by Stacey Jaine McIntosh
The cold lingered, seeping into her bones. Nobody had thought to warn her what it would mean when she took up the mantle of the Faerie Queen.
“Majesty,” the centaur went down on one knee and bowed before her.
“You came,” she whispered. “Did you bring it?”
“I did.” He unwrapped the swaddling to reveal a tiny child. Though it looked human, it wasn’t.
She reached for the silver dagger she kept at her waist. And in a flash drew the knife and plunged it downwards into the infant’s chest.
The sacrifice was made.
The blood of her enemy spilt.
Stacey Jaine McIntosh