“What the hells happened? Why didn’t you heal him?”
“He was already dead.” His voice is toneless, and I’m unsure if there’s a lack of emotion or if he’s merely exhausted. Draven’s expression turns dismissive as he walks back toward our Hearth, saying only, “I did all I could.”
It’s not good enough. “No. You need to try again—”
“I’m not a god, Rune.” His glare pierces me like daggers, spilling me open.
I choke on a grief I don’t understand. After all, I didn’t know that boy. “But he was moving. You were so close, and you just gave up—”
“His soul was trapped in his body, confused by what happened.” Draven’s eyes pale in the last flare of sunlight. He’s so still, so quiet, that I want to shake him. “He couldn’t come back, only be helped in leaving his body behind, safe in knowingI’d pass some information along to someone he cares for. Now, if you’re done with your tantrum, I’m tired.”
He glances over my shoulder, and I turn. On the other side of the doorway, several druids and changelings linger beyond the inlaid glass, quite obviously pretending they weren’t listening in on our argument. My face scorches from my hollow cheeks to my ears as if I have a gloriously raw sunburn. Shadows linger around Draven, and I know what he’s about to do. He’ll disappear into that space between spaces, the same one that brought us all to the Forge.
I grasp his wrist, and his eyes flare a dangerous shade of scarlet that has me shrinking.
But I don’t let go.
Behind us, the doors fling open. A changeling girl named Fallon bursts through. I watch as a few I don’t know follow her, including a murderous-looking guy who I think goes by Ward. At the very back of the ten-person throng are Kasper and Morgan.
Fallon points an accusatory finger at Draven and screeches, “You get back in there and fix him!”
“I can’t,” Draven repeats, looking less resigned and more on edge than he did with just me. “Go back to your training.”
“I’ve been telling you, they’re all liars.” Ward shakes with anger. “They only use the Selection as a way to continue their lines, to breed us like pigs!”
My heart jolts at his words, confusion tumbling through me with an edge of suspicion.
The knife tucked up Ward’s sleeve is visible for only a moment, the silver glinting in the light, and then Ward curls his arm up and hurls it—straight at Draven.
In an instant, my Wraith instincts take over. I throw myself into Draven, slamming us into the walkway. The heels of mypalms ache nearly as bad as my scraped knees, yet I remain crouched over him, protecting the prince with my body. Draven’s hand curls around the back of his head, teeth gritted in pain. He stares at me in confusion before we both notice Ward and a couple of others rushing toward us. Draven uses his strength to roll us, flipping me below him, our hips pinned together before he pushes back to his feet, yanking me with him.
Draven pushes me behind him and his shadow magic rears up, the swirling edges sharpening into spikes. It blasts outward, pinning the students by their clothes to the walls of the sparring gym, and Ward cries out as a spear of darkness pierces through his shoulder into the bricks.
Plumes of black smoke ignite across the scene, armed soldiers barreling out of them, tackling everyone who followed me out.
The guards pull the pinned attackers down, one slamming Ward into the pavers, blood and teeth flying from what I assume must be a broken jaw. My meager lunch rises up, choking me at the sight of his tongue lolling, eyes widened with pain, a guttural scream unleashing from his throat. Draven’s glaring at everyone, hand still clawed around my forearm.
“Your Majesty, what would you like us to do with them?” a guard asks.
“They need to calm down. Let them sweat out a night in the Boiler.” Draven looks between the attacker and a wall behind us where the knife is stuck to the mortar between bricks. He points to Ward and the sparring hall. “Give this one the same punishment as that idiot Mira.” He turns to me, eyes sparking. “As for you …”
He summons Death’s sweet shadows and steps back, allowing the darkness to engulf him, and jerks me to his side. A heavy blackness hums and pulsates all around us, billowing as if we’rein the midst of a violent hurricane. A scream catches in my throat as he glides us through the shadows. Light is a flickering, muted thing above us, and I swear there’s something feral in the darkness’s movements, as if the black smoke may devour me if he lets me go. My body shivers, my grasp weakening, but he says nothing, only tugging me tighter against him. I burrow my face against his chest, clenching my eyes shut to block out the wild visions of dragonish wings and the outlines of demons.
There’s a ripping sound, like a match struck in a cave, and then mercifully, light.
9The Curse
The Seven of Swords is the liar’s card, a tell that you’ve been deceived or manipulated until now. It’s time for the truth.
WE’RE IN A BEDROOMthat’s a mirror to my own. Draven’s room. I brush my windswept hair back, disoriented from the sudden change, my eyes quickly taking in every detail as fast as I can process. Books fill every inch of space along the shelved walls, stacked in corners and teetering in wild piles throughout the room. The three Immortal Realms of Arcadia are rendered in great detail on a mural across one wall, riddled with pins as though he’s been studying it. Tracking something. His richly tailored clothes are strewn carelessly across the floor in places, his bed halfway made. I finally notice an older woman tucking in one side of the sheets, a laundry basket at her feet, staring at us both in shock.
“Your Majesty, I did not think you’d be back before your classes finished—”
“My plans changed, Magda.” Draven doesn’t bother looking at her, his eyes wholly alit on mine. “Rune requires my fullest attention.”
I don’t break the magnetic draw of his eyes as I hear the maid tsk and hurry out, closing the door gently behind her. Has she been the one cleaning my room? I’d naively assumed it’d been done by some magic enchantment in this place, like how the lights turn on without a source to heat them, or how my clothes fit perfectly without visiting the tailor. But perhaps they have a different energy source than mortals. Perhaps someone took note of the size of clothes I chose for myself. Draven holds me too close, his exhalations ghosting against my neck, our breathing matching and heavy. Finally, I press my hands against his powerful forearms, and he releases me.
I pace away from him, nearly tumbling over a pile of books, the topmost with the titleAncient Weapons: A History of Arcadia’s Finest Forge.
