Page 136 of Heirs of the Cursed

The sound of the persistent rain woke Darcia up repeatedly throughout the night. She tried to fall back to sleep, but after repeated unsuccessful attempts, she decided to get up.

The wolves were still guarding the entrance. Some of them slept; others came out among the logs to make sure that no danger fell upon them. In gratitude, Darcia took some dried meat from her own pack and divided it among the wolves, who looked honored that she’d approached.

She washed her face and hands with water from a worn-out wineskin. The blood was almost completely gone, but not the events. They were still there, permeating her skin and her memory.

Darcia hobbled around the cave. Parts of the ground were scratched, probably from the paws of the wolves that hid there during storms and cold winter nights. In the faint light of dawn coming through the logs, she could see irregularities in the wall.At first, she thought they were shadows, but when she knelt down to get a better look, she noticed them for what they were.

Drawings.

They were tiny, frayed drawings that stretched all over the rock wall. Something burned inside her chest as Darcia traced her hand over them. The paint had worn off from the moisture, but no one seemed to have touched them in a long time.

Conrad’s voice came back to her mind; not to threaten her, but to enlighten her with the truth.

A savage child raised by wolves and only the goddesses know what else, he had said.

Darcia turned to look at the pack with an unspoken question. As they stared back at her, she knew. It wasn’t just any cave, and they weren’t any pack.

That cave had been her home. The place where Lisabetta had found her, where she’d been cared for and kept away from the curse that threatened to end her forever . . . They had been her protectors as a child and they were protecting her now.

Not Lykeios or Alasdair, but her.

There was a wolf with gray fur and tired eyes at the front of the cave. From his gait, he looked old, but he walked at a steady pace toward Darcia. She didn’t notice when tears had begun to kiss her cheeks, nor when her breathing turned uneven.

“Thank you,” Darcia murmured, unable to stop crying. “For everything.”

Then the wolf bowed to her, and so did the rest of the pack.

To the heiress of the Fallen Kingdom, the rightful princess of Ro’i Rajya.

Her heart flipped, as if among many other things, she’d always been destined to be who she was. To face that fate.

And to be cursed above all else.

38

Bellmare

The flames of the candles still glowed in her sisters’ room. Naithea had escaped through a window with Leonel’s help byholding on to the pebbles protruding from the exterior wall, before reentering the brothel with the stealth of a ghost.

She opened the door to her former bedroom and pushed the soldier inside to not draw attention to themselves. She then ran to Larka’s bed and descended on her knees as she shook her sister.

“Larka, wake up,” she said in a whisper, looking back at the door to make sure the Fiend’s men weren’t approaching. They were powerful enough to hear her voice through the wooden floors. “Please.”

Larka rubbed her eyes with one hand and asked with a husky voice, “Thea?”

“Yes.”

The rest of her sisters woke up at the sound of her name and Naithea’s heart warmed when noticing the concern in their voices, how they jumped out of their beds and hurried toward her. Her family.

“By the Triad, it’s you.” Jehanne dropped to the ground beside her, hugging her. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Naithea assured her.

“We went looking for you, but Madame Dimond said you fell ill,” Caisen said as she brushed a lock of her ginger hair back. “That you were in confinement to prevent the disease from spreading through the brothel.”

“She lied.”

“Of course she did. But, what happened? And why are those men at your door?” Jehanne asked.

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