Page 107 of Heirs of the Cursed

By the time she stepped away, her throat was so dry that she almost choked on her own cough and her head hurt with the tears she’d refused to shed.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

No, she wasn’t.

But she would be.

Darcia’s lungs burned despite her desperate gasps for air. Her eyes grew so heavy she wanted nothing more than to rest her head on Alasdair’s shoulder and drift into days of sleep. But a sudden, unfamiliar scent made her eyes snap open in terror.

It smelled of coal, charred wood and ashes. Darcia looked up toward the forest, where the distant circus tents stood like a tide of red.

Fire.

“No . . .” Darcia muttered before taking a step forward.

“Don’t,” he stopped her with a hand on her wrist. It wasn’t a hard, painful grip like the one she was used to at Conrad’s hands, but gentle and insistent.

“Are we going to have this argument again?” she growled at him.

“I’m not going to follow you to a certain death.”

“Well, then leave! You have no business here.”

Alasdair took a step back, as if Darcia’s words had hurt him.

“If you go to that circus and die, no one will know you’re gone.”

Darcia’s chest heaved with anger and sadness. If she went and died, she’d become a forgotten and nameless grave for no one tomourn. But that didn’t matter to her, not when her world was breaking apart.

“Let the goddesses decide my destiny.”

Before Alasdair could respond, Darcia’s gaze locked onto the burning tent, the flames ravenous in their advance. With a final, defiant pull from his grip, she surged forward, moving toward the inferno to save her people—even if it meant sacrificing herself.

The heat was suffocating. The smoke had choked off all the air and the treetops burned uncontrollably, as the fire devoured everything in its path, turning Darcia’s home into a heap of rubble and ashes. Her chest ached with each breath, and she coughed violently against the fabric she’d torn from her cloak to protect her nose and mouth.

Darcia darted toward the fire while surveying her surroundings. The crackling of flames against wood drowned out her hearing, silencing the distant screams that echoed through Dawnfall.

She checked the circus’ tents, one by one. The scorching raffias seared her hands, yet she didn’t care. She had to make sure that no one was there before the fire consumed it all.

Still, there were no children, women and men, crippled, dwarves, or animals.

She was all alone.

Her body trembled violently with hope but also fear.

If they aren’t here, they are. . . She was unable to finish the thought.

No. Her family—the people she had grown up with—wasn’t dead. The goddesses couldn’t be so cruel.

The only place that remained intact was the main tent, where the magic of her illusions had shone in every one of her spectacles.

A shiver of death crawled up her spine, forcing her to take a few unconscious steps back until she was dangerously close to the flames. There was nothing she could do, nothing she could save.

But all at once, Darcia heard an agonizing scream, followed by the crack of a whip against the purest, softest skin. She’d recognize that voice anywhere, even in the darkest places.

For she knew who it belonged to.

Caeli.

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