Page 117 of Heirs of the Cursed

She wanted to move, but her body didn’t respond to her commands. Conrad caught her and pushed her body against the log behind her, plunging the dagger into her shoulder.

Darcia screamed as a deep, burning pain seared through her body.

“It’s a dryadalis metal that hurts any daimon,” explained Conrad. “Your wound only reaffirms my theory of who you truly are.”

Her vision blurred as she screamed again.

“But it hurts dryadalis too, you know? Like your dear girlfriend.”

No.

“She bled out too quickly for my liking. Even as I stabbed her, she wouldn’t tell me where you were. She put up all the resistance in the world, all to keep you safe. She could have saved herself, but she chose not to out of loyalty to you. And you . . . The king said nothing about delivering you intact. Perhaps I can gouge out your eyes as a reminder that you will always belong to me, even in death.”

Darcia saw the edge of the dagger come closer to her eyes. She managed to scream one more time before a dark shadow leapt over Conrad and sent him tumbling to the ground.

A black wolf.

Darcia nearly fell.

But someone caught her in time.

“There you are,” a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “I’ve got you, gorgeous.”

“Alasdair?” she asked with tears in her eyes.

“There’s no time.” He pulled a knife from his belt and cut the ropes. “Can you walk?”

“I can try.”

“Let’s go.”

“But the wolf . . .” Darcia began, frightened of the fate that awaited them.

“He’ll find us.”

Darcia was no longer made of steel, but of glass—so fragile that even she didn’t know how to move without breaking. With Alasdair by her side, she ran, carrying the weight of her fear, yet somehow finding the strength to keep going.

32

Bellmare

Images of a fallen kingdom of stone overlapped with reality.

Naithea had fallen into a spiral of light and darkness and memories that intermingled with the present. As she clung toher mother, not wanting to leave her again, the painting spat her back into the store, confused and dazed. The old wizard’s warnings echoed in her ears, but all the same, she plunged into the blackness of the night and began to run through the city streets and beyond, where her instincts guided her.

The streets and structures of Bellmare vanished around her and a city of stone, dying plants and statues appeared in its place. Her eyes lifted to admire the boreal lights—the same ones that shone in her eyes—that had replaced the bright stars.

A soft, gentle voice whispered in her mind.

‘My Boreal Flame.’

Naithea held her head tightly and pulled her long, dark hair in search of the voice. She didn’t understand where it came from, for there was no one around her. The sound of thunder shattered the image of the kingdom and brought her back to the city, before the forgotten memories dragged her back to where she truly belonged.

A golden-haired, hazel-eyed woman lay sore on a wide bed. Her forehead was pearly with sweat, her chest heaved up and down from exhaustion. Despite her screams, the crown of dark iron, obsidian and gems resting on her head didn’t budge from its place.

Naithea advanced with unsteady steps across the wide room tinged by the boreal hues that leaked through the open windows. When she turned her gaze to the woman, she noticed that she was holding two babies, each wrapped in a blanket, looking completely identical. She rocked them in her arms, between whispers, sadness and regret.

Naithea couldn’t say aloud what it meant.

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