“I don’t even know what the full prophecy says,” I admit. “Only fragments.”
Her voice takes on a rhythmic cadence, like she’s speaking something memorized long ago.“Power taken by force in the heart of Dulcamar shall shape the world anew. He who wields it shall stand above all, unchallenged in dominion, unbroken in will. But to reign eternal, the magic gifted by the gods to a powerful descendant, must be seized, torn from its vessel, and bound anew. Yet beware—one of fae blood, third-born of kin, shall rise as the harbinger of ruin and bring the fall of he who seeks to command the world.”
The words wrap around me like a tightening snare. Third-born of kin. The harbinger of ruin.
Does she not know?
I search Staja’s expression for some clue, but she offers none. Could the seer be oblivious to the truth of who I am because my magic is trapped, dormant in ways it shouldn’t be? Or is it something simpler? That she’s relying on the fact that Axel only had two children, never knowing my mother had a child before she married him, and therefore does not see me as a third-born fae?
But a darker thought stirs, uncoiling in the back of my mind—what if shedoesknow, and she’s holding it close, biding her time until it serves her? What if Torbin knows, too?
The door swings open without warning.
Torbin steps inside, his presence filling the space like a shadow. He’s dressed immaculately in a dark-crimson doublet, his golden hair combed back from his face, every button and thread in place. No sign of a sleepless night. No crease of guilt or weight of a thousand deaths etched into his posture.
His eyes narrow, sweeping over me from head to toe. The weight of his gaze is sharp, assessing—not just my body, but something deeper, likehe’s looking for cracks in the mask I wear.
I force myself to meet his stare, my spine straightening even as my pulse spikes. His scrutiny lingers on my face a moment too long, and I can’t shake the prickle at the back of my neck—the sense that he’s searching for somethinghe already suspects.
Finally, his mouth curves, not into a smile, but something colder. “Good morning, Princess.” His tone is flat but edged. “I won’t bother to ask how you slept. Osrem tells me you wandered from your room last night.”
He doesn’t know about my night wanderings. He doesn’t know about the powder Ezra gave me to keep me from leaving my bed at night. He probably thinks I was trying to escape.
“It goes without saying, Celeste, but you would be a fool to think you could escape from the fortress.”
I gather my resolve and square my shoulders. “Did you just come here to reprimand me, or is there something else you needed?”
He lifts his chin, his posture infuriatingly relaxed. “Breakfast is being served. The tsar would like your company.”
I suppress a flinch. The tsar. The man who betrayed his family.
“I’ll go,” I say evenly, “but only if you let me see Nadya.”
His jaw tightens subtly. “Fine. But first, you’re expected by the tsar.”
I narrow my eyes. “Fine.”
He offers his arm.
I don’t take it.
We walk in silence, Torbin’s boots clicking in measured rhythm against the stone. The corridors grow darker as we move deeper into the fortress, the torches spaced wider apart, their flames struggling against the cold draft that snakes through the hall.
The dining hall is cavernous, its vaulted ceiling lost in shadow. Tall, narrow windows line one wall, their black panes rimmed in frost, the morning light leaking through in pale streaks. Iron chandeliers hang above the long table, their candlelight casting jagged shadows across the walls. The scent of smoke and cold steel lingers beneath the richer smells of roasted meat and spiced wine.
The seer is there—Ella—hood drawn low, the silver mask catching a glint of the weak sunlight. She stands apart from the table, gazing out one of the windows as if waiting for something only she can see. Her stillness is eerie, deliberate, as though she were listening to the heartbeat of the world.
At the head of the table sits the tsar. His posture is easy, almost casual, as he cuts into a slab of venison with measured, unhurried strokes. When his eyes meet mine, his mouth lifts into something that could almost be mistaken for warmth.
“Sit,” he says, gesturing to the chair on his right. “I trust you slept well, daughter.”
I lower myself into the seat, the wood cold beneath me. “Don’t call me that.”
Torbin moves to the opposite side of the table and takes his place without a word. The scrape of silverware is loud in the silence that follows.
I stare at the table, tracing the carved edges of my plate, but the images from my dream—the truth—burn behind my eyes. My mother’s blood on her hands. Her voice, trembling and fierce. “He’s dangerous. He’s already betrayed me.”
The words are out before I can second-guess them. “Did you kill my mother?”
