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Fear swallowed her.

The whiskey. The woody caramel scent had been flavored with something else. Something . . . floral?

But her father wouldn’t—he couldn’t—

“All you had to do waslisten, Kalisandre. Was that truly so hard?”

Kallie’s body was on fire as she tried to straighten out her vision, as she tried to clear the fog from her mind. She tried to call upon her gift, but it was heavy in her stomach as if whatever Domitius had put in the whiskey dulled it, paralyzed it. She tried to fight it, but no matter how much she struggled against it, she couldn’t get her gift to even budge. Whatever he had put in the whiskey was overtaking her, numbing her body and mind.

The pad of her father’s thumb ran over her cheek. “Have I ever told you that you have your mother’s eyes? Such pretty blues. As blue as the sea.” Domitius jerked her chin up, squeezing it. “But here’s the thing about the sea: the tide can turn at any moment. If you become lost in its beauty, in its vastness, in the hope of it all, it will drown you before you even see the wave coming. And you, my darling Kalisandre, are too full of hope.”

He released her chin and looked at the person behind Kallie. “Now,” he commanded before turning to the fire.

The sound of paper ripping split the air and rang in Kallie’s ears. She couldn’t see what it was, her attention fixed on the woman before her.

Domitius looked back at Kallie. “Don’t worry, my darling, you will be back to normal just in time for the wedding tomorrow. We just need to do a little . . . recalibrating, don’t we?”

But Kallie barely heard him as she stared at her friend. “Myra?” Kallie wheezed, the name heavy on her tongue.

Myra’s brows quivered, her fingers twisting together in front of her lap.

“Myra, please,” Kallie whispered. She tried to reach out, to grab her friend’s hand, but the man’s grip remained firm on her shoulders. “Help me.”

The handmaiden didn’t meet Kallie’s gaze. Myra bit her bottom lip, and Kallie was speechless as she stared at her best friend. The one person who she had counted on to be loyal to her. But loyalty always came at a price, didn’t it?

“The least you can do”—Kallie gasped, her breathing becoming more labored as the poison weaved its way through her system—“is look at me when you stab me in the back.”

Somewhere, someone chuckled.

“We do not have all day, Myra.”

“Yes, My King,” Myra said at last. She took a step forward, reaching out a hand. Kallie stared at it, brows furrowed. “It’s going to be all right, Kals. I promise.”

Kallie’s eyes burned, her vision blurring. She wiggled against the arms holding her back as Myra’s hand touched her cheek, but Kallie was too weak. She tried to speak a command, to will her gift to fuel her words, but the honeyed warmth was gone. Her energy depleted, her gift drained.

Domitius’ footsteps were heavy on the wooden floorboards as he stepped toward the fireplace. “Oh, and be sure to clean this mess up before the other servants see. He’ll help you with her, for I have more important matters to take care of.”

“Of course, My King,” Myra said as the man behind Kallie said, “Yes, My King.”

And his voice was familiar yet distant. She could almost picture his face but couldn’t quite place him. One of Rian’s guards? Her father’s?

In the corner of Kallie’s vision, she saw Domitius toss something into the fire before walking out of the room. Kallie squinted, trying to identify the paper he had thrown into the fire, but the unshed tears blurred her vision.

Then, at the sound of the door closing and the latch clicking into place, two soft hands touched Kallie’s neck. Their fingers cold and nimble. And at their touch, a sense of calm poured over Kallie, drenching her in golden sunshine and honey.

The last thing Kallie felt before the white haze consumed her were the cold, wet tears rolling down her face as the smell of lavender and cinnamon blanketed her, and the ripped family portrait curled in the flames.

Chapter53

GRAESON

Having returnedwith the supplies for the arsonist, the god watched over the sad prince. Terin’s features were contorted as he sat on the floor. Sweat dripped from his forehead, rolling over the deep wrinkles.

“I can’t reach her,” Terin said at last.

“What do you mean you cannot reach her?” the god asked.

For the past few weeks, Terin had been infiltrating Kalisandre’s dreams, conjuring up different scenes, both imaginary and old memories. A couple of times, Terin had been able to connect Kalisandre’s dreams with the man’s. But with the mortal still fighting his connection to his godly side, the god had not been privy to those dreams.