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Callum’s frown deepened. Vincent watched with a keen gaze but made no move to intervene. The silence stretched between father and son until it was taut enough to snap.

“I do not wish to command your participation,” Elias said at last. “But I will if that is what it will take to have you step on Magefall this cycle.”

Callum breathed deeply, carefully taking in every small detail of Elias. He hid nothing from his second son, knowing he could be trusted with the small vulnerabilities his oldest son would use to seize more power.

After a full minute, his son said, “Why this time?”

Elias’s stomach pitched as he heard the entire prophecy over again, Calliope’s voice still that haunted, ringing alto in his mind. His gaze caught on the scars that had not marred his son’s face the previous cycle, the remnants of his son’s bravery and selflessness while helping a Nesúmian village.

Something in Elias’s face must have given him away.

“A Diviner?” Callum asked.

The fight was already fading from his son. He was more devout than Elias, holding fast to the ancient traditions that predated their kingdom’s founding.

Elias did not lie as he said, “Yes.”

For Calliope had been a Diviner, the greatest the kingdom had seen in five hundred years. She was a treasure to be guarded and a beacon of wisdom to be cherished. Guilt piled on him like coals heaped upon his head as he remembered her broken whisper as she took her last breath, their daughter in her arms.

Callum’s resistance fell away entirely.

“Very well,” he said, resolute. “I will join, then.”

Elias stood, his throat tightening to the point of pain. He wiped away the single tear he allowed to fall before his guard could see the fracture of his calm competence. Calliope’s words rang through him, their own death knell.

Then, the ruined kingdom rises under the blessing of the ancients.

1

AMETHYST

Sometimes I truly wondered if my sister had a death wish. At least today she didn’t have us in pelvic harnesses being clipped in to bungee jump over the Royal Gorge. Even still, I eyed the boat bobbing in the choppy high tide and seriously contemplated just staying on the rocky Maine shore twenty feet behind me. It’s not like I couldn’t see the lighthouse from right here, after all. Did we really need to cram ourselves onto a boat with ten other people just to see it from the other side, too?

Sloane casually looped her arm with mine and took a step toward the small boat, holding up her phone as the teen double-checked we had actually bought tickets for the tour. He wordlessly gestured for us to continue to the end of the dock and then focused on the older couple behind us who were having issues getting the email confirmation pulled up on one of their phones.

The boat rocked as I cautiously stepped on it, and I muttered a curse. Sloane just laughed, guiding me toward the very front set of seats with nimble steps, seemingly unaffected by the swaying of the boat. She tilted her head back, holding onto the large sun hat she wore as a breeze kicked up over the water. Her entire countenance was carefree joy. I swallowed my own dislike of boats in the face of it, hiding it so it wouldn’t ruin my sister’s afternoon.

“You’ll love it,” she said without opening her eyes. “The person I talked to when booking it said the stories they tell on this one lean creepy rather than wholesome. I figure there’ll be someone who piques your interest.”

Well, at least there was the prospect of niche history facts to offset my motion sickness. I pulled the small bottle of Dramamine from my mini backpack and applied some behind my ears before I could forget again and willed my stomach to stay in place.

The older couple sat on the opposite end of the boat, taking the first seats available, and then a group of four middle-aged women climbed on board. The teen checking tickets followed them, quickly walking to the person at the helm, chatting animatedly. After a few minutes, the boat lurched forward, leaving the small dock. I turned toward the teen as he introduced the boat tour company and welcomed all eight of us to Maine. I kept my eyes on the lighthouse nearest us, hoping the unmoving object trick helped this time. The last thing I wanted was to get sick during Sloane’s chosen excursion. She’d happily participated in the bike tour I’d selected yesterday despite the on-and-off rain, after all.

“Now, of course, these two lighthouses have become staples of Maine coastal living with thousands of people coming each year to try and get the quintessential sunset picture of them.” The teen was happily chatting, obviously enjoying the job, his hands adding emphasis to his story. “But there was a time when neither existed and this entire bay was left to darkness. In fact, a proposal to build the famous Neddick Light had been rejected with the argument that there were enough lighthouses in the area. It wasn’t until several decades later that it was finally approved for construction—after a large shipwreck that left no survivors.”

Sloane pulled her large camera from its bag, switching out the lens and taking a test shot while the guy continued. She showed me the preview with a grin, and I smiled back at her. It was a good shot, the exact type of photo the guy was just talking about—except we were out in the early morning rather than the evening. Even still, she had a way of capturing light in photos. It was only a matter of time until one of the nature magazines finally picked her up.

“Now this wasn’t the first shipwreck this bit of shoreline has seen and it wasn’t the last, either. But it was unique in two ways. One: the Isadore set sail on Thanksgiving night, nearly three weeks after most commercial boats stopped traveling out of Maine due to hazardous weather. And two: there were two crew members who dreamed of the shipwreck.”

The boat continued past the Neddick Light, cruising far enough that the shape of the structure was mostly lost on the horizon. Ahead of us, a new lighthouse became slowly visible. This one was much more rudimentary with dark stones and a simple single spire without an additional cabin attached.

I wanted to make a note in my phone about the name of the ship before I forgot, but I didn’t want the kid to think I was bored.

“Now, the first crew to have a dream was Thomas King. A few nights before they were to set sail, he dreamed that he stood on the deck of the Isadore, looking back toward the shore. On the shore were seven coffins. When he asked who the coffins were for, a voice said, ‘For the crew of the Isadore.’ And then, the night before the voyage, a second crew member had a similar dream where there were seven coffins, except this time, he was in one of them. They both went to the captain, but he refused to move the sail date. The lumber was needed in New Orleans and then the ship was to set sail for France. There wasn’t a day to lose. Thomas King hid in town when the call came to prepare to set sail, hiding in one of the local taverns. The other crew member joined the others for the trip to New Orleans.”

The teen paused.

One of the women asked, “So what happened?”