“Theprophecy,” he growls, and my mind whirs, stare stabbing to the forest path Ezyar’s facing.
He’s going to see Maars …
If his indifference was the answer, it would have been scratched off by now. We would’ve heard about it.
“And if it hasn’t?”
He doesn’t look at me, instead yanking the reins and screaming “Yah!” Eyzar rears, then takes off at a sickening pace, whisking the fog into a stir as he gallops down a forest path.
Gone.
Orlaith has no idea what’s about to hit her—a man who knows the sour taste of loss hell bent on twisting fate to his own fucking will.
I seek the fading stars through watercolor clouds …
“Sadistic fucks.”
Shoulders bunched around my ears, I take off toward the camp to gather some shit.
No sleep for me. Not today.
I’m headed for the Alps.
I’m reeled through inky layers of muted reality by a brutal pain—deep and throbbing.
Deadly.
Like I’ve been gaffed in the chest.
I drag a gurgling breath through my gills, then another, still parched and left with the desperate desire formore. Growing frantic, I open my mouth, gulping crisp air down my throat as a bolt of pain strikes my inflating chest, like a fist punched through my ribs and tore out something vital.
Head spinning from the drugging rush of air, a face flashes through my mind: lilac eyes, hair the color of sunken treasure, a crescent moon smile.
Orlaith.
A gouge of pain rips me back as I heave a strangled gasp. I peel my eyes open, pulling gentle half breaths, heart stilling as I take in the size and shape of my surroundings through blurry, sleep-stung eyes.
A small room, one corner stacked high with a collection of unfamiliar bounty—little boxes, rusted toys, a leaning stack of mugs. Most of the bits are made from stone or metal or wood, missing chips and pieces.
Not my trove.
The walls and roof are made from a familiar treasured stone packed with a kaleidoscope of muted colors that ricochet off every chipped facet. A stone born from one place and one place only …
Lychnis.
Must be a dream.
Nobody makes it onto that lonely relic anymore—not since the water around it became still and haunted.
I draw another breath that impales me with a gnawing blow.
Not a dream, then.
The magnitude of that realization, of where I am, is overshadowed by the cold silence within my ribcage …
Too silent.
Panic flays me.
