Page 73 of The Cursed Crown

She'd only crossed half the distance to the dais when she stumbled, her body convulsing in pain. Her chest. Something in her chest was being crushed, twisted, squeezed. Her ears rang and her head was burning up. She fell to her knees. Next to her, Rydekar was doubled over, screaming. Or perhaps the screams came from her, she couldn’t tell.

She was dying. The little girl had done something to her—to both of them—and it was killing them fast.

A wave of nausea hit, so strong she could only retch. Blood spilled out of her mouth.

All her strength was leaving her, replaced by a burning pain.

“I’m flooding your king and queen’s lungs with salt water, if you’re wondering. Kneel, or be next,” Nyla demanded.

She didn’t know whether the lords obeyed. If they did, they were smart. She would have done just about anything to end this suffering.

Rissa’s hand reached for Rydekar’s. Through her tears, she could barely see him, but she felt it when his fingers clasped around her.

At least they were together at the end.

Smoke and Mirrors

Once, there was a nightmare who made a deal with a king. The king was old and heirless. The nightmare was older yet, and had a mind to build a legacy.

Titus Braer fulfilled his end of the bargain, disappearing when the time came for the world to need a leader. He knew Rissa would have been keen to reject the crown if he was there to take the burden. In this, they were alike, seeing power as a responsibility with few advantages. Watching his child stumble from the shadows had been painstaking, but every day away from the wood where she’d hidden, she blossomed into a greater woman.

“How is she doing?” Titus’s closest friend asked.

Looking away from the enchanted mirror he used to keep track of Rissa, Titus smiled at Meda. “Dying.”

Meda tilted her head. “And we’re all right with that?”

Titus brought his wine to his lips. “What’s life without a little death?”

His friend rolled her eyes.

Titus returned to the mirror.

“Get up.”

* * *

“Get up.”

Two words, in a voice so familiar and comforting it brought more tears to her eyes.

She wanted to obey her father, but she couldn’t. It was just too painful.

“Get the hell up, cousin.”

Rissa blinked, confused now. That voice, she recognized too, but it was certainly not her father’s. What she didn’t understand was why she heard it here and now.

She was stunned to find that she could see, her vision less blurry, despite the tears. Pain was subsiding. She dragged her sleeve over her eyes.

A hand was extended in front of her, long and pale.

Tharsen’s. He was here, the fancy cloth of his cloak floating inches away from her face.

He was here. Was she dead already, or imagining things? She’d left Tharsen in the forbidden mountain, miles north, and she would have been happy never to hear or see him again. Imagining him as she died was strange—and salacious.

The cursed prince had one hand lifted in Nyla’s direction, and the other lowered to help her up.

Rissa just stared, half expecting it to turn into a vicious snake. “What are you doing here?”

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