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Memnon hesitates, then adds,One of your parents likely had magic, and they passed it down to you.After another pause, Memnon adds,My father has power too.It looks similar—smoky. His is a deep green.

My limbs still tremble, but I’ve gone very still.

You’ve seen this with your own eyes?I ask.

Yes, though few people besides us can see it. Only those who have magic themselves can view it in others.

I try to remember if I’ve ever seen anything like this smoky power before, but it’s useless. My mind is too muddled with fear to think beyond this moment.

Do you…have magic?I can’t believe I’m asking this.

Not yet, he says.Beneath his words, I sense wistfulness and a bit of longing.But I think I will one day—it has to Awaken, like yours must’ve. The fact that we can speak in each other’s minds is proof that we probably both have always had it.

I press the heels of my palms back to my eyes. I would laugh at these assertions, except they make a certain sick sense, given everything that has happened to me up to this point.

I exhale a shaky breath and bow my head.

How do I make it go away?

It’s your magic, Memnon says calmly.It listens to you. Tell it to stop.

I lick my dry lips.

Stop, I demand.

The line of orange smoke thins, then vanishes altogether, the final remnants of it floating up into the air and dissipating away.

It worked, I say, shocked.

Of course it worked. It obeys you, Memnon says.Magic is your birthright, given to you by the gods. You can use it whenever you wish—to help you with tasks, to bring you wealth, to protect you.

To protect me?I echo.

I feel his smile down our connection.You don’t have to worry about anyone hurting you ever again, little witch, he says with conviction.You are powerful.

CHAPTER 6

ROXILANA, 17 YEARS OLD

53 AD, Rome, Roman Empire

I chokeon a cry as a horrible pain startles me from sleep. It twists my gut, carving me open from the inside out.

I reach for my abdomen, certain my hands will come away bloody. Certain my insides are spilling out.

My hand closes over my dry linen tunic. No blood, no spilling guts, and yet—I groan from the pain, curling in on myself. My eyes search the darkness, looking for an intruder—or worse,Livia—my sleep-clogged mind unsure whether this agony is real or imagined.

It takes several ragged breaths for me to realize this pain is not my own.

Gods—

Memnon!

He doesn’t respond.

Memnon!

Terror courses through me, the metallic tang of it coating the back of my throat.