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* * *

With the excuse of her cycle, Lidia found a shred of privacy to think through her plan, to fret over whether it would work, to pace her room and debate whether she’d put her trust in the right people.

Trust was a foreign concept to her—even before she’d turned into Agent Daybright. Her father had certainly never instilled such a thing in her. And after her mother had sent her away at age three, right into the arms of that monstrous man … Trust didn’t exist in her world.

But right now, she had no choice but to rely on it.

Lidia had just changed her tampon and washed her hands when Pollux strutted into the bathroom.

“Good news,” he announced, flashing a dazzling smile. He seemed lighter on his feet than he had since Quinlan had escaped.

She leaned against the bathroom door, inspecting her immaculate uniform. “Oh?”

“I’m surprised you didn’t hear it from Rigelus first.” Pollux stripped off his bloodied shirt.

Ruhn’s blood clung to him, its scent screaming through the room. Ruhn’s blood—

Muscles rippling under his golden skin, Pollux stalked to the shower, where untold gallons of blood had washed away from his body. A wild sort of excitement seemed to pulse from him as he cranked on the water.

“Rigelus and the others were able to fix the Harpy.”

* * *

At first, nothing happened as Bryce stood atop the eight-pointed star.

“Well—” Nesta began.

Light flared from the star at Bryce’s feet, from her chest, merging and blending, and then a hologram of a dark-haired young female—High Fae—appeared. As if she were addressing an audience.

Bryce knew that heart-shaped face. The long hair.

“Silene,” Bryce murmured.

“From the carving?” Nesta asked, and as Bryce glanced to her, the warrior stepped through the wards as if they were nothing. Like she could have done so all along. Azriel didn’t try to stop her, but remained standing inside the tunnel mouth. “At the beginning of the tunnels,” Nesta said, “there was that carving of a young female … you said her name was Silene.”

“The carving’s an exact likeness,” Bryce said, nodding. “But who is she?”

Azriel said softly, voice tinged with pain, “She looks like Rhysand’s sister.”

Nesta peered back at him with something like curiosity and sympathy. Bryce might have asked what the connection meant, but the hologram spoke.

“My story begins before I was born.” The female’s voice was heavy—weary. Tired and sad. “During a time I know of only from my mother’s stories, my father’s memories.” She lifted a finger to the space between her brows. “Both of them showed me once, mind-to-mind. So I shall show you.”

“Careful,” Azriel warned, but too late. Silene’s face faded, and mist swirled where she’d stood. It glowed, casting light upon Nesta’s shocked face as she came to a stop beside Bryce.

Bryce swapped a look with the female. “First sign of trouble,” Nesta said under her breath, “and we run.”

Bryce nodded. She could agree to that much. Then Silene’s voice spoke from the fog. And any promise of running faded from Bryce’s mind.

We were slaves to the Daglan. For five thousand years, our people—the High Fae—knelt before them. They were cruel, powerful, cunning. Any attempt at rebellion was quashed before forces could be rallied. Generations of my ancestors tried. All failed.

The fog cleared at last.

And in its wake spread a field of corpses under a gray sky, the twin to the one carved miles behind in the tunnels: crucifixes, beasts, blood eagles—

The Daglan ruled over the High Fae. And we, in turn, ruled the humans, along with the lands the Daglan allowed us to govern. Yet it was an illusion of power. We knew who our true masters were. We were forced to make the Tithe to them once a year. To offer up kernels of our power in tribute. To fuel their own power—and to limit our own.

Bryce’s breath caught in her throat as an image of a Fae female kneeling at the foot of a throne appeared, a seed of light in her upheld hands. Smooth, delicate fingers closed around the Fae female’s droplet of power. It flickered, illumining pale skin.