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Still, the command tugs the strings and all I can do is stagger backwards up the street, my furrowed look on Ronan.

“That is all I know of it,” he says.

“Know of what?” I snap. “Why won’t I make it beyond the Sac—”

“Listen, Nari.” He snatches for my arm. “The Queen’s Court will reward your family—discreetly, of course. Your father will find wealth, as will you, and you can have your freedoms. No arranged marriages, but independence to live as you please. Just do what is right. Save yourself—and everyone else.”

The scrolls crunch in my tight embrace. “Is that what Pandora wants?”

His throat bobs. “She wants you to survive. With Daxeel, we do not believe you will.”

Silence strikes me like a sword clangs my bones. The command fights me, turns me to walk onwards, and I’m in a silent battle.

Ahead, the familiar face of Hemlock House rises up. Crushed midnight skies, the home I have come to love.

A home of secrets and slavery.

“Consider it, Nari.” His boot flattens on the road—and stops. “What’s the worth of this one male balanced against the worlds?”

Ronan doesn’t give me a moment to respond. He jolts on his heel, then cuts back to the street we came from.

And he’s gone.

I burst through the door.

It slams against the foyer wall, hard enough to shudder the bones of the house.

Tris announces herself with a yelp, but before she can steady herself on the stairs that descend to the kitchens, I drop the scrolls on the floor.

“Take these to my room,” I say, breathless, a flush warming my cheeks. “Where is Daxeel?”

Her lashes flutter before she raises her hand and points to the door behind me.

I glower over my shoulder at it, then watch, mute, as dark spots start to spread over the wood.

The blots trickle over the blue paint, stains that shudder over to the wall, then spread their way up to the next floor.

Before the blotches can disappear around the landing and out of sight, I scramble after them.

They lead me all the way to the second floor’s last corridor, to the double ivory lacquered doors, slightly parted.

I slip through the gap.

Beyond the doors, the reddish hue of a lit hearth warms the darkness.

I step further inside and feel the heat wash over me, like a summer’s wave or a hot breath on wintery hands.

One disinterested glance around and I can see it is a study. Small, but ornate in Hemlock’s signature gold trimmed ceilings and cerulean walls.

I look across the room at the waxed blackwood desk on the other side of the kelpie skin rug.

Daxeel is hunched over the desk.

Curled parchments scatter the surface of the table, empty copper mugs and spilled ink.

He has his elbow pressed into the thickness of a tome, his chin rested on his fist. A gentle fatigue hangs over him like a delicate veil.

At the sound of my bootsteps, he lifts his gaze and looks at me from beneath his long, dark lashes. The deep blues of his eyes swim like ocean ripples.