Asha’s eyes stung. She felt vile. Repulsive. Jarek’s touch made her hate herself more than she’d ever hated anything. More than the old stories and the First Dragon and the Old One, she hated her own heart for being desirable to someone so despicable.
It was further proof of her wickedness.
“Tell me how we should proceed.” His voice turned husky. Full of desire. “My fearsome Iskari.”
Asha’s fingers itched for her axe. But there was no axe to reach for.
So Asha reached for something else.
“Has anyone told you about Moria and the fourth king of Firgaard?” Her angry gaze met his. “It’s an old story about a man who took what wasn’t his and the girl who put an end to him. Shall I tell it to you?”
Something shifted, then. Jarek’s grip on her loosened.
Asha pushed away from the shelves and he stumbled back.
“Give me the torch.”
She didn’t wait for him to hand it to her. She snatched it from him.
Before anyone could stop her, Asha set the scrolls on fire.
Maya cried out, covering her mouth with her hands as the flames licked the parchment and the wood. Dax, released from the soldat’s hold, opened the door and held the guardian back, out of the way of the fire, while smoke filled the room. Asha watched the parchment crumple and burn.
“The stories killed our mother.” Asha didn’t look at her brother. “They must be destroyed.”
She tried to remember her mother’s voice chasing her nightmares away, those soft arms pulling her into a hug. But they were only memories of memories and too far gone.
Asha hugged herself tight as she watched the ravenous flames devour the shelves, and with them, any evidence of her brother’s treason. Now, if Jarek went to the king, it would be his word against Dax’s.
But that wasn’t the only evidence the fire destroyed.
As she listened to the strings of the lute—warping, bending, snapping—the skral’s freckled face flared up in her mind, drenched and smiling brightly as he tucked her hair behind her ear.
There are plenty of other lutes in the city,she told herself, pulling her hunting shirt up over her mouth to stop from breathing in the smoke.I will bring him one of those.
Moria and the Fourth King of Firgaard
The fourth king of Firgaard was not a kind man. Some called him cruel. Others called him wicked. Still others, power starved. He built a palace that towered over the temple. He taxed his people into poverty. And he took a different girl to bed every night.
If the fourth king of Firgaard came to your home and asked for your daughter, you gave her up to him. If you didn’t, he would take her anyway and your family would be dead come sunrise.
Moria was the daughter of the priestess. Raised in the temple, she lived a devout and sheltered life. She went to bed early and got up long before the sun to pray. She visited the poor and sick and held fast to the Old One’s laws.
Until the king took her dearest friend.
On that night, Moria did not go to sleep early. She did not get up before the sun. She spent the long, cold stretch of moon kneeling on the stone floor of the temple, speaking to the Old One.
“I can’t save her,” Moria told him. “But I can save the next girl.”
“To take the life of another is a monstrous act,” the Old One told her. “Even the life of the wickedest among you is sacred.”
“If I must become a monster to stop a monster,” said Moria, “then that is what I will do.”
And the Old One said, “The killing price of a king is death.”
And Moria said, “So be it.”
She got up from the floor. She grabbed the ceremonial knife off thealtar. Its blade scraped against the stone.
