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The Sculptor looked up. “I am sorry, Your Highness. There is nothing I can do.”

“There has to be something—” she exclaimed but the rest of her words fell away as the Sculptor shook its head.

“Even if I was able to repair some of the engraving, I can no longer sense the kiwi’s presence within it. Once lost, an Aneuma can never be regained.”

She had known. Had known, yet had still dared to hope. But Thicket’s hope was nothing more than a paperweight to chain down the monsoon of helplessness raging against her.

The Sculptor handed her back the totem wordlessly, its black eyes looking truly apologetic.

Thicket cradled her totem to her chest, a lump swelling against her throat. She cradled the marred wood, fighting back tears as she said a final goodbye to her kiwi before clasping the pendant back around her neck. It hung limply, no more than a damaged necklace.

Thicket took in a shuddering breath and met the Sculptor’s eyes once more. “What about a new Aneuma?”

Most people only received a single Aneuma in their lifetime. However, her kiwi had been her second. Thicket had lost her first to the same dagger that had put her under the sleeping curse. Humans could only be paired with an Aneuma that proved most compatible with them at the time of the matching. If something happened to the first and the wielder attempted to get a second, they would need to have changed fundamentally enough to elicit a new match.

When Thicket had woken up, she had lost her memories, making her almost an entirely different person compared to who she had been before, allowing her to claim a second.

Maybe, just maybe, she could get a third.

The Sculptor’s eyes widened in surprise. “You want to replace your kiwi so soon?”

“Of course not.”

“Then why are you so adamant on receiving a new one?”

“Because. I want to be strong enough to fight my sister—and win. But I can’t do it alone.”

“What makes you think you are alone, or that you aren’t capable as you are now?”

Everything… she wanted to say, but held her tongue. She didn’t know how to describe the feeling of hopelessness that had been eating her alive. All she knew was that she had been given every opportunity—every chance—to make a difference and right the wrongs of her past. Yet no matter what she did she still wasn’t good enough. And worst of all, she had lost the faith of the people she had been meant to save.

What do you think the odds are that Princess Thicket will actually be able to beat the Soumort Princess?

She needed something to prove to them that she was capable. Something to earn back their trust.

But the Sculptor only shook its head. “I am sorry, Your Highness, but receiving a new Aneuma is impossible. Not so long as your soul is only able to connect to that of a kiwi.”

Her heart plummeted. “Please,” she begged. “Can’t you make an exception?”

“There are no shortcuts when it comes to compatibility. No matter how hard we try, we can never force what was never meant to be. My advice, Your Highness, give up on salvaging what has been lost. The past will do nothing but contain you.”

Chapter Eight

Thicket left the Sculptor’s Dam soaking wet and feeling more dejected and hopeless than when she had arrived. She didn’t know what to do. Didn’t know where to go. She had wanted to prove that she was more than just a broken girl. To return and show her people and the Council just how capable she was and maybe start to believe it a bit herself, too. But nothing had changed. Despite her attempts to become a better version of herself, she was still the same girl she had been when she first woke up from the sleeping curse. Unsure, lost, and utterly alone. And now, she would have to return and face the weight of an entire kingdom with nothing to show for her efforts except a mutilated necklace and a shattered heart.

With a sigh, Thicket retrieved her dress from the riverbed and pulled it over her head. The heat from the rocks had warmed the fabric. It should have been comforting, especially against her shivering skin, but it seemed it would take more than a spot of warmth to ward off the chill that had burrowed into the very marrow of her bones.

She let her feet carry her through the forest without a destination in mind. Sunlight streaked through the trees, nearly blinding. It must have been getting close to sunset. The rush of the current had faded at some point, replaced by a hush that felt all too still, as though the forest had taken a collective breath. A branch snapped in the distance. Thicket’s head whipped, searching for the source, but the forest had fallen silent again. She hugged her arms tight against her sopping dress, courtesy of her sponge-like hair, and turned back, picking up speed.

Something collided with her face. Thicket stumbled back. Little string-like tendrils clung to her hair and cheeks. She spat and scrubbed at her face, frantically trying to get whatever it was off but the substance was sticky and persistent. She buried her nose in the sleeve of her dress and gave one last desperate attempt to free herself. The substance finally released her. Thicket glanced down, wondering what had ambushed her. A chill ran down her spine at the sight of the matted threads of a spiderweb dangling from her sleeve.

Her entire body seized with panic as she frantically batted at the remaining cobwebs.

Get off, get off, get off, she chanted, dancing about the clearing. Her body refused to relax even once the clump had fallen to the forest floor. Every inch of her skin prickled and the slightest tickle or shift of fabric had her smacking the area with a shudder.

There’s nothing there, she told herself. It was just a spiderweb. Lots of bugs live in the forest. Nothing odd about it at all.

The words had just started to sink into her skin, allowing her shoulders to relax when a voice spoke.