Page 151 of Heirs of the Cursed

“I don’t think you’re in a position to make threats.”

“Not threats, Amira Boreaalinen,” he corrected her. “Promises.”

Naithea’s grip on Fawke’s hair tightened until every inch of his neck was exposed.

He was nothing more than a monster she had to slay in order to stay alive. One more pawn on a much bigger board than she could imagine. And she’d deliver that death, slow and torturous, to ensure her safety and that of her sister.

Her twin’s voice stopped her. “Wait!”

The blade of the sword froze mere inches from the place where his pulse beat as the ground shook beneath her boots. In the distance thundered the heavy steps of horses on the muddy ground, the neighing, and, louder still . . . The voice of an enraged prince promising the destruction of his enemies.

“We must go,” she insisted, her eyes fixed on Naithea. “Death can wait.”

Fawke kept his gaze on the young woman, parting his lips into a grin that masked hidden secrets. The words died on his tongue when Naithea struck the back of his head with the hilt of her sword, knocking him unconscious.

The man who had saved her from Killian helped her sister rise from the ground and held her against him. To comfort her, Naithea realized.

The tigers were the first to move. In honor of Laivalon, the cursed kingdom turned to stone and shadows and the twogoddesses they represented, they guided the cursed princesses toward their fate.

They ran together through Saevus Forest, as fast as their wounds would allow them, keeping the sound of horses to their left. They had to outran it, to escape before it was too late.

Naithea wasn’t sure they could get out alive from another fight.

Every part of her body ached, pulled at her. Her skin stung from the pain and the blood rushing through her body froze her every nerve. She’d been so focused on saving herself, on getting revenge on Fawke, that now that she’d relaxed in the absence of danger, it was as if her whole body was shutting down.

Her vision was marred by white dots that made her squint her eyes. Dots that began to cover the grass beneath her feet and everything around her. Naithea paused at the icy caresses of snowflakes falling from the night sky, and just a few steps behind her, so did her sister.

Slowly, the forest turned white.

The princesses’ boreal gazes met, both feeling the icy cold of the snow caress them with a warning. Perhaps the goddesses had been wrong and the snow wasn’t an omen of good fortune, but of impending death.

A death that they would have to face together.

EPILOGUE

Camdenn

The capital was in mourning.

Priestesses from the four cities of Laivalon stood in the monastery of the castle, fuming with holy sticks and praying for the goddesses to welcome the departed soul of Davinia Allencort, the last heiress of Lên Rajya’s throne.

Loved by the people, some said she was the most beautiful of the family. All her siblings had adored her from the moment she was born, and continued to do so as the world carried on without the thirteen-year-old. She was dressed in her finest garments; green and floral colors decorated every part of her body to represent her magic, her kindness.

The queen had stood in front of the open casket, caressing the diamond earrings Davinia wore—the only good memory her daughter would ever have of her. She shed bitter tears at her loss, embracing herself at the absence of her husband to comfort her. To the king, his daughter’s corpse wasn’t the heiress she’d once been.

She no longer had any value . . .

And even less so after she was turned to ashes.

The cries and sobs reached Annemarie and Sirio Allencort’s ears as they entered the monastery. Icy pain pierced their chests as they mourned their sister. Annemarie had taught Davinia to sew and prepared her herbal teas when she was unwell, while Sirio had planted rose bushes in the royal gardens alongside her and had played hide-and-seek with her in the vastness of the castle that didn’t feel like home.

They’d been present from the moment she was born, until her unfortunate death.

The heirs to the throne were dressed in black. Annemarie wore her brown hair combed back in a modest bun, revealing the delicacy of her features and the subdued gleam of her gray eyes. Sirio, on the other hand, wore his shoulder-length hair loose and the white locks blended in the shadows of the monastery. Hiseyes, the same shade as his sister’s, were tired and framed by dark circles.

“Is he not back yet?” Annemarie asked in a whisper.

“Are you surprised?” he questioned.

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