All that stands in my way is the prince and what’s left of his army.
Voices sound from outside the tent—the prince and Vexx. Rhonin places the mender’s pouch back where it was and shoves me toward the tree stump near the worktable. He stands at my side, hands clasped before him like a good guard while my heart thuds against the icy dagger.
“Just a little while longer,” he whispers. “Then you’ll be free, Raina Bloodgood. No victory without sacrifice.”
It’s impossible not to look up at him, and when I do, I see my old friend in the lines of his face, in the fire of his hair. Hehasto be a Shawcross.
Oh, Mena. No victory without sacrifice.
I face forward, my blood stirring anew. I’m ready. Just like my old friend had been ready as we crouched inside her cottage.
Let the sacrifice come.
The Prince of the East sits before me in his bloody leathers, intrigue painted on his face. Behind him, a surprise.
Nephele.
She’s still tied, still gagged, and a woman I’ve never seen holds her elbow. Killian, Rhonin called her. Second general.
“I have questions.” The prince gestures over his shoulder. “I thought I’d bring your sister along so I can get answers. As long as you behave with those magickal hands of yours, I won’t make you regret that she’s here.”
Rhonin was right about Vexx hovering. He stands beside me, tying a rope around my neck. No knife to the cheek. No fisting my hair. Instead, he tightens a looped knot, the kind that will only constrict even more if I move the wrong way.
Vexx stands back, holding the rope like he’s leashed an unruly hound.
“Her binds, Rhonin,” the prince says.
I look the prince over. No sign of the God Knife. It isn’t on Vexx or Killian either.
Though I can feel Rhonin’s hands trembling, he works swiftly, untying the impossible knot of rope that has rubbed my wrists raw. It doesn’t matter that Rhonin is nervous. The prince keeps his eyes locked with mine, even after my hands are free.
It’s a heavy moment. My thoughts dart everywhere, though I refuse to look away. Desperation will act as a catalyst for impulse if I’m not careful. I might be a rebel, but I need to be a smart one right now. If I reach for the dagger, Vexx will choke me down.
“How does this work?” the prince asks. “I’ve met many kinds of magick wielders in my day, but never a healer. Do you know how rare you are? It’s not even a learnable talent.” His words are laced with sick wonder.
I do know how rare such an inherent ability is, which is why I tried to keep it secret.
A lot of good that did me.
It’s cold, and my hands are stiff and achy from being in binds for so long, but more than anything, I want to talk to my sister. There’s nothing the prince can do about what I choose to communicate.
Lifting my hands, I sign. “I have missed you so much, Nephele. I am sorry I failed you and Mother. I love you, and I will make this right. Tell him that I weave the threads of the wound.”
The woman, Killian, removes Nephele’s gag and holds a knife to her throat.
“Same rules as before,” Vexx reminds my sister.
Nephele’s eyes go glassy. Her love for me shines so brightly in her gaze.
“Raina weaves the threads of the wound,” she translates. Her ragged voice is soft but thick with tears.
“Ah. If only the rest of us could see the threads of wounds. We would live with no fear of pain or death.” The prince leans forward and trails a finger up my arm to the sliced, bloody fabric of my sleeve. “Show me.”
His touch disgusts me, but it quickly falls away, and I weave my threads, thankful for the chance to heal my wound.
When I lower my hands, he takes my arm and,with two fingers, stretches the material of my torn sleeve wide, revealing smooth, undamaged skin.
“Wonderful,” he says, his eyes flicking up to my face. “Now me.”
