Page 125 of Heirs of the Cursed

“I have some questions.”

“You’ll have to ask them while I work. I have a big family to feed and my boss will refuse to pay me if the harbor isn’t clean by sundown.”

“What do you know about Iseabail Utari?”

That caught the man’s attention. “That bitch doesn’t deserve to call herself by that name anymore.”

“What do you mean?” Killian asked.

“Her maiden name was Forsàidh,” he revealed. “She took Vandrad’s after she married him.”

Vandrad.

Naithea’s father.

The man who had abandoned her.

“Do you know where I can find him?”

“You’ll need a wizard,” the man replied with a cold laugh. “He’s dead. Or so we think.”

“You think?”

“No one has seen him in years.”

“He may have moved to another city,” he suggested.

“Without his belongings?” The man clicked his tongue. “Hard to believe. They say he died from a siren’s song.”

Killian masked his emotions, feeling that familiar darkness extinguishing the flame of light that Naithea had ignited in his chest.

Not Naithea, but the Dark Twin.

One of the heirs of the cursed.

She’d lied to him, used him . . . It had all been a game to know his moves and plans so she could be one step ahead.

He returned to the camp with the speed of lightning, thirsting to see Bellmare reduced to ashes and rubble and corpses. But instead of that satisfaction he’d hoped to feel once he discovered the whereabouts of one of the cursed princesses, he found only emptiness.

“Commander!” Osmond called him.

“What?” he growled.

“Biceus is awake.”

Killian didn’t wait for the Healer of Weapons to lead him into the tent. He’d watched Fawke in that damned bed for weeks, controlling his urge to murder him for touching Naithea. At that moment, the prince was thankful he hadn’t.

He pushed back the loose ends of the tent and walked in with firm steps. His brow furrowed as he noticed that the soldier lay motionless, his eyes still closed.

“I thought you said he was awake.”

“He was, sir,” he stammered. “He drifts in and out of trance every few minutes.”

“Can he speak?” the prince asked, focusing his gaze on Fawke once more.

“Nothing he says seems to make sense. It’s as if there is still a small seed of her power embedded in his soul. It will be difficult to remove, perhaps it will remain for the rest of his life.”

Killian nodded and took another step toward the unconscious soldier. The wounds from Naithea’s nails on his face had healed and disappeared, as well as those on his hands. But there, in the center of his chest, something pulsed with hunger.

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