He studied them as they emerged from the shadows like nightmares given flesh.
Thyme came from the Isle of the Dragons. The gunmetal gray scales on her throat, marked with scars, shimmered under a velvet cloak. The Dragon King cursed her for her betrayal, trapping her in a perpetual state of transformation between her human and dragon selves. Smoke curled from her nostrils as she glanced at the frozen salt figure.
Chaffy, the Elemental, was a creature formed from fire and ash, his eyes burned like twin embers. Cast from the Isle of the Elemental for murder, his bloodlust for watching his victims burn was helpful in maintaining order among the ranks.
Gratch, the transformed sea worm from the Isle of the Sea Serpent, had once eaten an entire scout battalion on a dare. The act had condemned him to a life above the water after the Sea King banned him from the oceans.
Margrave Moan was a stitched-together necromancer from the Isle of Magic. Banished by the King of Magic, her thirst for revenge was only slightly less than her thirst for blood.
And others—sirens with ink-black teeth, hag witches from the marshes on the Isle of the Monsters, Giants from the Cracked Ridges in the Isle of the Giants, and worse.
Each represented one of the Seven Isles. Each hated Ashure Waves and the rulers of the other kingdoms.
Blackheart let them wait. Let the tension stretch like the tide before a storm.
Then, he rolled the orb across the table.
It stopped in front of Thyme, the girls’ laughing faces frozen within the glass.
“Capture them,” he ordered.
Thyme leaned forward, her sharp nails caressing the orb. “They are young.”
“Then they should be easy prey,” Blackheart growled.
Chaffy exhaled, and a hot wind stirred the lantern flames. “It would be easier to kill them.”
“I said to capture them,” Blackheart snapped. “They are needed for a bigger prize. They are weak and defenseless.”
He turned toward the map that still glowed on the table. His claw tapped his next goal.
“Once you have them, we will use them to take the palace.”
“What of Ashure?” Margrave asked.
Blackheart’s thin lips stretched. “Once I take his head from his shoulders, the Cauldron will be mine, and I will unleash its souls and take over this world—and others.”
A murmur of unease swept through the room.
Everyone knew the legend.
The Cauldron of Lost Souls, said to lie hidden beneath the palace, was tethered to the essence of the Goddesses who had created this world. Its magic was as old as the galaxy, and its power could call forth armies from the shadow world.
Ashure Waves held it.
But not for long.
Blackheart’s gaze turned to the window, where he could see waves crashing against the cliffs below. A storm was coming. He would be that storm.
“Prepare the fleet,” he snarled. “We set sail at dawn.”
He turned back toward Saldusa, who was already watching him with gleaming eyes and a cruel smile.
“Be prepared to play, sister,” he murmured. “The children won’t laugh for long.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The palace rafters rattled with a shuddering boom followed by a puff of acrid gray smoke—and a high-pitched shriek that may or may not have come from the hallway parrot.
