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“I am judging you for even thinking that!”
He easily ducks from my swipe. “His jawline alone has broken hearts—”
“Your taste in men is terrible. Don’t drag me down withyou.”
“—and it’s obvious he’s gotten under your skin.”
I take in a sharp breath.
He snickers despite his solemnity, like hewisheshe could be more amused about this. “You don’t need me to tell you that getting involved with Cyrus is dangerous.”
“He started it, you know. He was the one who came to my tower. Found his bride to break the prophecy with, now he wants to make a mistress out of his Seer,” I grumble. “But it’s true, we shouldn’t be risking the wedding and—”
“I mean, dangerous foryou.”
Dante moves so fast, I don’t even register he’s hooked me behind the legs until I’m in the air, stomach flipping. He catches me, one arm behind my back, the other behind my head, close enough to the ground that my elbows scrape thedirt.
He hovers over me, the sky brilliant blue behind him. “Do you know why some people like keeping the Seer in the tallest tower in the kingdom?” Sweat gleams from his brow, and his ponytail droops over his shoulder as it comes loose. “If things go sideways, it gives everyone someone to pointat.”
My breath returns to my lungs. “I know that.”
“Do you?” The twinkle in his eye is as curious as a secret—it reminds me of Cyrus for a startling moment. They’ve shared mannerisms over the years, like the way they bury their hands in their hair or tilt their heads after hearing something absurd that they can’t comment on. I wonder if there’s a timeline where I kissed Dante instead of Cyrus at the ball, and whether that version of me is living with less regret. “You have a habit of convincing yourself that you’re invulnerable.”
I scowl. “I survive because I’m good at it. I’mherebecause I’m good at it.”
“It isn’t a mark against your successes, Violet. But the higher you fly, the more fatal the fall.” Dante pulls me up by my wrists.
When he lets go, my fingers just brush his palm.
A countryside ride. The sun peeking over the ragged horizon. “I promise,” says Cyrus.
The memory is so clear and sharp—recent. Instinctively, I reach to see more, pressing my palm flat against his. The scene unfurls in full:
“I promise,” says Cyrus, “to keep Auveny out of Balica’s borders. Both now and when I am king.”
“And if you can’t?” asks Dante.
“I promise I’ll be a just king to them. More than just.”
He shakes his head. “If you can’t, there’ll be war.”
“Balica has no military—”
“I’m not saying resisting wouldn’t be utter suicide. But I am saying that we won’t be peaceful.”
The image snaps out of mind as Dante yanks away.
“Sorry!” I blurt. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Really?” He pins me with a glare, his anger more potent by its rarity, shadowed by the backlit sun. “Were you prying?”
“I only saw a conversation when you were out on a ride with Cyrus.” Dante has every right to doubt me, but though I might pull these tricks with others, I’d never breach his privacy like this.
His frown lingers, and he rubs his hands as if that would erase what I saw.
“I thought Balica was trying to avoid war,” I say quietly. “You can’t let one start. That’s exactly what the witch wants. Exactly what the prophecy warned about.”
A strained breath deflates him. “Then maybe it means it’s inevitable.”
