Carver had been hovering since the assassin strike three days ago, even though there had been no further attacks. Whenever he had to leave her, Ford or Ivan usually showed up. She understood Carver’s protectiveness, and she was even grateful for it. But when Elowen stopped by and asked if Amryn and Ivan—who had been trying to teach her an impossibly difficult Sibeten card game all morning—wanted to come horseback riding with her on the palace grounds, Amryn had immediately pressured the two of them to go together.
She’d felt the tug inside Ivan as he’d hesitated, torn between his desire to spend time with Elowen and his sense of duty in protecting Amryn. When she’d promised she had no intention of leaving the guarded room, and that she’d enjoy some time to herself, he had finally relented.
Amryn had tidied up the cards he’d left behind, and her eyes had strayed to the cello in the corner of the room. But as much as she wanted to lose herself in music, she knew this was a rare moment of solitude, and she shouldn’t waste it. She hadn’t had a chance to pull out Von’s journal since Bram had interrupted her, and that had been ten days ago now. Even though Von’s words made little sense, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was something vitally important in the journal.
She settled in one of the armchairs and opened the worn book. Her place was marked by the sheet of paper she’d tucked in there. Her own handwriting stared back at her. She scanned each of the stanzas she’d grouped together, once again noting that something seemed to be missing.
The Flame. The Sword. The Dragon. The Storm.That was the order Von had always written those words in, even when other lines and drawings were interspersed between them.
Amryn flipped the loose paper over and reached for the quill and ink nearby. It was only a hunch, but as she began to write—this time, alternating the lines in Von’s established order—goosebumps rose across her body.
The Flame, shaped by betrayal that ends in violent death.
The Sword, stained by the blood of enemies and innocents.
The Dragon, silenced by all and none.
The Storm has come.
The Flame must choose to heal or destroy; to sacrifice or betray.
The Sword must break; break and be mended, so it can shatter anew.
The Dragon must wake; terror will reign for all but the monster.
The Storm must rage.
The Flame will choose and burn out.
The Sword will defend and be defeated.
The Dragon will rise and fall.
The Storm cannot be escaped or survived.
Nerveless fingers dropped the quill as Amryn stared at those words. She knew instinctively they were in the order Von had meant them. And yet, there was a weight and gravity to them—a rhythm and pattern—that didn’t feel like a man had written them. They almost sounded . . .prophetic.
Unease slithered through her as her eyes fell on the first line again.
The Flame, shaped by betrayal that ends in violent death.
Her pulse quickened. She couldn’t help but see herself in those words. After all,shehad been shaped by her father’s betrayal that had led to her mother’s violent murder.
Her eyes tracked down the page, her throat feeling too tight as she read,The Flame must choose to heal or destroy; to sacrifice or betray.
A chill caught her.The Flame must choose to heal . . .Likeshecould heal?
No. She was reading too deeply into the words of a madman. Besides, she didn’t believe in prophecies. They were something out of a fantastical novel—pure fiction. Von’s words were in no way prophetic, and they certainly weren’t meant for her. The only thing she had in common with a flame was the color of her hair.
Around her neck, the bloodstone hummed.
Heart beating too fast, Amryn closed the journal, trapping the haunting words within its pages. She moved to the wardrobe and shoved the book deep inside Carver’s mostly empty saddlebag. She wasn’t going to study Von’s words anymore. She would give the journal to Felinus when he—
A sharp knock on the door made her slam the wardrobe closed.
“Lady Vincetti?” the deep voice of one of the guards called through the door. “Rhone Quinn is here to see you.”
Fear exploded low in her gut, sending ice shooting through her veins. Saints, what was the knight doing here? Panic gripped her. She touched the bloodstone through her dress, as if assuring herself it was still safely tucked under her collar.With a little concentration, she could feel the protective shield around her was secure.
