The room pressed in from all sides.
“Is that a metaphor?” I asked, trying to keep my tone light, though my throat had gone dry.
“No.”
“Then you're going to have to explain, princess, because where I come from,boundhas...implications.”
“I am no princess. And yes, it bears implications.”
I should’ve laughed, brushed it off, called her mad, andchanged the subject. She wasn’t being coy or teasing. She meant it. And something inside me—something ancient and quiet and long since buried—rose to meet it. Like a hound roused by the scent of home. Touching her had rearranged something I couldn’t put back.
My throat tightened. I managed a swallow. “What does being bound mean?”
She folded her hands atop the table. “It means we have a fortnight.”
“To do what?” My heart thudded, a hammer against my sternum.
Her shoulders dropped with a small, weary sigh, as though she’d carried this truth for miles. “To complete your quest.”
THIRTEEN DAYS REMAINING
2
QUINN
One might imagine that, after centuries, I would be immune to laughter at my expense. And yet it still managed to wound.
“You can't be serious,” Mav said, half choking on the words.
My lips pressed together in a thin line. “Though I see you find humor in the notion, I meant no jest.”
“You…” He leaned forward, a tendril of his chestnut hair slipping into his face. “Youareserious.”
“Entirely.”
He regarded me as if I had grown wings or horns—or worse, spoken honestly. I was unaffected. I had long since grown accustomed to the unblinking stares of disbelieving men and had learned not to shy beneath them.
The rain had ceased, leaving only the crackle of the fireplace to fill the quiet between us. Mav, as he had named himself, had not moved in some time. One arm rested on the worn table, the other tucked near his ribs—a gesture hinting at some lingering hurt. Whether it was an old wound or recently sustained, I knewnot. His brow remained drawn in a state of what one could only assume was disbelief.
“I presume an explanation would be helpful,” I said, placing my hands in my lap.
A flicker of wariness passed through his hazel eyes. “That’d be a good place to start.”
I dipped my chin, schooling my tone into something forcibly conversational. “Once, many years ago, I was offered a crown by way of a marriage proposal.”
“From…whom?”
“The crowned prince of Avandria.” I tilted my head, watching the firelight dance upon the oil-dulled grain of the table. “I declined.”
His lips twisted into a shape that could not decide whether it was a smirk or a grimace. “Let me guess. He didn’t take it well.”
“No, he most certainly did not.” A lock of damp hair clung to my cheek as I shook my head. “A binding spell was cast upon me.”
The moment hung in the air. Although his countenance remained unchanged, I could sense the shift in him—as though he stood upon a cliff’s precipice and had only just realized the mist obscured the drop.
“What kind of binding?”
“I sleep for one hundred years,” I said, as plainly as one might recite one’s name. “Then wake for a fortnight.”
