“Do you feel it?” George whispers. “The magic emanating from it?”
I stand beside him and inhale.
Power rushes through me, a breath of wind and fire and frost and earth—an energy so vast, so boundless, I can hardly comprehend. It thrums in the air, crackling along my nerves like a thousand unseen sparks. This isn’t just magic. It’s something ancient and knowing, something thatsees.
But I can see too.
This small object has enough power to change the fate of the Vale.
It must be returned to its rightful master.
The light dims, the embers in the hearth shifting from orange to a glowing green. My vision tunnels, edges turning black, mind filling with an emerald haze. My fists open and close of their own accord.
George’s smile falters. “You alright, son? You look a little green around the gills?—”
I snatch George by his shoulders and throw him as hard as I can against the nearest wall. His body slams against the stone, and he crumples to the ground in a heap.
“Soon the world will be made right,” I tell his motionless form. I reach into the glowing red light and close my hand around the rose. My lungs expand as if I’ve inhaled the storm before lightning strikes, my fingertips tingling, my heart pounding in rhythm with the flower’s silent, radiant pulse. The air tastes of iron and roses, of something forbidden and divine.
I hold the rose before me, watching it catch the glow of the green flames now bursting in the hearth. “The world will be made right once the Prince of Thorns burns it to ash.”
16
Rosalina
It’s another perfect day.
The Prince of Thorns has me wrapped tightly against him as his lovely briars twine around us and we travel up, up, up.
We break through to the surface. Dusky clouds dot the sky, and there’s a faint drizzle. The raindrops are cold and refreshing on my skin. At least the clouds block the sun, so I don’t have to worry about looking at it.
He doesn’t like when I look at it.
But I inhale, and the sweet scent of fresh blooms and rain-wet stone fills the air.
Spring.We’re in the Spring Realm.
I know this, though I’m not sure how.
A terrible image flashes across my mind. Eyes like the richest soil, a jaw covered in stubble that scratched my cheek as he kissed me.
I shake my head, clearing the dreadful thought. Why would I want anyone to kiss me other than the Prince of Thorns? I touch the corner of my mouth where his lips touched mine. Such a special day.
“What are we doing here?” I ask.
The Prince of Thorns has made a suspended chair of briars, legs dangling down. “Waiting for a delivery, darling. Mother wants this thingsobadly.”
A delivery. How exciting! I’m sure whoever gets to deliver this thing to the Prince of Thorns is very lucky indeed. We’re in a small forest outside a grand city. I pace beside him, my slippers stained brown from the soft earth, the hem of my dress mud-splattered.
There’s a crunch in the briars, but looking at it would mean turning my attention from the Prince of Thorns, and that is something I cannot do.
“What do you think of our guest, Princess?”
The Prince of Thorns has asked me to do something, so do something I must. Observing the figure, I notice he has the same bright green eyes as my prince, but that is where their similarities end. This fae is tall, far taller than Caspian, with long golden hair the color of the sun. Where Caspian is lean and lithe, this man is broad. He wears no shirt so I can see his muscles ripple as he moves.
And he walks strangely, an odd gate to his stance, as if he’s a puppet on strings.
Something about it makes me terribly sad.
