“Astral projection,” Circe finally says, the flames receding from her hands. “True star magic.”
“I’m indestructible in this form,” I explain to her, turning my attention back to Riven. “Show her.”
Hesitation crosses his eyes, but then he rushes toward me, cold steel passing clean through my projected form.
“Impressive.” Circe glances back at my physical body, her eyebrows knitting together as she studies it. “Does your true form always remain this vulnerable while you’re in your projected state?”
“Yes. But if I can see where I’m heading, I can project there—no matter the distance.”
I hold her gaze, annoyed that the first thing she did was call out my weakness.
“Fascinating,” she says, and from her small smile, it seems like she’s impressed. “Now, return to yourself, Star Touched. You’ve made your point.”
I snap back to my physical form, inhaling sharply as consciousness floods back into my body. But the familiar disorientation passes quickly, and I push myself up from the sand, brushing off the grains clinging to my clothes.
“She’s also our navigator,” Riven says, moving to stand next to me. His closeness makes me bristle, but I don’t step away, not wanting to reveal more to Circe about our strained marriage than she already knows. “She can read the stars. It’s how we found your island.”
“The stars speak to me,” I add, looking up at the night sky where the Algol Star pulses with light. “Like a compass.”
Circe follows my gaze upward, her expression thoughtful.
“The Demon Star,” she muses. “An interesting guide to choose. It speaks of transformation through pain—and through death.”
Something about the way she says it makes me shiver, even though it’s not cold on her island.
“Now, come,” she says, gesturing toward a path that winds through the trees. “We’ll further discuss what brings two fae royals to my shores over a meal in my palace.”
She doesn’t wait for our answer before striding forward, her purple gown sweeping behind her.
“A generous offer,” Riven says, stopping her in her path. “However, I’ve already had a handful of herbs that have sadly ruined my appetite.”
Circe takes a deep breath, then turns to face us. “Moly,” she says flatly, her voice hardening. “You’ve eaten moly.”
“Yes,” Riven confirms, glancing at the forest. “A precaution—not an insult.”
Circe laughs, the sound unexpectedly light. “Well, at least you’re honest about your distrust, Winter Prince,” she says. “Most men hide their protections while secretly swallowing their safeguards. But you’re no mortal. And yet, you still sought the herb’s protection.”
“A good habit to have,” he says smoothly. “I assume you know what it does?”
“Intimately.” She waves a hand as if brushing away a distant memory. “Once, long ago, I met another who thought to protect himself from my magic with moly. A sailor with a silver tongue and too much wit for his own good.”
“Odysseus.” Riven keeps his eyes locked on hers, refusing to look at me.
Anger flares inside me, the waves crashing harder against the shore.
Because Riven knew. He must have figured it out the moment he saw the herb in the trunk. And he didn’t bother sharing this critical piece of information with me.
The realization is more painful than his ice-covered sword would have been if I hadn’t been in my projected form when he ran it through my chest.
“Odysseus was far less forthright about his intentions,” Circe continues, seemingly oblivious to my internal struggle. “Now tell me—how did you get the herb?”
“A messenger gave it to us,” I break in, not in the mood to listen to Riven speak anymore. “She found us before we left the mortal realm. She also told us to tell you that we seek no path, no descent—only the wisdom of those once forged in flesh.”
Circe stills, her amusement fading.
“The wisdom of the dead,” she says, as if testing the words on her tongue. “A dangerous pursuit.”
I tense. “What does that mean?”
