Page 112 of Heirs of the Cursed

“Then it can’t taste that bad,” Iseabail answered sweetly. “Here comes the protector of the Akhirat to eat you!”

The room was filled with laughter as soon as her mother started tickling her. Weak as the little girl was, she couldn’t resist Iseabail’s love attacks.

Naithea stood to the side, fearing to be seen even though it was clear that none were aware of her presence. It was a memory, one she’d forgotten. She held herself, digging her nails into her arms to hold back the tears.

“It will make you feel better,” her mother assured her, holding out the tea. “Just a few sips,Ra.”

Naithea’s body stiffened at the sound of that name. The name Dyron had used in the library as he told her the story of the past; the story of the kingdom that had fallen so that a new one could rise.

She didn’t remember her mother calling her that name, not once. Yet, the endearment that accompanied her words only indicated that it was a habit. She felt guilty for forgetting, for pushing Iseabail to the bottom of her soul because remembering her hurt.

The girl’s boreal eyes lit up and, without a whimper, she took the mug in her small hands before tipping it to her lips. She drank the thick, orange liquid in large sips and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Disgusting.”

Her mother kissed her forehead for long seconds and Naithea longed to trade places with her smaller version, only to feel a kiss from Iseabail one last time.

“I have some errands to run by the harbor, but I’ll be back soon,” her mother said, adjusting the starry pendant around the girl’s neck. “Remember what I told you?”

The little girl nodded. “I must never take off the necklace,” she answered. “Not even if I’m afraid of it.”

“Good girl.”

Iseabail rose from the bed with a heavy hand in the pit of her stomach. Naithea remembered how much she hated to be left alone when she was sick, which was quite often.

Upon seeing her mother leave the room to head for the door, Naithea hurried after her. She watched her silently as Iseabail draped the cloak over her shoulders and buttoned it over her chest.

“Mother,” she whispered.

Iseabail didn’t turn around.

“Mommy. . .”

She hadn’t called her that in years. Not since her death, the last day she had felt her warmth and love. Naithea took a desperate step toward her to reach for her hand, to brush it one last time, but the bursting of the door’s hinges pushed her back.

Iseabail’s face paled when three figures made their way through the now broken opening. She backed away with cautious yet trembling steps, her restless heartbeat pounding in her throat. No matter what she did, Iseabail Forsàidh dared not look toward the room where she’d left her daughter.

“It’s been a long time, Iseabail.”

It was Vandrad Utari, her husband. The man who had abandoned Iseabail out of fear and hatred, for the lies she’d told and the secrets she’d hidden.

“What are you doing here?”

“Where’s the girl?”

Iseabail shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The bloody girl who did this to me!”

When Vandrad dropped the hood of his cloak, her mother gasped. Naithea’s lips parted in surprise at the extensive, jagged scar that fell in the shape of a lightning bolt across his forehead, across his brow and eye, outlining the bridge of his nose and his pale lips.

A scar that had disfigured his face completely.

“It wasn’t her fault . . .”

“If it wasn’t hers, whose was it?” he growled. “I’m going to collect my debt, Iseabail. One way or another.”

“I don’t have any money here, Vandrad.”

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