Amon was the head librarian at the Creepy Hollow Guild for ninety-one years before it fell. For sixty-eight of those years, he was a spy. As someone who was neither physically fit nor particularly brave, he’d never felt appreciated by guardians. They lived for the thrill of the fight, caring little for the vast storehouse of knowledge Amon watched over in the Guild’s great library.
But knowledge was exactly what Prince Zell wanted, and he was happy to pay for it. Knowledge of Tharros. Knowledge of his power that was never destroyed. Knowledge of the discs used to lock away that power. Knowledge of what those discs did to children born under its influence. And, of course, knowledge of any goings on at the Guild that might prove useful to a prince of the Unseelie Court.
Amon felt no loyalty to the Guild and its members, so agreeing to be Zell’s spy was easy. He didn’t particularly care for Zell either, but the arrangement he had with the prince was purely a business one. Which is why it was with no great difficulty that Amon transferred his allegiance to Draven after the halfling took it upon himself to behead Zell.
Amon was centuries older than the young ‘lord’ he now served, but he didn’t find that to be too much of a problem. Age was of little importance next to power, and Draven was the one with all the power. And he was offering a whole lot more of it to Amon than Zell ever had. Where Amon had been a tiny spider in the giant web Zell was weaving, he was now a key player in the game Draven had set up.
“Would you like to be part of the game?” he had asked Amon. “Would you like to move the pieces into position yourself? Would you like to watch first-hand as our enemy scrambles to stay one step ahead, when in reality they’ve always been miles behind?”
Yes. He wanted all of that. Guardians had always thought themselves better than everyone else, and he would greatly enjoy watching them fall.
So that’s how he found himself clinging to a tree trunk late one night, waiting for a magic carpet to rescue him. Draven had sent him out days before and told him to wait somewhere in Creepy Hollow. Unmarked fae still snuck around there at times, and Amon needed to get someone to rescue him. Someone, hopefully, who would take him back to the heart of the rebellion against Draven. From there, he could begin moving pieces across the game board.
When he’d heard the commotion of a fight somewhere near the ruins of the old Guild, he’d run a little further before using magic to assist him up a tree. He’d meant to get a better view of what was happening and where the best spot would be to reveal himself to his potential ‘rescuers,’ but he’d been luckier than that: They’d flown right past him and seen him. They slowed down, and he knew they were coming back for him. As he waited, he reminded himself of his role. He was scared. Exhausted. Fleeing from danger and unable to save himself. That would feed those guardian egos.
As the carpet neared him, he looked up and acted startled enough to almost fall from the tree. In all honesty, though, it was only half an act. He hadn’t expected to see the girl who’d unwittingly assisted in Draven’s first spectacular move against the Guilds. But there she was, giving him an encouraging smile, holding her hand out to him.
Play the game, he reminded himself. As he grasped her hand and launched himself clumsily from the tree onto the carpet, he heard the last words Draven had spoken to him:
It’s your move now.