Timotheus’s smile grew, but his eyes remained deadly serious. “This dagger has been wielded by several immortals over millennia. It contains magic that can enslave and control minds and wills. It can kill an immortal. It can absorb magic. And it can destroy magic.”
“Destroy magic?” Jonas frowned, his gaze locked upon the golden blade. The sunlight caught the metal and cast a prism of colors down to the grassy ground. “Lucia said the Kindred couldn’t be destroyed. Even if I had the chance to get close enough to shove this into Kyan’s chest, all I’d be doing is murdering Nic.”
Timotheus’s expression grew strained. “I can’t tell you exactly what you need to do.”
Frustration burned in Jonas’s chest. “Why not?”
“That’s not how it works. My direct involvement—beyond what I’ve already done—is not allowed. I am a Watcher. I watch. It’s all I’m permitted to do. To say any more is literally impossible for me. But hear me, Jonas Agallon. Lucia is and always will be the key to all of this. Kyan still needs her.”
Jonas shook his head. “Lucia won’t help him. She’s different now. She’ll do anything to stop him.”
Timotheus’s jaw tensed, his gaze fixed upon the dagger. “This weapon can stop her as well, even at her most powerful.”
Jonas blinked, understanding all too well what the immortal meant.
“I won’t kill Lucia,” he growled.
“I’ve seen her die, Jonas. I’ve seen a precise moment in the future with this very blade in her chest and you standing over her.” His expression shuttered. “I’ve said too much already. This is over. The remainder of my magic is nearly gone, and I have no more to spare on entering the dreams of mortals. You must go forth alone now.”
“Wait, no.” Panic rose in Jonas’s chest. “You need to tell me more. You can’t stop now!”
Timotheus glanced to the right of the colorful meadow, seemingly at nothing at all. “You’re needed elsewhere.”
Jonas frowned. “What? What are you—?”
The expansive field of green shattered, falling away like shards of glass. Jonas realized someone was shaking him awake. He opened his eyes to see Taran Ranus staring down at him.
“Jonas, wake up,” he urged.
“What is it?”
“Felix is going to be executed.”
The fogginess of sleep left him in a rush. “When?”
“Now.”
Jonas sat up so quickly that a wave of dizziness hit him. He noticed something cold and heavy in his hand, and he looked down with shock to see that he held the very same golden dagger that Timotheus had given him in the dream.
But . . . how?
He let go of it as if it had been covered in spiders. The weapon lay there on the blanket, shimmering in the meager light of the room.
“Hurry,” Taran barked as he pulled on a shirt.
For a moment, Jonas’s mind went completely blank, as if he couldn’t make a decision or move or rationalize what had happened.
But then he realized what Taran had said. His friend was in danger.
Nothing else mattered right now.
Jonas grabbed the strange new dagger, thrust it into the empty holder on his belt, and joined Taran as they left the small room the empress had provided for them during their stay at the compound.
“Thought you hated Felix,” Jonas said as they rushed toward the prison.
“Only in the beginning. He’s a friend now, just like you.”
“How did you hear of this?”
Taran frowned deeply. “I heard voices . . . in the air. Guards discussing doing away with a difficult prisoner. They were loud enough to wake me.”
Jonas had no reply to this. He knew the air Kindred was inside Taran now, just as the water Kindred was within Cleo, but Taran had barely spoken of it since Jonas’s arrival.
They arrived at a small dusty clearing just outside the compound’s prison area just as guards dragged Felix out in chains. A small crowd of guards and servants had gathered to watch as Felix was forced to his knees, his head shoved down onto a chopping block.
Jonas pushed through the crowd just as the executioner raised his ax.
Felix’s gaze met his.
The defeat in Felix’s single eye said it all.
Amara had won.
They were too late. There was no time to yell or fight or try to stop this. Jonas could only watch in horror as the ax sliced downward—
—and stopped only a whisper above Felix’s flesh. The guard’s muscles bulged as he tried to push down against an invisible barrier.
Jonas shot a look at Taran to see that perspiration coated his forehead. His eyes glowed with white light. Spidery white lines appeared on his hands, wrapping around his wrists.
“You’re doing this,” Jonas managed.
“I—I don’t know how,” Taran replied tightly.
The ax went flying, hitting the side of a building so hard that the blade buried itself fully into the stone surface. Then, the guard flew backward as if shoved by an invisible hand.
“Air magic,” a nearby woman gasped. All those around her began to speak, to shout, and every gaze in the clearing turned to stare at Taran.
Taran looked wide-eyed at the glowing spiral mark on his right hand. It was surrounded by white lines, spreading and curling around his skin.
“Don’t just gawk at me,” Taran said through clenched teeth. “Go get him.”
Jonas did as Taran said and ran up to the execution platform, cutting through Felix’s ropes quickly with his new blade. He offered Felix his hand to stand, and Felix grasped it without hesitation.
“Twice now,” Felix said to Jonas, his voice thick. “You’ve saved my arse twice.”
“You can thank Taran for this one.” Jonas embraced his friend, slapping him on the back.
The guards who might have intervened at this point all took a step backward as Taran approached. Jonas noted that Taran’s face was pale, his deep tan completely gone. Dark circles, like bruises, had appeared beneath his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that,” Taran said, wincing. “I hate this.”
“I don’t,” Felix replied quickly. “It’s good to have a god on my side of things.”
“I’m no god.”
Still, when Taran glanced toward the dozens of onlookers, they all took a step backward—servants and guards alike.
“I can’t stay here,” Taran muttered.
“You’re right,” Jonas said. This was no place for any of them.
He had to speak to Cleo, to Lucia. He had to convince them to move on, away from the watch of the empress.
Amara wouldn’t stop them. She feared them.
He spotted the captain of the guard, Carlos, approaching them fearlessly, his sword drawn.
“We have no fight with you today,” Jonas said, spreading his hands. “But you will not execute my friend. Not now, not ever.”
“The empress commanded it,” Carlos said.
Felix muttered something very dark under his breath about the commanding empress. Then louder: “If the empress wishes me dead, have her come out here and do it herself.”
Jonas glared at him. “Kindly shut up.”
Felix glared back at Jonas. “I hate her.”
“I know.” Jonas regarded Carlos again. “You can see that we have power, we have strength. And we will not stand by and let you imprison our friends any longer. We’re leaving this place, and Prince Ashur is coming with us.”
Jonas had certainly gathered a strange group of friends over the last few months. Tarus had told him that Prince Ashur hadn’t betrayed them after all when he’d left their group in Basilia without a word. He’d gone to his sister’s side to convince her to halt her evil ways. Clearly, Amara had ignored him.
Prince Ashur Cortas was every bit a r
ebel as Jonas was himself.
“I’m certain the empress will have no issues with your departure,” Carlos said, his eyes narrow and cruel. “But Prince Ashur will not be joining you.”
“Perhaps you didn’t hear him,” Felix said, his fists tight. “Go get him now, or my friend Taran is going to reduce this compound to a pile of rocks. Right, Taran?”
Jonas glanced at Taran, who also appeared ready to fight.
His eyes still glowed.
“Right,” Taran said.
Jonas wondered for just a moment if Taran could actually control this godlike power within him that he’d just used to save Felix or if he was bluffing.
“I will tell you again,” Jonas said, his attention fixed on the large armed guard. “Free Prince Ashur Cortas immediately.”
Carlos’s shook his head. “An impossible request.”
“Why?”
“Because the prince,” Carlos began, his expression grim, “escaped from his cell late last night.”
CHAPTER 7
MAGNUS
PAELSIA
For what felt like an eternity, Magnus scratched at the wood in the inky darkness of his minuscule prison. Blood dripped onto his face from his torn-up fingertips, but he continued until the pain became unbearable. He fought against unconsciousness until it claimed him.
When he woke, his fingers had healed.
Without the bloodstone, he would have been dead and broken and worthless.
With it, he still had a chance.
To save his father’s life, Magnus’s grandmother had literally cut this ring from the finger of an exiled Watcher. He didn’t know the bloodstone’s origins. Frankly, he didn’t care.
All that mattered was that it existed. And somehow, at some time when he hadn’t noticed, his father had slipped this invaluable ring into Magnus’s pocket.
But why would the man who’d tormented him his entire life, who’d literally tried to kill Magnus not so very long ago, do such a thing? Why would he give up such an incredible piece of magic?
“What game are you playing with me now, Father?” he muttered.
Tormented by a thousand answers to that question, Magnus clawed at the lid of his coffin, aided by the rain-soaked earth that made the wood more pliable. Weaker.
Weak things are so very easy to break.
It was a harsh lesson from his father. One of many over Magnus’s life.
He tried to focus only on his seemingly insurmountable task.
And on Lord Kurtis.
Magnus had no idea how many days had passed and whether he still had time to stop Kurtis from his horrific plans. The thought made him shake with anger, frustration, and fear.
Cleo had to be smarter than to trust the former kingsliege. She wouldn’t allow herself to be alone with him.
It didn’t matter, another voice in his head observed. Kurtis could knock her out and drag her away somewhere no one would ever find her again.
A cry of rage tore from his throat as he yanked a larger shard of wood from its place and mud poured through the hole in the lid, covering his face. He roared and pushed it away. But more came, like a cold, wet, demonic blanket meant to smother him. It filled his mouth, his throat. He choked on it, holding on to one single thought that gave him strength.
Nothing can kill me with this ring on my finger.
He shoved, pushed, and dug at the mud and dirt shoveled on top of his unmarked grave.
Slow, it was so painfully slow.
But he did not give up. Darkness had become his entire world. Now, he kept his eyes squeezed shut to protect them from the mud.
Inch by inch, he pressed upward. One handful at a time.
Slowly.
Slowly.
Until, finally, after a thrust of his fist, the sensation of cool air took him by surprise. He froze for a moment before stretching out his fingers to feel for any further barriers. But there were none.
Despite the strength that had flowed through him after putting on the ring, he wanted to rest, just for a few moments. He needed time to heal.
But then Cleo’s face appeared in his mind’s eye.
“Giving up so easily?” she asked, raising an eyebrow. “How disappointing.”
“Trying my best,” he growled in reply, but only in his imagination.
“Try harder.”
It sounded just like her—more cruel than kind in a moment of great importance. And it helped.
Kindness had never, in Magnus’s experience, brought anyone back from their own death.
Only magic could do that.
Muscles screaming with effort, he pushed further, finally freeing his other arm from the hungry earth. He grabbed hold of the muddy ground and pulled himself upward.
It was as if the earth itself birthed him back into the real world.
He lay there, his arm collapsed over his chest, and forced himself to take deep, choking breaths as his heart slammed against his rib cage.
The stars were out, bright in the black sky.
Stars. He could see stars after an eternity of utter darkness. They were the most beautiful things he’d ever seen in his entire life.
When he laughed out loud at the thought, it sounded slightly hysterical.
Magnus slid his dirt-encrusted fingers over the thick gold ring on his left hand.
“I don’t understand this,” he whispered. “But thank you, Father.”
He wiped at his mud-covered face before he slowly, gingerly pushed himself up to his feet on limbs that had very recently been shattered.
He felt strong.
Stronger than he should have, he knew.
Magically strong.
And ready to find and kill Kurtis Cirillo.
Or . . . perhaps he was still buried, moments from death, and this was only a vivid dream before the darklands finally claimed him.
For once in his life, Magnus Damora decided to be positive.
Where was he? He looked around, seeing only a small clearing with nothing to mark his location or indicate how to get back to Amara’s compound. He’d been unconscious when Kurtis and his minions had brought him here.
He could be anywhere.
Without another glance at his former grave, Magnus chose a direction at random and began to walk.
He needed food. Drink.
Vengeance.
But first and most importantly, he needed to know that Cleo was safe.
He stumbled on a tangle of roots from a desiccated tree as he entered a wooded area.
“Bloody Paelsia,” he muttered with annoyance. “Utterly hateful during the day, even worse in the dead of night.”
The moonlight shone down, lighting his path, now flanked by tall, leafless trees, a short distance from where he’d been buried.
He twisted the ring on his finger, needing to feel its presence again, countless questions arising in his mind about where it came from and how its magic worked. What else could it do?
Something caught his eye then—a campfire. He wasn’t alone. He instinctively felt for his weapon, but of course he didn’t have one. Even before Kurtis had chained him up, Magnus had been Amara’s prisoner.
Barely breathing, he quietly drew closer to see who it was, envious of the warmth of the fire after being cold and damp for so long.
“Greetings, Prince Magnus. Come closer. I’ve been waiting for you.”
He froze.
The voice sounded familiar, but it wasn’t Kurtis, like he’d half expected it to be.
Magnus clenched his fists. If this was a threat, he was ready to kill whoever had issued it with his bare hands without a moment’s hesitation.
At the sight of bright red hair lit by the firelight, relief surged through him, and he relaxed his fists.
“Nic!” Shame slammed into him
as his eyes began to sting with tears. “You’re here! You’re all right!”
Nic smiled and stood up. “I am.”
“I thought Kurtis had killed you.”
“It seems we both survived, didn’t we?”
Magnus let out a hoarse laugh. “Don’t take this too personally, but I’m very happy to see you.”
“The feeling is mutual.” Nic’s gaze swept over him. “You’re covered in dirt.”
Magnus looked down at himself, grimacing. “I just dug myself out of my own damn grave.”
Nic nodded thoughtfully. “Olivia sensed you were underground.”
Olivia. The girl who traveled with Jonas. Magnus didn’t know her well at all, but knew she was rumored to be a witch. “Where’s Cleo?”
“At the compound, last I checked. Here, you look thirsty.” Nic offered him a flask. “I know you’re partial to Paelsian wine.”
Magnus grasped the container and tipped it back. The wine was like life itself on his tongue, the purest pleasure in existence as it slid down his throat. “Thank you. Thank you for this. For . . . for being here. Now, we have to get back to the compound.” He sent a look toward the forest surrounding them, but it was all in darkness beyond the firelight. “Kurtis means to hurt Cleo, and I’m going to kill him before he does.”
Nic took a seat across the campfire from Magnus, cocking his head. “That’s right. You don’t know what happened, do you?”
How could he act so nonchalant about a threat to his childhood friend?
Something felt off about Nic. Incredibly off. “What do you mean?” Magnus asked, now more cautious.
“The night you disappeared, your grandmother performed a ritual.”
“My grandmother?” Magnus blinked. The last time he’d seen her was just before his father had angrily sent her away. “Where is she now?”
“Your father killed her.” Nic’s expression darkened. “Broke her neck before she was done, and now everything is going wrong.”
Magnus gaped at him. “What? What are you talking about? He killed her?”
Nic grabbed a stick and jabbed at the fire with much more force than necessary. “Only the sorceress could have performed the ritual properly. I see that now. I was too impatient.”
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