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“Only a Primal can create the mist.” Reaver’s head tilted, and a curtain of blond hair fell across his cheek as he picked up another biscuit. “Which is a sign that you’re probably close to completing the Culling. That, and your eyes.”

“The streaks of eather?” I asked. “They’re going to stay like that?”

“They may turn completely silver like Nyktos’,” he answered. “Or they may stay like this.”

Feeling dizzy, I started to take a step back. Casteel’s hand came around the nape of my neck. He turned, stepping in close.

“A Primal?” A slow grin spread across his lips as he caught my gaze, holding it. “I don’t know what I should call you. Queen? Highness? Neither seems fitting.”

“Poppy,” I whispered. “Call me Poppy.”

He bent his head, brushing his lips over the bridge of my nose as his mouth neared my ear. “I’ll call you whatever you like, as long as you call me yours.”

I let out a short laugh and felt Casteel’s smile against my cheek. He’d successfully pulled me back from the edge of a panic spiral.

Reaver made a gagging sound. “Did he seriously just say that?”

“Unfortunately,” Kieran muttered.

Ignoring them, I fisted the front of Casteel’s shirt. “You knew?”

“I only just figured it out. Some things that both Isbeth and Millicent said—they didn’t make sense. Or I couldn’t remember right away.”

Drawing back, I stared up at him. “Like what?”

His gaze searched mine. “Like when both spoke of Isbeth’s plans to remake the realms. And the time they gave me blood, and she said…” Shadows crept into his golden eyes. He briefly closed them and then looked at Reaver. “One thing I don’t understand. How is she a Primal and not Malec or Ires?” he asked, sliding his hand under my hair and cupping the nape of my neck. “And how is she a Primal born of mortal flesh?”

Reaver was quiet as he set his half-eaten biscuit aside. “That is something I cannot answer.”

“Cannot, or will not?” Casteel stated, his eyes hardening into golden jewels.

Reaver stared at Casteel and then his gaze flicked to me. “Cannot. You are the first Primal to be born since the Primal of Life. I do not know why. Only the Primal of Life can answer that.”

Well, it was highly unlikely that we’d be able to make a trip to Iliseeum anytime soon to try and figure that out.

“But what’s even more important is why the Blood Queen believes that she will destroy the realms.” Reaver eyed Malik.

“She won’t,” Casteel stated without hesitation or doubt. “The Blood Queen is so consumed by vengeance that she’s convinced herself that she can use Poppy.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, too. In the beginning,” Malik added. “But then I learned that Isbeth wasn’t the only one who believed that the last Chosen would awaken as the Harbinger and the Bringer of Death and Destruction.”

“Bullshit,” Casteel growled, even as the gentle sweep of his thumb continued. “The prophecy is bullshit.”

“Not when spoken by a god,” Reaver bit off. “Not when voiced by the goddess Penellaphe, who is tied closely to the Fates.”

Malik looked at me. “Isbeth naming you after the goddess who warned of you was no coincidence. She did it thinking it would bring her good luck with the Arae.”

For a moment, a brief second, a bolt of pure panic went through me, stirring the eather in my chest. If I were to fully become a Primal, I would be powerful enough to do just as the prophecy stated. My gaze snapped to Kieran, and he knew where my mind had gone. He too was thinking of what I’d asked of him. Kieran gave a curt shake of his head.

I started to take a step back—to go where, I didn’t know. But I reminded myself that I was more than just a byproduct of Isbeth’s vengeance.

I…I wasn’t Isbeth’s tool. Her weapon. I was mine.

My thoughts—my ideals, choices, and beliefs—were not preordained nor governed by anyone but me. The panic eased, breath by breath. “No matter what the prophecy says, I have free will. I control my actions. I wouldn’t do something like that,” I told him, and a whisper rose from that cold place deep in my chest. One I desperately ignored. “I won’t take part in whatever Isbeth thinks I will do.”

“But you already have,” Malik countered, and a chill swept over my skin as those words echoed in Isbeth’s voice. “You were born. Your blood was spilled, and you Ascended. Upon that Ascension, you were reborn—birthed from the flesh and fire of the Primals. You awakened.” He shook his head. “Maybe you’re right. Perhaps your choice—your free will—is greater than a prophecy. Than the Fates and what Isbeth believes. Hell, that’s what Coralena believed. She was sure you would usher in change, but not in the way Isbeth wanted.”