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The look Lorne gives me is ripe with disappointment at my snide remark, and somehow that’s far worse than the lashings he gives me when ordered. Some futile impulse has me tugging at the palladium collar around my neck—the one that suppresses my magic.

“Lorne, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have?—

Lorne’s words are little more than a murmur as he closes his eyes and tips his head back against the wall.

“Shouldn’t have joined anyone’s war. Should have gone to seek my peace on an island in a distant realm, far away from meddling gods and kings who care for nothing but their wealth and power.”

I stare at the side of Lorne’s face waiting, hoping he’ll set his bright grey eyes on me.

He doesn’t.

Eventually, my eyes slip shut, and I find a brief reprieve from reality in my sleep…

Where I dream of wildflowers and tall, rippling grasses, where animals—and I—roam free.

My mornings are spent doingmenial but physically exhausting chores, while my afternoons and evenings are filled with healing mortal wounds—wounds belonging to the people who serve the Nameless King. The people who took everything from me. My parents, my freedom, my livelihood, my home, my inheritance, my virginity.

Everything I thought that made me, me, was stripped away two excruciatingly long years ago, and has reduced me to… prisoner andhealer.

Despite the fact that I’m tending to the wounds of my enemies, it is the sole source of fulfillment I find in this place.

Outside of pestering Lorne, that is.

Although half the blood in my veins is daemonic—courtesy of my mother, I was born a goddess of healing and fertility. Theheight of my magic will bring someone back from the precipice of death—no further—and make them fertile enough to bear quintuplets. I can even encourage plants to grow and bear fruit. But that is where my magical prowess ends.

I couldn’t hurt a person even if I wanted to.

Even though there have been many times I wished I could since arriving here, and thanks to the palladium collar around my neck, I’m forced to heal in human ways.

The young orc male lying on a cot in front of me, whose flesh I’m currently sewing—only mildly numbed with herbs—watches me with curious eyes. “How did you end up here?”

My gaze briefly lifts to his. “Same as every other prisoner. I was taken.”

His eyes dart from side to side before lowering his voice to a whisper. “I heard you’re King Erelith’s niece.”

My hands continue to work as my gaze remains fixed on his knife wound, but I remain silent.

The volume of his voice drops to a whisper.“I saw him.”

My heart stutters, and the needle in my hand falters, making him wince. “… My Uncle?”

In my peripheral vision, I see him nod.

“Where?”

“At the Northern Paltor Border.”

My eyes finally lift to his, searching for any sign of deception as my heart hammers. “But that’s only a few hours away.”

I don’t miss the fear in the orc male’s eyes. That alone is all it takes for hope, for the first time in nearly two years, to blossom in my chest.

“You’ll be free soon,” he whispers, but I can hear the sadness in his voice at what lies on the other side of such a fate.

His death.

I don’t know whether or not my uncle will actually arrive—for all I know, even if he does arrive, he might be killed before he gets the chance to free me. Even a god such as he can be killed.

Not to mention, him coming to rescue me is a gamble all its own. My daemon traits have always been considered a blemish to everyone but my mother. Though, unlike my father and his court, my Uncle Erelith, despite his many faults, has always been kind to me and never treated me or my mother as anything less than peers. Still, I wouldn’t be entirely surprised if he just… had more important tasks at hand.