“Get out!” Lucia snapped.
“Listen, I understand that you had a rough night. We both did. But you’re being completely irrational right now.”
She thrust her hand toward the door. At her command, it flew open and slammed against the wall. Her cheeks were red and tear-streaked. “Leave me alone with my daughter!”
The baby’s cries hadn’t stopped for a single moment.
Was he supposed to simply ignore what he’d seen in Lucia’s dream just because she’d woken up in a foul mood? “I was trying to help you!”
“Once you get me to my father and Magnus I won’t need any more help from you, rebel.” She jabbed her finger in the direction of the door. “Are you suddenly deaf? I said get out!”
Before he knew it, Jonas found himself shoved out into the hallway by a blast of air magic, the door slamming shut in his face.
So this was the thanks he got for defying his own damn prophecy and saving her life last night by very nearly giving his own: a door magically slammed in his face the morning after.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud through clenched teeth. “This is almost over. Can’t be soon enough for me.”
As soon as he delivered the Limerian princess to her hateful family, his association with the Damoras would officially and thankfully come to an end.
In a fouler mood than any in recent memory, he descended the inn’s stairway. He focused on finding some breakfast to fill his empty stomach. A traditional Paelsian breakfast of runny eggs and stale bread would be perfect, he thought. He didn’t expect to find the exotic fruits and vegetables that graced the dining tables of shiny, pampered Auranians or stick-up-their-arses Limerians. This close to the western wastelands, he’d be lucky to get a wilted piece of cabbage or partially rotting tomato to go along with his meal.
And he was just fine with that!
“Jonas.”
He froze momentarily at the unexpected greeting as he entered the shadowy, nearly vacant tavern. Instinctively, he reached for the dagger hanging from his belt. But when his gaze fell upon a familiar face, his scowl was replaced by a grin.
“Tarus?” he asked, stunned. “Am I seeing a spirit right now, or is that really you?”
The young boy with messy red hair and a memorable face full of freckles grinned brightly back at him. “It’s really me!”
Without hesitation, Jonas embraced his friend tightly. This welcome face from his past worked as an immediate balm for his wounded soul. “It’s so good to see you again!”
Tarus Vasco had given his heart and soul to the rebel cause after his kid brother had been killed in King Gaius’s battle to take control of Auranos. Later, after a failed uprising in which countless rebels had been slaughtered, both Tarus and Lysandra had been captured and had nearly lost their heads at a public execution.
Lysandra. The loss of a girl who’d begun to mean so much more to him than just a fellow rebel was still fresh and raw. Any reminder of her made Jonas’s heart ache with grief and regret that he hadn’t been able to save her.
So many memories came along with Tarus’s face—both good and bad. All Jonas had wanted when he’d accompanied the boy back to his home village was for Tarus to be safe, but there was no such thing as “safe” in Mytica anymore.
Tarus gripped him tightly by his upper arms. “I did what you told me to do. I’ve learned to fight as well as any trained soldier. You’d be proud of me.”
“I have no doubt about that.”
“I’m relieved that you managed to escape.”
Jonas frowned. “Escape?”
Tarus lowered his voice. “Is the witch asleep? Is that how you managed to slip free from her control?”
Jonas suddenly became acutely aware that the tavern was completely empty apart from the three men who stood silently behind Tarus like hulking shadows.
“You’ve been waiting down here for me,” Jonas said slowly and carefully.
Tarus nodded. “As soon as the innkeeper sent word last night that you’d arrived with the witch, we got here as fast as we could.”
“You’re rebels.” Jonas spoke softly, but he could see the truth now right in front of him.
“Of course we are. We heard what happened during Empress Amara’s speech—that the witch managed to put you under her dark spell. But it won’t last. My grandmama said a witch’s magic dies when she does.”
This almost made Jonas laugh. Tarus had always had tales to share that he’d learned from his grandmother to help explain the unknown. Jonas had once dismissed magical stories as amusing but utterly worthless.
So much had changed since then.
“I promise we will help free you from her evil grasp,” Tarus said gravely. “I know you wouldn’t be with Lucia Damora of your own free will.”
Jonas flicked a wary glance at the other men. They didn’t look at him with concern like Tarus did. The nearby wall torch reflected in their cold, dark eyes. They were filled with distrust.
“I know you’ll have trouble believing this,” Jonas said, “but Princess Lucia is not what you think she is. There’s something else out there . . . someone else. The greatest threat that has ever been unleashed in this world. That’s what we need to stop.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarus asked quietly.
Jonas licked his dry lips. How best to explain the unexplainable? “I know you’re well aware of the legend of the Kindred.”
Tarus nodded. “A magical treasure many have sought, thinking it might turn them into gods.”
“Right. But the thing is, Kindred magic isn’t just magic someone can use for themselves. They’re actually gods already—air, water, earth . . . fire. Trapped inside the four crystal orbs. And the fire god has been freed.” Lucia’s horrific dream flashed through his mind, and he cringed at the memory. “He wants to destroy the world. Princess Lucia is the only one who has the magic to stop him.”
Chest tight, he waited for a response, but for several long moments there was only silence.
Then one of the hulking men scoffed. “What nonsense.”
“He’s definitely under the witch’s influence,” another hissed. “We gave you a chance to speak with him, Tarus. But our time is running out. What should we do now?”
Jonas frowned. Was Tarus their leader? Did these men look to a boy of only fifteen years of age to command them?
Tarus met Jonas’s gaze. “I want to believe you.”
“You have to believe me,” Jonas said simply, but his voice felt strained. He knew it sounded like the most far-fetched story he’d ever told. Had he not witnessed much of it with his own eyes, he’d be the first to deny such insanity. “You always believed in the possibility of magic, Tarus, and you must believe this. The fate of our world depends on it.”
“Perhaps,” Tarus allowed. “Or perhaps the witch has a tighter hold on you than I thought she did.” His brows drew together, his gaze growing distant. “I saw her, you know. Princess Lucia Damora walked with her male friend amongst the carnage in a village they’d just destroyed as if it were only a pleasant bonfire, set ablaze to warm her cold heart. I remember that she smiled as she walked past the charred corpse of my mother.” His voice broke. “I watched both of my parents burn to death right before my eyes, and I couldn’t do anything to save them. We were visiting my aunt for a few days. And . . . then they were gone.”
Jonas couldn’t breathe, couldn’t form enough words to speak. To argue. To explain that the male friend had been the fire Kindred, Kyan. It didn’t excuse Lucia’s behavior or choices while aligned with him. How was he supposed to explain something as horrible as this?
“I’m so sorry” was all he managed to say.
“The King of Blood’s daughter belongs to the darklands,” one of the other rebels snarled. “And we’re here today to send her there. Her and her spawn.”
Jon
as felt his stomach drop. “You know about the child? And you’d wish to harm an innocent?”
The rebel grabbed a torch off the wall. “The innkeeper told us. It’s a demon born of a demon, not an innocent child born of a woman.”
Jonas watched with dismay as Tarus also grabbed a torch. “You think Lucia’s evil. And perhaps she was . . . for a time. Perhaps we’ve all done unforgivable things in our lives. I know I have. But you can’t help them do this.”
“You defend her even though she killed Lys.” When Jonas winced as if the name were a slap, Tarus’s expression hardened. “Yes, word travels fast.”
“The fire god killed her, not Lucia. The princess named her baby Lyssa to show her remorse for what happened to Lysandra.”
“That witch doesn’t deserve to speak that name,” Tarus spat. “Had it not been for her, Lys would still be alive. Countless Paelsians would still be alive!”
It was exactly what Kyan had claimed in Lucia’s dream, that everything was her fault.
“It’s not that simple,” Jonas said through clenched teeth.
Pained disappointment flashed across Tarus’s face. “You’re a Paelsian. You’re a rebel. You know that black-hearted witch is everything we’ve been fighting against! Why do you waste the breath to defend her?”
Tarus was right. Completely right.
Lucia’s magic had released the fire god from his crystal cage. She’d stood by him for months as he laid waste to half of Mytica, killing countless innocents. Even before that, she’d been raised by King Gaius, a monster Jonas had wanted dead more than anyone else.
Until . . .
Until what? he thought with disgust. Until you became an ally of the Damoras? Until the King of Blood himself sent you to find his daughter and return her safely to his royal side so he could harness her magic to regain his sadistic power?
Jonas didn’t know what to say, his mind in turmoil. Every choice, every decision, every thought he’d had over the last painful year had all led to this moment.
“Your place is with us, Jonas.” Tarus’s voice grew quieter again. The boy was now so close that Jonas could feel the heat from Tarus’s torch against his face. “If this fire god is real, we’ll deal with him. Let us free you from the witch’s dark spell so you can help us.”
His heart felt like a lead weight in his chest as he pulled the jeweled dagger from the leather sheath at his belt. It was the very same dagger that had killed his brother when it had been wielded by a rich and spoiled lord. Jonas could have sold it for a small fortune on many occasions, but he’d kept it as a symbol of what he fought for.
Justice. Good triumphing over evil. A world where everything made sense and lines between friend and foe were clearly drawn in the sand.
Had a world like that ever existed?
“I can’t let you kill the princess,” Jonas said firmly. “What you’re going to do is let me leave this inn, this village, with her and the baby, unharmed.”
Tarus glanced at the dagger, his brows raised. “Impossible.”
“You’d be dead if I hadn’t saved you from the executioner’s ax,” Jonas said. “You owe me this.”
“I owed you only what you asked of me: that I grow up and get strong. I did that. I’m strong now. Strong enough to do the right thing.” Tarus then addressed his men, his voice solemn but firm: “Burn the inn to the ground. If Jonas gets in your way . . .” He sighed. “Kill him too. He’s made his choice.”
The rebels didn’t wait. They moved toward the stairs with their torches in hand. Jonas shoved at one, swiping his dagger at another. In mere moments, they managed to both restrain and unarm him.
He was still weak from last night. From allowing Lucia to steal his mysterious inner magic to survive the birth of Lyssa.
One of the men dragged Jonas across the floor of the tavern, the dagger pressed to his throat as the rebels threw the torches to the wooden floor. It took only a moment for the fire to rise, catching on the dry material and coating the walls.
“Lucia!” Jonas yelled.
The rebel arched Jonas’s own jeweled dagger toward his chest to silence him forever, but the weapon froze in place just before it made contact. The rebel frowned as the dagger lurched out of his grip and hovered in the air.
Jonas looked to the stairway. The flames were rising higher, but there was a pathway cleared between them now.
Lucia approached with Lyssa in her arms, her expression full of fury.
“Did you think you could kill me with a little bit of fire?” she said, raising her right hand. “How wrong you were.”
All three rebels and Tarus flew backward, hitting the wall of the tavern hard. Their eyes were wide with surprise, and they grunted with effort as they tried to free themselves from where they’d been pinned by Lucia’s air magic.
The dagger moved through the air until it reached Tarus.
“Do it, witch,” Tarus spat. “Show us all what a cold-blooded killer you are.”
“If you insist,” Lucia replied.
“No!” Jonas pushed himself up from the floor and stepped between Lucia and the rebels. “Nobody dies here today.”
She looked at him incredulously. “They wanted to kill me. They wanted to kill you.”
“And they failed.”
“Do you think they’ll stop trying?”
“I don’t care what they do,” he said. “We’re leaving here.”
“We?” She frowned. “Even after how cruel I was to you upstairs, you still want to help me?”
“Let these men live, and we walk out of here together. Tarus asked me what side I’m on, so I guess I’ve chosen. I’m with you, princess. You’re not the monster they wanted to kill here today. You’re better than that.” Jonas hadn’t believed the truth in the words completely until he spoke them aloud, but they were as honest as he’d ever been with her. Or himself.
Lucia searched his gaze for a moment longer before she flicked her wrist. The dagger flew away from Tarus, embedding itself in the opposite wall.
“Fine,” she said. “Then let’s go.”
Jonas nodded, relieved that no blood would be shed. He looked over at the dagger.
Lucia touched his arm. “Leave it. That nasty thing is a part of your past.”
He hesitated just a moment longer.
“You’re right,” he finally said.
Without looking back at Tarus, the rebels, or the dagger that had stolen the life of both his brother and his best friend, Jonas left the inn with Lucia and her baby.
CHAPTER 2
CLEO
PAELSIA
The guard led Cleo down the dark and narrow dungeon hallway to where the empress of Kraeshia, Amara Cortas, waited.
Amara smiled at her in greeting.
Cleo didn’t smile back. Instead, her gaze flicked to the brace on Amara’s freshly broken leg and the cane she leaned upon. She winced as she remembered the gruesome snap of the bone last night, when Amara had been thrown into a deep pit along with the rest of the group, waiting for their deaths, both rebel and royal alike.
Carlos, the empress’s captain of the guard, stood like a menacing yet protective shadow next to Amara.
“How are you feeling?” Amara asked tentatively. “I haven’t seen you all day.”
“I’m well enough.” Cleo fisted her left hand that now bore the water symbol—two parallel wavy lines. The last person who’d shared this marking had been a goddess.
But Cleo didn’t feel like a goddess. She felt like a seventeen-year-old girl who hadn’t slept at all last night after waking abruptly from a vivid dream in which she’d been drowning. Her mouth, her throat, her lungs filling with a sea of water. The more she struggled, the more impossible it was to breathe.
She woke just before she would have drowned.
Cleo nodded at the wooden door to Amara’s ri
ght. “He’s inside?”
“He is,” Amara said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
“I’ve never been more sure of anything. Open the door.”
Amara gestured toward Carlos, and he opened the door that led into a small room no more than eight paces wide and eight paces long.
A prisoner was inside, his hands chained above his head, lit by two torches on the stone walls on either side of him. He was shirtless, his face bearded, his hair shorn short against his scalp.
Cleo’s heart began to pound hard against her chest at the sight of this man. She wanted him dead.
But first she needed answers.
“Leave us,” Amara said to Carlos. “Wait in the hall.”
Carlos’s heavy brows drew together. “You want to be left alone with this prisoner?”
“My honored guest wishes to speak with this former guard—one who would choose to do Lord Kurtis’s bidding rather than mine.” She sneered at the prisoner. “Yes, I want you to leave us alone with him.”
Honored guest. What an strange description for Amara to use for someone she had offered up, along with the others, to the fire Kindred as a willing sacrifice only last night.
Of course, the night had not gone nearly as smoothly as the empress had anticipated.
Very well, I’ll play the role of your honored guest, Cleo thought darkly. But only as long as I have to.
Carlos bowed, and with a gesture toward the guard who’d led Cleo there, they swiftly departed and closed the door behind them.
Cleo’s gaze remained fixed on the bearded man in the shadowy room. Once he had worn the same dark green guard’s uniform as Carlos and the others, but now his dirty trousers were in tatters.
The room stank of rot and filth.
The symbol on the palm of Cleo’s hand burned.
“What is his name?” she asked with distaste.
“Why don’t you ask me?” The man raised bloodshot eyes to look directly at Cleo. “But I doubt you even care what my name is, do you?”
“You’re right, I don’t.” She raised her chin, ignoring any momentary shiver of disgust and blind hatred toward this stranger. If she didn’t stay calm, she wouldn’t get the answers she needed. “Do you know who I am?”