Page 92 of Heirs of the Cursed

She smiled. “It’s my lucky charm. I’ve had it since I was a child.”

“Your whole life?” he inquired. “May I?”

Darcia nodded, holding out the pendant to him. As Harg traced his fingers over it, a pained expression flickered across his face and made him curse under his breath.

“Are you all right?” Darcia asked, worried.

He shook his clenched hand, before opening it and revealing a large burn marking his scarred skin.

The mark of a key—the one her stepbrother had given him, claiming it was used to open the temples of the twin goddesses.

“Let’s go to my cabin. I have ointments there that heal burns in no time . . .”

“No.”

Harg Koller’s voice grew sepulchral, so dark that even the gem in Darcia’s pendant burned in response. She recoiled slightly as Harg stood abruptly.

“Have a good day, Miss Voreia.”

As the Chaser vanished into the alleys of the city, Darcia couldn’t shake the unsettling feeling that she had just sentenced her soul forever.

26

Pixies’ Forest

By the time Naithea returned to herself, the monster she hid in her soul had retreated and returned to its cage. She was still short of breath and the blood from the wounds had started todry, but an aching pain throbbed in her temples as a result of her loss of control.

Fawke Biceus lay unconscious before her, sprawled on the ground. His eyes were clouded, and frothy, whitish saliva dribbled from his half-opened lips.

What the necklace had done to save her . . .

Her screams echoed through Pixies’ Forest as she inspected Fawke Biceus’ body. Not mere cries for help, but of tormented anguish. She was responsible for this after giving in to the voice of the monster she harbored within herself. Just as she’d killed that man in the marketplace when she was a child.

She heard the heavy footsteps of the soldiers marching after her, but even the fear for her own life wasn’t enough to stop her from clutching the soldier’s chest with her hands, letting her full weight fall on him.

Fawke deserved to die. No, he deserved a fate far more gruesome and dreadful than the one Naithea had given him. She had doomed him to an eternal sleep where his worst fears and most harrowing nightmares replayed endlessly, feeding on his torment.

And for that, Naithea had to be punished.

Stopped once and for all.

“Naithea . . .”

Commander Ward’s voice brought her out of her thoughts.

She fixed her boreal eyes on him, as she continued to pump blood to Fawke’s heart, knowing it wouldn’t be enough to free him from the spell.

At the sight of blood on her body, the soldiers unsheathed their swords and scanned their surroundings for signs of threats. But they didn’t find any, for the real danger was in front of them, wearing the skin of a lamb.

Ward raised his hand, a clear indication for no one to move or act without his command, and advanced toward Naithea.“You’re hurt,” he whispered as he bent down to caress her cheek. “You must stop.”

Naithea shook her head and resumed her movements, counting silently to quell the guilt that gnawed at her insides.

A monster.

She was a monster.

The commander nodded toward Soldier Desford, who sheathed his sword once more before kneeling in front of Fawke’s languid body. It was the only thing separating him from Naithea, but he didn’t hesitate as he bent down on his knees and examined his wounds.

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