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She chuckles, the sound dry and knowing. “You must have inherited her sharp tongue too. But if it is Khione of whom you speak, I suggest keeping that similarity under control.”

My gaze darts to Sphinx as she settles into a nest of cushions nearby, then back to the Oracle.

“I appreciate the advice,” I say finally, inclining my head. “Both Lyxander and the queen have mentioned a prophecy you told my mother. Was that what she wanted to know?”

“Your mother was a great believer, both in the Anemoi and in destiny. She did not ask for the prophecy, but I felt compelled to tell her once I received it.”

“And what did it say?”

“I’ve always found it easier to believe something when I’ve seen it with my own eyes,” the Oracle muses as she presses a wizened hand against the ice, and her gaze flicks up. Her gray irises lose all color, leaving only stark black pinpoints adrift in a sea of white. “Place your hand on the ice, child. And I will show you.”

A knot of anticipation tightens my stomach. Slowly, I mirror her, lowering my hand to the ice.

The moment my palm meets the frozen surface, the world spins away.

Chapter 33

Aella

I plunge into icy darkness.

Somewhere distant, water crashes, its rhythm discordant yet hypnotic. Light fractures and re-forms in irregular patterns, as if the world itself is bending and reshaping around me. Then the ground steadies, and I look down as rock solidifies beneath my boots, anchoring me against the ethereal pull of this dreamscape.

The air hums like plucked strings as I lift my hands, only to find them translucent, and a strange weightless sensation vibrates through me. I let them fall to my sides, and the ripple of light follows, trailing like an afterimage. Slowly, I lift my gaze, finding the entrance to the Oracle’s cavern before me.

I turn back toward the trail Lyxander and I walked earlier, then I freeze.

A Harpaurai stands on the path, more real and solid than I am at this moment.

Her wings are folded behind her, each feather shimmering with iridescent hues that shift between pearl and silver. Her pale skin glows faintly, as if the light of this realm comes from within her, and her hair is woven into a crown of braids. Hair the same shade as mine, a face like a reflection, and eyes the color of a stormy sky.

I know her. I know her before she moves, before she speaks.

Because, as I’ve heard so many times before, she looks exactly like me—or rather, I look like her.

“Mother,” I whisper, the word warping and merging into the strange, persistent hum in the air around us.

She lifts her chin and strides toward me.

Distantly, I feel my heart skip a beat, a flicker of hope igniting in my chest. My breath catches again, and I take a hesitant step forward.

She keeps walking, and I freeze as she comes closer, closer—until she passes straight through me.

The sensation is like a ripple of cold water brushing against my skin. My chest hollows, leaving only an ache in its place.

My eyes sting as I watch her continue down the path.

I want her to turn back. I want her to see me. Just once.

But she doesn’t. She can’t.

She enters the cavern, and I feel my own feet move in response as I follow.

Her voice breaks the silence like sunlight piercing a shadowed veil. “You called for me, Arsinoe.”

Inside the cavern, the Oracle is seated by the pool at its center, in the very same position she had been in when I touched the ice. She lifts her gaze to my mother, her eyes glinting like polished stone, black pinpoints swimming in pools of white.

“Make haste, Nephelle,” the Oracle urges, and her words feel less like sound and more like a ripple through the atmosphere. “You must see, you must listen.”