She flinched. Would she wish for something cold and brutal to happen to some innocent girl, all to save someone she loves?
She wasn’t sure anymore.
Gregor touched his forehead, then brought his hand in front of his face and looked at the smear of crimson on his fingertips. “Blood is the key to all of this, little Lys. Remember that. Blood is life. Blood is magic.”
“If you say so.” She tried to keep her frustration out of her voice. Gregor had been through so much; she only wanted him to rest and regain his strength and his mind. “Do you know the identity of this sorceress your dream-girl told you about? Any idea at all?”
“No,” he admitted. “But she exists.”
Lysandra let out a shaky sigh. “That doesn’t help us very much.”
Tarus spoke up from the corner. “My grandmother once told me of a prophecy about a sorceress. One who can wield elementia more powerfully than anybody else. She’s the one who can recover the Kindred.”
“Your grandmother sounds like a great storyteller,” Lysandra said.
Tarus shrugged. “Maybe it’s not just a story. Maybe it’s fate.”
Paelsians might not believe in magic, but they did believe in fate. They believed in accepting the harsh realities of life in a land that was wasting away day by day—empty stomachs, dying children—as if such horrors could not be prevented.
Lysandra had never subscribed to such fatalistic beliefs. She knew there was only one person who could change your destiny, and that was yourself.
“Phaedra will visit me again. She’ll tell me how to help her.” Gregor’s eyes shone with tears, then he squeezed them shut again. Lysandra’s heart ached.
“Watchers visit mortals’ dreams,” said Tarus, getting Lysandra’s attention. “Sometimes. Rarely—I mean, it doesn’t happen a lot. But it’s possible.”
He must have seen the skepticism written all over her face. Still, Gregor seemed so certain. She couldn’t just dismiss his words as the ramblings of an insane person. She might not believe in much, but she believed in her brother.
And all of this was clearly important to the king, which made it important to her as well.
“Why do you think it’s possible?” she asked.
Tarus’s expression grew pensive. “I met a witch once, an old friend of my grandmother’s. She could light the fireplace just by staring at it.”
Lysandra had heard similar accounts but had never witnessed anything like that for herself. “How old were you?”
“Five? Maybe six? But I know it happened.”
Childhood memories wouldn’t help them. They needed facts. They needed action, a plan of escape.
Her brother had fallen asleep. Perhaps he was dreaming of beautiful immortals, but she was left awake with a thousand questions and doubts.
“Forget about Watchers, Lys. Jonas will save us,” Tarus whispered. “I know he will.”
She wasn’t so sure. But if there were any magic in this world for wishes, that was exactly what she’d wish for.
CHAPTER 4
CLEO
AURANOS
Cleo was regarded with uncertainty by the people who had lived in the palace before, when times were good, who hadn’t given King Gaius reason to cast them out or kill their families. They remembered what it was like when King Corvin sat on the throne, a kind king who would never rule with an iron fist clenched around the throats of his subjects.
Cleo saw the confusion in their eyes, questioning how she could bear living on in her father’s palace with a smile on her face only a few short months after his death. How she—a self-indulgent girl once known for her love of parties, friends, and wine—could be forced to wed the son of her enemy without constantly, desperately looking for a way to escape.
But these people had never really known Cleo. And they had no idea how far she would go to reclaim what had been stolen from her.
Some sought revenge against their mortal enemies with the edge of a sword. Her plan for vengeance began with the edge of a smile.