dawn’s first light,
“She takes to skies in noble flight,
“A Lady hid in common guise,
“For weeds she plucks with cunning eyes.”
He winked at Ella, whose eyes narrowed playfully at the mention of her “weed-pulling” adventures. But before she could interject, Conric launched into the chorus, his voice carrying above the laughter:
“So raise your glass and drink it deep,
“For Ella’s wings, so bold they sweep,
“She’s brave and strong and true indeed,
“Outdrinks the Fae and pulls their weeds!”
The hall exploded with laughter, mugs pounding tables, someone shouting “Encore!” before the song had even finished.
Ella buried her face in her hands. When she looked up, her cheeks were crimson, but her eyes sparkled.
“Did you seriously immortalize my weed-pulling?”
“It rhymed,” Conric said shamelessly.
King Mazale leaned toward Alaric. “If his aura doesn’t mark him as a minstrel, I’ll hire him myself for entertainment.”
Laughter rolled on around them, warm and wild, and Ella knew that this night would be remembered. Always.
