Page 87 of Burning Crowns

The healer hesitated.

‘Is there something else?’ asked Wren.

Maeva looked at her sandals, her cheeks turning even rosier. ‘I was wondering about the soldier you arrived with. He was so kind to me before when you were in the baths. I wanted to know whether he might—’

‘He’s Gevran,’ said Wren, a touch too sharply. ‘He’s loyal to Gevra. He’ll soon return home.’

‘Oh.’ Maeva looked crestfallen.

Wren felt bad for bristling at the girl’s question. She was only human, after all. And Tor was eye-wateringly handsome. Not to mention brave and strong and—

‘Pardon me, Your Majesty. I shouldn’t have said anything.’

‘No, pardonme.I didn’t mean to snap,’ said Wren. ‘I’m just … well, exhausted.’

And jealous.

‘Of course. You must rest.’ Maeva dipped her chin as she backed out of the room, leaving her alone. Wren ran her hands through her hair, her face heating in shame. It was no business of hers what Tor did or didn’t do in this mountain, or in his own life.

She had forfeited that right the day she’d kissed Alarik. And in her silence about it since then. She didn’t deserve Tor’s affection. And if he truly had been cosying up to Maeva earlier then he had obviously come to realize that, too.

Wren slumped on to her bed, deflated. Everything felt wrong. Inside her. Outside her. All too quickly, she drifted off to sleep, but when the darkness swept in, she heard Oonagh’s laugh, haunting her from one nightmare to the next.

Several hours before sunrise, Wren woke with a jolt. She swore she could hear singing. She sat up, blinking into the dimness. It took her a moment to remember where she was. The everlights flickered companionably, reminding her that she was safe. She flopped back against her pillow, measuring her breaths until her lids grew heavy.

There were hours to go until morning.

Hours of sleep yet to claim.

Then she heard that sound again – a distant melody echoing through the mountains. She slipped out of bed, and then her room, following the strange hum. Out in the tunnel,everlights illuminated the darkness. She followed them back towards the mouth of the mountain until she came upon the gushing waterfall. Eana’s tears.

The sound of tinkling water echoed around the cavern, making a strange melody. The song was a balm to Wren’s soul. She drifted towards the waterfall, running her hands underneath the streaming water. She closed her eyes.

‘Eana, help me,’ she whispered. ‘I need your guidance now more than ever.’

The water hummed. A rogue breeze tickled her cheeks. When she opened her eyes, Wren saw the hilt of Eana’s sword flickering behind the waterfall. Night’s Edge was glowing. Wren wondered how she hadn’t noticed it before now. It was so bright, it made the water around it sparkle.

Take it, whispered a voice in the wind. Or perhaps it was in Wren’s head.It is yours to claim.

Wren looked around, searching the darkness, but she was alone up here. There was nothing but the gentle fall of water and the faraway howl of the night wind. And there, only a stone’s throw away, was the very weapon she needed to fell her wicked ancestor. To fell the curse that lived inside her.

Wren kicked off her slippers and hiked up her nightgown, stepping into the pool. It was much cooler than the baths, and she waded through it quickly, even as her scar began to sting and her bones grew heavy. It was as if something, or someone, was holding her back.

The hilt winked, urging her on. The singing swelled. Wren ducked under the waterfall, letting it drench her from head to toe. It plastered her hair to her face and her nightgown to her skin, but she hardly noticed. There was magic in here. Ancient, rippling magic. And it was hers for the taking.

If Wren couldn’t wield her own magic against Oonagh Starcrest then she would slay her ancestor with a sword. And not just any sword. The strongest, most powerful weapon in all of Eana.

After all, Night’s EdgewasEana.

Wren grabbed the hilt, and tugged. Nothing happened. She gritted her teeth, using all of her strength. The rock groaned but didn’t yield. The water was starting to hurt. The curse inside her was waking up. And it was angry. It didn’t want to be here. It didn’t wantherhere.

‘Come on,’ Wren pleaded with the sword. ‘Ineedyou.’

The rush of the falls grew louder and for a terrifying heartbeat, Wren swore it would drown her.

The pain in her head grew to an almost unbearable pitch. She was about to give up entirely when the hilt warmed in her hand. Wren blinked, sure she was imagining it. But this time when she pulled, the rock began to crumble. She could see the blade now, bright and gleaming as the moon. Another tug and it slid from the rock. Night’s Edge was halfway out.

The mountain was yielding to Wren. The sword was hers to claim. Almost. There came a swear from behind her. Wren startled, releasing the hilt as she spun on her heel. Alarik was stumbling through the water towards her. He must have caught his foot on the edge of the pool.

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