Page 220 of A Warrior's Fate

“A convincing guy,” Isla said.

“Indeed,” Jonah said through a breath. “I bet that Aneurin’s writing about whatever the weapon is, and he doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”

Isla leaned against the table, eyes trailing across the pieces. A weapon sounded very familiar. “But what could it be?” she whispered, more to herself. “There were no bak then.”

“Bak?”

She flicked her gaze up to Jonah. “Would it be possible for a witch to control the bak?” He raised his brows, and she somewhat elaborated, “I could try to explain it all to you, but it’s a lot—and I may need alcohol to do it. But in short, a witch is to blame for most of this. Kyran and Jaden’s deaths included. Would it be possible for her to control them?”

Jonah flattened his mouth but didn’t ask questions. “It’s…unlikely. The bak were created by some pretty powerful magic.”

“I know, Kai told me. It’s why we have the Wall, and all of them aren’t dead.”

“It’s difficult to alter a dead witch’s curse, not to mention one that potent. It would only work if this witch you’re talking about is stronger than she had been.”

A shiver crawled up Isla’s spine. “Stronger than the witch that decimated Phobos?”

That had destroyed all that land and murdered all those people.

Jonah nodded, fear even flickering in his eyes.

It couldn’t match hers, though, writhing in her gut, scraping at her bones. Because all she could think about was Io. If Alpha Kyran had unleashed a weapon such as that on it. Those streets, the ones she’d grown up on, gilded in gold, bathed in blood blending with the burgundy drapery. Red stone dust valleys caked in darker crimson. Her family—

Isla flinched.

Luna of Deimos or not, as a person, as a wolf, unleashing that kind of hell and destruction on any of their kind, any kind…that was unthinkable.

She swallowed hard and shifted down the table to the artwork and the diadem, the dagger buried under some papers.

“The witch had this or something like this,” she told Jonah, who inclined his head, asking how she knew. Isla hesitated, debating if this, all of this, had been safe to share. But Jonah was Kai’s family, and he’d said she could trust him. “Ezekiel, he lied. He knew about the tunnels and he knows about this witch.”

Jonah’s eyes blew wide, likely thinking and worrying as she had. For Kai. “Is she…”

“Kai doesn’t think she’s a threat right now—and he’s dealing with Ezekiel.”

Jonah’s features twisted into a scowl. “That guy is a dick.” Blunt and to the point.

Isla snorted. “You don’t say.”

“He never liked me and Rhydian. Neither did Kyran, frankly,” Jonah said, surprising her with his openness, maybe even shocking himself. He rubbed his face harshly like he’d been sleep-deprived and hadn’t meant for the words to come out. His explanation of why was to the point of his insult, “Our father wasn’t a good man.”

Isla knew not to press, only replied softly, “Seems to be a trend I’m finding.” Her gaze returned to the diadem, her voice still soft. One confession in answer to another. “My father isn’t a bad guy. At least, I don’t think he is…I never thought he was.”

Jonah didn’t press either.

Isla shifted the papers away from the dagger to take it in, and her fingers caressed the metal. A coolness eddied through her body, and she took a breath. That was…new. She brushed it again and dared to pick it up, her grip constricting over the hilt. She gazed at her reflection in the metal, speckled with gold. The weapon hummed as she twisted and angled it through the air, and its three sisters, the diadem pieces, sang to her, too. So delicate, so soft and lilting, yet jilted and hurt. Drawing her to lift them, to care for them as well.

She put the dagger down, not rushed but careful.

Jonah had been watching her closely.

“You said if these were cursed, if they were—influenced by some sort of magic—I would’ve already been dead.” He nodded, intrigue crossing his face. “What if I’m not because it’s broken?”

“The crown?”

“I mean, we never stopped to wonder why a crown was in pieces. Who broke it? Why?”

Jonah took a couple of steps forward, peering at the items. “I suppose it’s possible. But if it’s also her diadem—judging by her clothes, by the wear on this, she’s old. That’s old. For that magic to linger, to persist after being broken, it would’ve come from a potent source, a deep well of power.”

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