Page 111 of Heirs of the Cursed

“I do. That’s why you showed me the poem.”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Daughter of Light?”

She didn’t respond.

The merchant stepped back and revealed a painting of endless colors and changing images.

“What is that?”

“This will provide the answer to all your questions.”

“And why should I trust you?” she demanded.

Dyron raised an eyebrow. “Have I not proved myself worthy of your trust?”

He had, but Ward had also won her heart and lied to her. Naithea didn’t wish the world to think that they could take advantage of her without repercussions. She had to shed her sheepskin and show the true monster she hid underneath.

“I could be imprisoned forever. All magic has a price, like the necklace of the goddess Kazaris.”

“Although you don’t know your provenance,” Dyron said, his hands firmly on his cane, “yours and mine are the same.”

“If you’re lying, they’ll come for me anyway.”

“I know.”

Naithea moved closer to the painting. She rested her hand on the canvas and gasped as her hand disappeared into the colors, which quickly changed from vivid hues to dark and cold ones. The paint began to climb up her arm, like vines slowly devouring her just in time to hear Dyron Selmi’s last words.

“For the fallen, the dead and the missing. May your ancestors walk beside you and the goddesses guide you back home.”

And then Naithea Utari became light, shadows and doom.

Familiar yellowish walls, weathered and worn, emerged from the darkness. The sun’s rays streamed through the windows of the room, making the light curtains dance until they caressed the cheeks of a young Naithea who slept peacefully.

She was in her old room.

In her home.

Naithea spun on her heels to take in every detail of the stone house that held hundreds of memories; the happiest she had ever had. Until that life was taken from her and she had to do horrible things to survive.

“Thea,” her mother sang in the distance, warming her chest. “Wake up, sweetheart. It’s time for your tea.”

A woman full of life and joy walked through the door of her old room, very different from Naithea’s last memories of her: the olive skin with greenish tones, the lost eyes, the broken and torn voice . . . Back then, Iseabail Forsàidh had barely been able to stand up on her own, and every breath she took had posed an immense effort.

Her eyes watered with mirth as she watched her mother approach the bed where a small, exhausted version of Naithea lay. Iseabail stroked her daughter’s cheek and brushed the golden hair away from her boreal eyes.

There was concern on her face. She could see it in her pursed lips, something she often did when Naithea returned home from playing with the rest of the children with bruises and cuts on her legs.

“I don’t want it,” the girl complained, covering her face with her little arms. “It tastes like manure.”

Iseabail laughed, and Naithea could swear that that melody would remain engraved in her mind for the rest of her life.

“And how could you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Have you ever eaten manure?” her mother kept on asking.

“No . . .”

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