“I will be on that ship at dawn.” Melité’s gills flare as she huffs. “You cannot stop me. And you may, in fact, find yourself grateful for my presence. For whileyourpowers may be weakened by the ore of that prison…mine are not.”
“She has a point,” Vaughn mutters, grimacing. “The guards can’t very well pick up their blades if they’re clutching their cocks, caught up in the thrall of siren song.”
Cadogan makes a choking sound.
Mabon claps him soundly on the back until he resumes breathing.
“Fine,” Soren growls, voice threaded with annoyance. “Then I will see you all at first light. Gather your weapons and get some sleep, if you can. We will not have much time to rest once we are underway.”
The pervasive quietof my bedchamber is punctuated only by the occasional brays of desolate Paexyri. Each time I hear them, my heart pangs. I know they will not stop until the funeral rites on the cliffside are concluded. Until the pyres for Thisobei and Umyr flicker out, their souls returned to eternal flight in the aether.
Everyone dispersed after the meeting broke up, heading to their respective quarters to prepare for departure, or tending to their dead. I wonder if the others are able to quiet their minds enough to sleep or if they, too, are plagued by visions of bodies being carried away, of blood being wiped off the flagstones. Of the horrors still to come in the south.
I lay atop my bed, fully clothed in my formfitting gray leather getup—boots laced, daggers holstered, whip coiled. My small pack sits by the door, at the ready. My eyes are fixed on the coffered ceiling as I count down the time until we set sail.
Three hours until dawn.
Two hours.
One.
I swing off the bed, no longer able to remain still, not even for another second. Before I make the conscious decision, I’ve crossed the chamber, scooped my bag from the floor, andstepped into the hallway. My eyes do not shift from the crystalline doorway at the end of the corridor as I cut a path toward it.
My mind stretches out, seeking Soren down the bond, trying to discern whether he is behind that thick barricade. If he is, I cannot sense him. Not there, not anywhere.
He is blocking me out.
That realization sends a ripple of unease through me. I raise my hands, laying them flat against the warded door. It emits a strong maegical signature, one unique to Soren. Only he can trigger the locks. And yet, as my palms rest against the smooth white surface, the glyphs gouged into its handle begin to glow, pulsating in reaction to my presence.
I do not even consider the consequences of what I am about to do. I send a shot of maegic straight into the slab. Instantly, the door cracks open under my touch.
Strange.
I push it wider, hesitation slowing my movements. The chamber beyond is entrenched in darkness, not a single candle to illuminate it. No one appears to be inside. I know I should turn around, that it isn’t right to snoop—especially not in the one place I was warned to stay away from. But I’m already halfway over the threshold…
Nerves race up my spine as I step fully inside, allowing the heavy door to swing shut at my back with a low click. The room is large, triple the size of my suite, with a wall of north-facing windows that offer an unmitigated view of the moonlit sea. The furniture is opulent, from the wingback chairs that face the vast stone fireplace on my right to the elaborately carved bed that takes up a good chunk of the floor space to my left. It looks big enough to accommodate a Titan.
In the corner, there are soaring bookshelves stocked withtomes and trinkets from Soren’s many travels, surrounding a cluttered desk where several pots of ink sit beside tidy stacks of parchment. Unlike the rest of the villa, the walls in this room are not covered in artwork. Instead, a single mural spans one entire wall opposite the imposing four-poster bed. In the silver-blue shades of starlight that pour through the glass panes, I cannot make out much in the way of detail. I wander closer, wanting a better look at whatever warrants such a large canvas…and feel my mouth drop open on a gasp.
It is a scene of battle.
A scene of pure annihilation, in fact.
The foreground is full of bodies lying on black sand. Fae and mortal alike, tangled together in a tableau of horror. Monsters, too, I see as I peer closer. Arachnidae legs twitch skyward beside putrid white cyntroedi carcasses. Ice giants’ hoarfrost hands lie slack with death, still reaching toward the equally large corpses of Titans who’ve succumbed.
My eyes shift higher, to the center of the frame. In the sky above the carnage, a sole figure fills the tempestuous sky. In her golden armor, she looks like a goddess. I think it is Arianrhod at first, but the hair is too light. Not honey blond, but the pale platinum that flows from my own skull. Blood pours in rivulets from a set of all-too-familiar storm-cloud eyes. And the look on her face…
Onmyface.
For it is my face, staring back at me. Impossibly, incomprehensibly, I am staring at a portrait of myself. And judging by the holocaust depicted at my feet…
I am no savior.
No, I am the very source of this doom.
Flying high above the grisly battlefield, my arms outstretched to either side as I command six huge tornadoes in the distance.They cut a terrifying visage of destruction across the background of the canvas, black as the desert sands they pull up into the skies in tremendous funnel clouds.
The longer I stare at the mural, the harder my heart pounds.