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One

Isolde

Nine corpses were impaled outside the gates of the red palace.

I could see them now from the library window, aglow in the torchlight. Over the last two days, I had learned a lot about the process of impalement. Namely, that if done well, it could take hours, even days for the prisoner to die. It was a horrific death, and even more horrific to watch as each body slid slowly down, their weight inevitably driving the end of the spear through their mouth or throat or chest.

All the while, they begged any who passed to kill them faster, but no one came to their aid, not even me.

In the aftermath of Ravena’s attack, those who had betrayed our kingdom fled, but my husband was a merciless king. He had ordered his loyal noblesse to hunt, and he had joined them. In a day, they had captured the vassals who had supported Adrian’s former noblesse in their rebellion, and now they were a gruesome warning to anyone considering treason.

I wondered what it said about me and who I had become that I was not appalled by Adrian’s choice of punishment.

Even now, as I stared, I felt nothing but anger—anger toward those who had tried to hurt me, who had attempted to take away my power, who perceived me as weak.

Among them, my father, whose death had occurred by my hand.

You are worth every star in the sky, he’d said in the throne room of Lara when Adrian had asked for my hand. My father had been willing to go to war with the Blood King for me.

And perhaps he had meant it then, until I had given him another way to reclaim his kingdom and the rest of Cordova.

I still could not fathom it, could not come to terms with how everything had ended. My mind was a whirlwind of feelings, the greatest among them shock. My body was heavy with it, my chest tight with it, my eyes blind with it. Through my numbness, there were bursts of anger and sadness, each of them shaking my body, violent tremors that left me exhausted. Yet I could not sleep, because each time I closed my eyes, all I saw was my father, his face drained of affection, possessed by a determination to end my life because it would end Adrian’s too.

That haunting memory was how I’d found myself in the library before sunrise.

If I couldn’t sleep, I might as well research. Usually, I preferred the company of the librarian Lothian and his lover, Zann, but tonight I was glad for the quiet as I leafed through books on the history of witches.

Ravena had escaped withThe Book of Dis, which she believed would give her the power she always wanted, though it likely would come at a grave price.

All spells cost something, but the toll for dark magic was life.

And yet I had been willing to pay that price two hundred years ago. Now I wondered why. I could not remember, just as I could not remember any of the spells I’d written in the book. I came here now to search the library’s archives in hopes that something from those texts would spur memories from my life as Yesenia.

So far, I’d only recalled a few things. I remembered High Coven and most of the relationships I’d formed with my sisters. I remembered Ravena, her betrayal, and her allegiance with King Dragos. Mostly, I remembered Adrian and the quiet way we fell in love, but those memories did not compare to the feeling of relief, the strange peace that came with knowing exactly who I was.

I had no conflict over my two lives—Yesenia was of the past, a life once lived. Now, I was Isolde Vasiliev, queen of Revekka, future queen of Cordova, and I was here to conquer.

“I do not particularly like waking alone,” Adrian said.

I turned to find him leaning against one of the ebony shelves lined with black-bound books. He wore a long robe, red and patterned in gold. His hair was unbound, falling in loose waves around his shoulders. His arms were crossed, and while he teased, I knew something more had driven him from bed—worry.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said.

He frowned, and my gaze lingered on his mouth before rising to meet his eyes. That was one thing that had changed in the two hundred years we had been apart—his eyes. Once, they had been blue, but now they were rimmed in white. I always assumed it had happened after he was turned, but then, no other vampire I had met since coming to Revekka had those eyes.

“Couldn’t sleep,” he said, tilting his head. “Or wouldn’t?”

He knew the answer, so I asked a different question.

“Did I ever tell you aboutThe Book of Dis?”

He shook his head. “No. You never told me about Dragos either.”

I had not told him of the former king’s abuse. A strange guilt blossomed in my chest, though I knew that was not what he intended.

It was my turn to frown as I searched for a reason for my silence.

“Though why would you?” he asked, and I met his gaze as he approached, his hand pressed against my cheek. “You were so far above me then.”