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I should scream at the sight. This isn’t possible. But the horns are protruding more the longer I stare, and I hear theawful sounds of transformation—the grunts of pain, the popping of joints and realigning bone as Cyrus twitches. What would I shout, if I called for help?Igave him this fate worse than death.
“If he does not feed, he will turn into a full beast,” says the witch. “And then he will hunt or be hunted. A marvelous game of blood.”
“Why?” I gasp. “Why would you—”
“The chaos they create pleases the Fates, and the beasts’ strength gives me strength. You may feel it too, now that your thorn has taken the prince’s heart: his life will give you life. How lucky you are to have claimed the heart of onewho loves you—perhaps worth the hearts of an entire village. You might even overcome the block I put on your mind to ensure you didn’t see me coming.”
My dreamless nights. My darkened Sight. She’s capable of magic I have never heard of.
But just now, I transformed the prince from a thorn of my own blood. It’s magic that has been hiding within me this whole time, too. “Whatare you? If you’re not a Fate yourself, are you just a Seer?”
“Seeris a title for Sighted who lower themselves to serve mortals. Do not insult me so.” Still, her lips curve into a smile. She narrows the distance between us in one gliding step, robes rippling as if her feet barely brush the floor. “I am Sighted—this is true. It is how I can speak to you through the mind. And why I wish to help you. Little star, we were closer to the gods once—all of us Sighted. That is what makes us special, from our tether to the weave, to the very blood that runs through our bodies. We are only here because we made the mistake of falling so long ago. Some long-ago incarnation of our kind stupid enough to choose mortality and live among creatures no better than beasts.”
I stare down at my shaking hands. They are flesh enough—but as she points out this origin, she’s given me a means to explain why some layer of me is never satisfied walking this earth. As if the stitching between my skin and blood and bone and the threads I can’t see is older than I am. I came into this world wary of hope like I’ve already lived through too many eras.
“We are not like them. You feel it.”
I’ve always been different. What’s one more thing?
The witch extends an open palm—an offer of a future, tempting as a candied apple. “I have seen the threads. Together, we are destined for greatness. We will serve the Fates in the manner they are meant to be worshipped until the day we can join them again. Let us give them the blood they crave. The fairies are weak and their wood is burning; nothing can stop us now. Together, we might take back every shard of power we ought to have.”
“I don’t even know you.”
“Liars never trust anyone.” She sighs as if she expected as much, and I wonder how much of the future she’s seen. She continues, as blithely as I do when I give a reading, “Think of what is happening right now, little star. Raya is a fraud. No marriage with the prince will go through. And when his court sees his transformation, along with the events of tonight, they will blame it on you and foreign witchery. There are many who think the beasts are coming from Balica. The army is already out there—you sent them along weeks ago. War is coming, as prophesied; your one life debt will be paid ten thousand times over.”
Her words ring earnest, despite their obvious lure. Over and over, she warned me of what would happen if I didn’t kill Cyrus. She may have carved a barbarous path, brought blood and roses and war to our doorstep—but she hasn’t been a liar yet.
Even if this is a trick, what choice do I have? It’s only a matter of time until someone finds us. I have nowhere to run, no sanctuary even if Idorun.
Maybe there is no path out alive except hers. One single thread, no matter how much I hate it. And that’s the onlyreason I hesitate—because I hate the idea of being bound to it.
From kings to storybooks, we make up rules for why the world works the way it does, wanting good to beget good and wickedness to face justice. But life isn’t fair and it doesn’t care if I’m stubborn.
I lift my own injured hand to grasp hers.
With the return of my Sight, I see my future for the first time:
Me, unbound by body, shifting between human and light, blazing with the knowledge of a fallen god.
A smear of my blood upon the earth. Shadows and thorns rise.
The seas turn crimson. Beasts tear apart beasts.
My bloody arms stretch toward the night. The moon crownsme.
Cold laughter peals from my lips and it sounds like a song.
I look otherworldly. Untouchable. If power is the only truth, maybe the perfect reaction is delight. Maybe the horror is all that is alive.
“Don’t listen to her,” comes a hoarse croak.
Behind the witch’s dark robes, the growth is spreading and shifting, leaves rustling, vines snapping. Green-veined limbs emerge and I can’t make sense of it—because what I’m seeing can’t possibly be Cyrus.
The witch swings around and laughs. “You would protect her? After she tried to kill you?”
Cyrus lurches to his feet. Sweat glistens like dew over his transforming muscles, and moss creeps over his skin. Hisupper body strains against the confines of his shirt, already torn from our earlier struggle. Tangled through his hair is a crown of briars and rosebuds—he is a prince even as a beast. Terrifying as he is beautiful.
His mouth opens, revealing jutting fangs. “Violet. The prophecy—”
