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Disgust, rage, and revulsion surged through him, causing vomit to rise from his stomach.

It had been her head that was used to smash the mirror.

Her fucking head!

An enraged and feral roar broke from his chest. His breath caught in his throat, and he had to fight with his mind to stay in control. He had to stay in control of his terrible temper in order to find Emara, save her. His mind whirled and rumbled as he tried to still the inner chaos, the wrath that threatened so much more than just violence. But it was too late.

The savage beast that lay under his skin erupted and let loose.

A strange, relentless rattling could be heard through a buzzing sound. A sharp ache crossed her skull, causing her to flinch. Something warm trickled down her eyes and nose. Emara tried to lift her hand up to inspect it, but she couldn’t move.

A horrible, bitter taste like ash coated around her tongue, and even when she tried to swallow, it didn’t disappear. Her head rolled to the side and her cheek was met with cool limestone. She forced her eyes open.

The world swayed and rocked, flashed and sparkled.

Trying again, she pulled her hand up to her face. She winced as she touched a sensitive spot on her head. Pulling her hand back, she watched through blurry vision as the crimson blood dripped down her fingers. A throbbing in her skull made Emara’s eyes close momentarily and then reopen. Her head was bleeding.

Oh Gods.

Where was she?

Shaking, she rolled onto her stomach and tried to look around her, the metallic taste of blood filling her mouth. She could see a circle of black salt around her, and as she tried to follow it with her eyes, her brain punched into her skull. Taking a breath that burned all the way down to her lungs, she looked up at the gleaming candelabras that stood tall from the floor, dripping with black wax. A dark fire burned in them, waving like thick smoke. Looking past the warrior-tall candelabras, Emara noticed that she was in a room that had familiar ceiling-to-floor windows. It was still dark outside, indicating that she hadn’t been knocked out for long, and she could still see the rocky backdrop of the mountainside, the moonlight licking the dusty white peaks.

She was still in the Amethyst Palace.

She was in the watchtower.

Her gaze caught an altar dressed in dark taffeta, and Emara shifted slowly on the floor to take a better look. Her hands flew up to her throat where she still wore that disgusting chain, forced around her neck to suppress the magic in her blood.

A flood of fear and rage shivered over her skin as she fully remembered what had happened.

She had been taken, just like Kellen’s vision. And if anything else of what he said was about to transpire, there was no hope for her.

“It’s about time you were awake,” an unsettling voice startled Emara. “It would have been unfair to begin with you unconscious.”

She turned to see the Supreme standing in a dark grey robe that looked like it was covered in a glittering black web of spider silk, and a gown underneath to match. A crown of the deepest rubies, darkest opals, and black pearls rested on top of her brown hair that was pinned in one simple twist at the back of her head. Her eyes were dark, darker than the obsidian salt, and they were piercing right through Emara’s face. Guards in grey tunics stood all around the room, static and stone-like. Some were placed by the door and some were posted close to the walls. Their gazes were not on Emara, but ahead, focused.

Emara gritted her teeth as she gathered enough strength to pull herself up from the ground.

Not all of these men were the Supreme’s guards, that much she knew, but why were they here? There must be around fifteen in the room. Why were they not protecting the people of the palace? As she glanced around, Emara noted a House Water guard, then one who protected House Fire. Spirit’s guard was there too. Had they all betrayed their empresses? Where were the other witches?

“Aren’t you going to ask why you are here?” Her voice cut through the silence of the room, bringing Emara’s attention back to her cruel face. Where a look of intimidating power had rested before, nothing but pure hatred seethed from her glare now.

Anger of her own sparked in her blood. “Maybe you should tell me, since you so keenly requested me to be here.” Her voice was rough, and it hurt to speak.

Emara wiped a little blood that had run into her eye and her legs wobbled. She dug in deep to find the strength to straighten her spine.

What in the underworld is going on?

The Supreme moved, gliding over to the altar, taking her time; her cape dragged dramatically over the cold floor.

Emara got the feeling Deleine didn’t care how big her audience was, she would play to the crowd regardless. How quaint. She picked up a ceremonial knife and looked Emara’s way as an ominous glint shone in her eye.

“You see,” she said, coming over to the circle that Emara now realised she was the centre of.

Runes in an ancient tongue were plastered in red all around the outside of the circle. Emara tried her best to tell herself it wasn’t blood. This wasn’t the same kind of circle that she had stepped into when she had ascended. It felt darker, more like a cage.

“I have not been myself recently.” The Supreme played with the tip of the knife, running her long, bone-like finger along it. “And I have a feeling that that is because you exist.” She pointed the knife directly at Emara’s heart. Even though it was from a distance, the fear of it entering her flesh made her throat swell.