“Gregor, the rebel boy, knows something,” the king said. “He’s denied what he told you in Limeros over and over, but I know he’s lying.”
“Don’t be so sure,” Magnus replied. “He attacked me in clear view of a dozen guards while raving about Watchers. He could simply be insane.”
Cleo’s breath caught. She immediately knew whom they were speaking of—the moment had been branded into her memory. Gregor was the boy who’d attacked them during their wedding tour, claiming that a Watcher guided him in his dreams.
He had nearly killed her—and perhaps would have succeeded if Magnus hadn’t shoved her out of the way.
But instead of having him executed on the spot, Magnus had ordered him delivered here to the palace dungeon.
It seemed now that he was still alive.
Interesting.
“He can’t be mad,” the king said. “I need him to be sane. He has a clue, a connection to the Sanctuary. I have sent word to Xanthus that I want more information, but I’ve heard nothing from him.”
“There’s no way for you to contact Melenia yourself?” Magnus asked.
“Don’t you think I already would have if I knew how?” There was a hard edge to the king’s response. “I’ve done everything she’s asked of me. The road is finished. Yet now . . . nothing. A silence stretches out with no information, no guidance. Nothing but a boy with ties to Melenia’s world. And he will answer me, I swear on the heart of Valoria he will.”
“Of course he will, Father.”
“I will question Gregor again later today one last time and I want you there by my side.” The king grasped Magnus’s shoulder and gazed at him fiercely. “The Kindred will be mine.”
The Kindred.
So what Prince Ashur told Nic was true, Cleo thought. The king sought the very same magic that she did.
Her chest tight, Cleo started to hurry away, but as soon as she turned, she stopped.
Cronus stood a few feet behind her, a mountain of a man with his arms crossed over his broad chest. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t summon the ability to say something witty or disarming.
Cronus grabbed her by her upper arm and dragged her down the hallway, his grip bruisingly tight. They’d gone twenty paces before she finally found her voice.
“Where are you taking me?” she managed, fighting to free herself to no avail.
“Be quiet.”
“How dare you! Unhand me this instant.” She tried with all her might to sound authoritative, royal. Like someone a mere guard—even a captain—should obey.
She knew she didn’t fool him.
Deadly silent, he engaged her with neither conversation nor threats. He came to a door, opened it, and thrust her inside. He slammed the door behind her, plunging her into darkness.
When Cleo was eight years old, she’d had a particularly cruel nanny who, when she hadn’t been as well behaved as Emilia, would lock her in dark rooms, promising that demons from the darklands would come in and punish her.
When her father learned of this, he’d relieved the woman of her duties and cast her out of his palace, forbidding her to return. The king had released Cleo from the darkness himself and gathered her into his arms, promising her that she was safe, that no demons would ever harm her.
The darkness frightened her to this day.
“Be brave,” she whispered to herself, pacing back and forth in the small space. “Be strong.”
After what seemed like hours, she pushed aside the tears streaking her cheeks and stood quietly, waiting in silence for her destiny to claim her.
Finally, the door creaked open. She raised her chin, put her fisted hands at her sides, and tried to remain calm in the face of the king’s wrath.
But it was not the king at the door. It was Magnus. With Cronus right behind him.
The prince peered around. “It’s too dark in here.”