She shrugged a shoulder. “I always left her with something sharp, in case she wished to slit her throat. The girl had a choice. And chose to remain chained to a bed instead.” Her cloak shifted as she stumbled, the effect perfectly false.
“Keep up,” I ordered, loud enough for any lurking eyes to hear, as I turned and began marching in the direction she indicated. I lowered my voice as I hissed, “You disgust me.”
“My heart breaks,” she muttered dryly.
We made our way through the darkened streets. The tension between us was substantial, though mostly on my behalf. She did not seem at all bothered by me or my presence. Iona kept pace beside me, her steps light and deliberate, as if she had already mapped out the path ahead.
“Is he truly dead?” she asked suddenly, her voice barely above a whisper.
I knew she meant of our father. “Yes.”
I should have left her wondering. Forced her to ask for every detail that she might have wanted, been curious about. She said nothing more, but I could feel her waiting, silently urging me to fill the void. And so, I did.
“After you disappeared,” I began, “Father sought the Oracle. He never shared with anyone exactly what he was told, only that you had been taken by the Sidhe King.” I glanced at her, trying to gauge her reaction, but her expression remained veiled. “He said he wouldn’t pursue you. That it was for the best—for all people. We couldn’t go against him without challenging for the throne. As soon as he passed, we planned to get you out of here.”
Her silence stretched. I wanted to ask her what she thoughtof that—what she felt—but the words lodged in my throat, stubborn and unwilling. Iona had always been the wild one, a storm with no intention of calming. She shared a streak of recklessness with Iver, but there was something darker in her, something more precarious. Unlike him, her unruliness came with a sharp edge, a sense of calculation that could turn perilous and cruel.
Still, we loved her. Even when her choices cut, even when she twisted away from us and toward her own shadows. We never turned our backs on her. Not Iver, not Jorn or Edmond, not me.
And yet… here we were. With her back turned to us.
I hated this—this divide, this hollow chasm of uncertainty and betrayal. What had become of us? What had become of my family?
“How did he die?” Her question broke my train of thought.
“He became sick with the Blithe. The healers did what they could but you know they can not heal something like that. They prolonged his life, but only for several months before he passed.”
She nodded.
My steps slowed at the sounds of rushing movement and voices ahead.
The tight streets we took had been eerily silent, until they emptied onto a larger road. Iona stopped abruptly, pointing toward a narrow alleyway. “There,” she said. “Two more of them.” She pressed herself against a wall, remaining out of sight.
I peered past her. People moved down the road, eyes more vacant than those I had seen under influence of conjuring just minutes ago. They were carrying barrels of something. Twomen Iona had directed my attention towards remained focused on the people around them.
Iona said, “One of them has the power to compel a person, the other has the power to magnify conjuring. Together, they can do this.” She waved a hand out before us as if to show off the mindless people under their control.
“Why are we not affected?” I clung to the shadow’s peering out only to get another glimpse at the two men.
“He cannot expand the effect once it is in place. The spell needs to be cut to be re-spun.”
“What are they doing?”
“Explosives. This is a contingency plan. If an army somehow breaks through and gets to this point, they will be torn apart or buried under rubble.”
“How did you know they would be here? That this is their plan?” I viewed my sister.
“Does it matter?”
I grunted at her coldness. As if she had not just been asking of our father.
No. I suppose not. Nor did we have the time to discuss. “Stay back.”
She tilted her head, a faint, infuriating smirk curving her lips. “I wouldn’t dream of interfering.”
Ignoring her, I focused on the two men. Flames coiled around my hand, responding to my call with a familiar, exhilarating rush. Careful to keep my fire shielded from their sight, I angled my body. I brought my pointer and thumb together, the energy building, thrumming, eager to be unleashed.
With a snap, the force tore across the space between us, a deadly, precise surge of raw energy. The instant it struck, the figures barely had time to register their end. No screams, noresistance—just a flash of heat and light before they disintegrated into ash. The wind caught the remnants, scattering them like dust, erasing any trace of their existence.
