It was not the one she was searching for.
She wove her way through the unwashed throng towards the exit.
As she turned onto the cold, darkened London streets, failure weighed down what was left of her fractured soul. She had been searching for centuries, but she found only dead ends. She had recently returned to the island where her homeland lies to the far north for the first time since she left it over eight hundred years ago. Needless to say, it had changed.
The world had changed, and so had she. The one thing that remained constant in her life was her quest for her imprisoned husband. Rowan was still in that wand somewhere, and she wouldn't stop looking until she found it. After all, she had given up her life for this. She wanted to stop, to rest, to be at peace, but there would be no peace until Rowan was released. She had lain this geas upon herself, and now she was trapped by it.
Fiana stopped, suddenly overwhelmed by the truth of it. Every so often, her age would become too real for her to handle. Although she still looked forty, she was nearly nine hundred. She had spent most of that time as a creature of the night, as they say. It had been the only way to remain "alive" and continue her quest. Her own magic had failed her after a short two hundred years. She had no choice. Become a moroi or give up and die.
Perhaps she should've given up...