A war-torn hellscape greets me next.
Screams pierce through the din. The air is thick with magic and blood. Bodies are piled high, pecked at by birds. The Creek runs red.
Back in Cor Caval, Caius Castellion paces through the Golden Keep as his Imperial Guard ride for the harbour.
His words echo in my ears.
You know what to do.
Nausea rises in my throat.
‘Want to stop?’ Fox asks.
I shake my head. The next moment we’re in a cottage. The walls are painted sunshine yellow, peach-pink, forget-me-not blue – bright, happy colours that clash garishly with the terrified girls standing in front of us.
My stomach flips. The three sisters.
No, thefoursisters.
One girl is standing a little apart from the others, her expression far away as she clutches the Eye round her neck.
When she speaks, it is a language I recognize – Threskan.
‘They’re coming,’ she breathes. ‘We have to hurry.’
I turn to Fox, who nods before the words have even left my mouth.
This must be Seera.
‘Let’s go,’ says another. I recognize her from a previous vision, hurrying along a moonlit path to meet her love. Sifa adjusts the hood of her cloak and beckons to the smallest girl. Senna looks no older than Renly. She’s crying, tears dripping down her heart-shaped face as she looks up at the final sister – a beautiful girl with long auburn hair.
My breath catches.
Syla.
I watch Syla wrap her arms round her younger sister, holding her tightly. ‘We’ll be all right. We’ll find somewhere safe. Just stay close.’
The vision changes. The sisters are running for their lives through a darkened wood. Behind them comes the sound of pounding hooves, the Imperial Guard jeering and hooting as if this were a hunt and these girls were the foxes.
Syla hurls spell after spell over her shoulder, blasting the men off their horses. One is impaled on a tree branch then torn in half as his mount charges on, feet still wedged in the stirrups. I gasp as another knight lifts a crossbow and takes aim.
The bolt strikes Sifa in the back of the head. She’s dead before she hits the ground.
Her sisters scream.
That’s when another bolt soars through the air and buries itself in Seera’s chest. She crumples to her knees, her last word a strangled, breathless scream: ‘GO.’
Syla chokes on sobs as she half drags, half carries a wailing Senna onward. Neither of them sees the tree root jutting into their path. They tumble to the ground just as the Imperial Guard descend. Senna is lifted on to a horse, while heavy crystal chains are clamped round Syla’s neck, wrists and ankles before she can unleash her power.
One of the soldiers uses his foot to roll Sifa’s and Seera’s bodies over, and I watch in astonishment as their talismans vanish before he can seize them.
The vision changes a final time.
Caius Castellion is sitting smugly on the Imperial throne. At the bottom of the golden steps, peering blearily up at him from inside a crystal cage, is Syla.
‘Such a prize,’ Caius purrs.
‘What do you want?’ Syla spits.
