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“You . . . see her?” he whispered.

“I am allowing it to be so.” More like my own phantom was allowing it to be. “Hold to her.”

My heart cracked when Valen took hold of Halvar’s hand, of Tor’s. They braced for death. They’d be sent to the hells instead.

I removed a third parchment, hands trembling. I’d spent so much damn time constructing these words. They had to be perfect. This would begin the end. The Night Prince burned like a golden bloom against the darkness that polluted his kingdom.

A gentle melody rang in my head as I spoke the words:

Every day twenty-two, by draw of blood or light of moon,

Rises a beastly reign to torment you.

Live for death and gore,

A lust for blood forevermore.

No thought for name or past,

Till she lights the dark at last.

Royal of beauty, passion, and love.

The willing one to give of blood.

A choice to make, a way to mend.

Then will the reign of bloodlust end.

In the next breath, heavy shackles tightened over my wrists. Damp stone soaked my bare knees. King Eli sat mere paces away, shadows he couldn’t see wrapped around his cruel throne.

“Until the next tale.”

I blinked and found Stefan’s gaze.

I smirked. “He snatched you too, I see.”

“Every time.” Stefan was older with peppered hair and a wiry beard. Here, he looked more like Annon than he ever had.

“Kill them.” Eli waved his hand and two Raven guards stepped behind us.

We are nearing the end. The next tale is short, I whispered in my thoughts.One where we finally send the bright king to her. Will you be there, Whisper?

A broken voice answered,Always, Little Rose.

The Ravens rammed their blades through our hearts, and I woke to the sobs of a boy.

I peered around a thick tree. No longer an aged storyteller, my body was thin and dirty, a rogue child without a clan in this land. Neither fae nor Timoran, but this, this moment felt damn important.

“Son, son, look at me.” A man with bone beads in his rust-colored beard smiled despite being chained and on his knees.

A naked boy with messy golden hair was tethered to a tree with barbed rope. At the man’s voice, he stopped struggling. The boy’s face was swollen from sobs. Women, stripped of their clothes, were sprawled at his feet. Gods, my heart ached for him.

“Ari, look at me.”

I ducked lower in the shrubs. The man was Petter Sekundär. His contribution to the power of fate in this soil was felt here, but it was passing on. It was passing on to a new path.

His son held his father’s gaze, shuddering through silent sobs.