Page 134 of Spark of the Everflame

His eyes flew open, already on me, like he’d been watching me even in sleep. Dark, deep-sea blue. Startlingly clear. Lucid.

No—something more than lucid. Seeing more than me. Seeingintome.

“You,” he croaked, voice hoarse from months of atrophy. “You’ve finally come.”

I jerked backward, yanking my arm as I tried and failed to escape his hold. “No—I’m sorry. I—please, let me go.”

“They told me you would come for me.”

“What? Who?”

“They told me your blood would shatter our stone and lay waste to our borders.”

I shushed him, trying to soothe his outburst. The poor man was delusional—lost to hallucinations. “Everything’s alright. I’m not going to hurt you.”

His skin began to light with an unnatural glow. Floating an inch above his head, a circular form took shape—a wispy black ringlet of thorny vines, speckled throughout by twinkling stars, rising to a single peak above his brow. It was a stunning, ethereal thing made not of tangible materials, but of light and shadow itself.

The Crown of Lumnos.

The King gasped, his grip on me tightening. “I am not afraid, Devourer of Crowns. Ravager of Realms. Herald of Vengeance.”

Oh, he was definitely delusional.

I stroked his arm, cooing softly. “Your nephew, Prince Luther—I’ll go get him. Just—let go of my hand, alright?”

“Luther,” he breathed. Brighter and brighter he blazed, like the final flare of a dying star. His eyes bulged wide, the vivid color of his irises dulling to a muted, dusky smoke.

His throat made a strangled noise, and his voice abruptly changed. It sounded older—so much older. Impossibly older.

Unearthly.

And unmistakably... female.

“Give him our gift, Daughter of the Forgotten. When the end has come, and the blood has spilled, give our gift to my faithful heir, and tell him this is my command.”

The King’s back arched, his chest rising at a sharp, unnatural angle before collapsing back onto the bed. His hand went limp, finally releasing me from his grasp.

My heart thundered with foreboding unease. I staggered backward and tripped over a nearby chair that sent me crashing to the ground and Brecke’s blade tumbling out of its sheath and clattering across the stone floor. I grabbed it and clutched it defensively in front of me.

The King took a shuddering breath—a rattling, punchy exhale, the kind I’d only ever heard when death was imminent.

The glow faded from his skin, along with what little color he had left. His pallor turned ashen, his expression contorted in agony, mouth fixed wide in a silent scream.

“Blessed Kindred, what did you do?”

One of the guards now stood in the open doorway. His horrified gaze jumped between me and the King.

Oh, this is bad.

“Nothing,” I said quickly, scrambling to my feet. “It—it happens sometimes. When death is near, they can—”

“What’s going on here?”

Luther’s voice.

So bad. So, so bad.

He and two more guards appeared in the main salon, staring at my hands.

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