Page 4

Bria

A s the door slams shut, I flop into the seat Evander occupied, still warm from his body heat.

I take another bite of the apple and try to ignore the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.

Evander is attractive, there’s no doubt about that.

He has always been handsome, devastatingly so, even when we were young.

It’s almost unfair how he and Quinn have been blessed with such looks.

Though, I know I’m not supposed to notice, not supposed to be affected by his beauty, since my family is from wealth and his is far from it.

My father was an earl and my mother was a lady from a nearby city.

Evander, however, was born to a soldier and a seamstress, not exactly someone I was ever allowed to consider as a potential suitor.

As children, it was less of an issue, and we were allowed to play daily with one another.

All the children were, as long as we recognized that when it came down to it, there was a difference.

And Evander’s father always made sure he knew that.

His father...I grit my teeth at the thought of the man. My hands grip the apple tightly and my nails dig into the flesh, the popping followed by a sticky juice running down my arm. Aamon had been my father’s right-hand man, his captain of the guard.

When I close my eyes, Aamon’s image is clear, vivid.

He’s a hard man, tall and stoic with dark eyes and onyx hair cropped tight to his head.

He had never been very talkative, never showed much affection to his wife or son.

Evander bears little resemblance to the man, aside from his large stature and the long, straight line of his nose.

In both physicality and demeanor, he takes after his mother, a stunning woman with the same chestnut hair as Ev that fell in waves about her shoulders.

Olaphina had always been kind to me growing up.

She was kind to everyone. Evander is so much like her, and so unlike the man who raised him. The man who took them away.

Savoring the sweet taste of the apple on my tongue, I picture Aamon.

When we make it to the king’s court at last, to the capital, I will kill him.

Thoughts of taking my blade and driving it into his abdomen take over.

Watching the life drain from his face will be the exact revenge I need.

I suppose I could use my magic to kill him—it’s always an option—though it will take a lot more out of me to do so.

I could choose to summon monsters from the shadows and have them rip him apart with their long, black talons.

Shred him with their wicked teeth made from nightmares.

But no matter how I kill him, he deserves to see my face when he dies. To see the face of my father.

Aamon betrayed all of us and serves in the same position he once had for my father, now for the king.

After all, he tried to deliver some of the most powerful magical people to King Braddock.

And for that, the king showed extreme gratitude, rewarding Aamon with the righteous job, even if he was unsuccessful in his attempt to capture my sister and me.

When I turned eighteen, my gifts began to show.

Coming of age does that to those with magic in their blood, though it doesn’t happen to everyone who comes from magic.

Nowadays, it seems fewer people have any powers at all.

But those of us who do, have a hell of a time when it starts.

The closer you crept to that fated birthday, the more magic flowed into you, coursing through your body like a raging fire with no beginning and no end.

It came on naturally but controlling it could be difficult.

It required practice and training to keep your emotions from getting the better of you.

An angry outburst, a painful injury, even a broken heart could send your gifts haywire.

Which made hiding those gifts even more trying.

My parents worked tirelessly to keep their own gifts as well as mine hidden from all but a few servants in the home, those who were closest to us, those who worked with me and would see as I struggled to gain a grasp on them.

But somehow, Aamon caught word of what I could do, learned of the dark magic within me.

Armed with that knowledge, he chose to sell my family out instead of help, to go to the king and tell him what he knew: that my parents had magic in their blood, and so did their daughters.

And furthermore, that our servants whispered of the prophecy.

Magical bloodlines were dwindling and dark gifts like my own had not been seen in ages, spurring talk of who we may have descended from.

Aamon is the reason my father is dead, the reason I’m separated from my sister and mother, the reason all of this is happening.

And what he did to Evander and Olaphina was worse.

I may not know all the details of Evander’s years in the capital, but I know enough to say Aamon’s life is not one worth saving.

And I am sure his own son agrees with that statement.

Evander and his mother are too good for this wretched world.

I stand, arching my back until the resounding crack of my bones echoes in the room and I toss the core of my apple into the bin with a sigh.

Pushing the chair in, I walk out of the inn and into the cold morning, sucking in a breath and groaning as the icy air catches in my throat once again. Miserable mountain town.

Looking up, I can see the library a short distance away, across the other side of the village green. My boots crunch on the light layer of snow, patchy with gaps of dark ground underneath peeking through the glittering white.

A frown sets on my lips as I think of my sister.

Nimai doesn’t have to put up with the cold.

She resides in the southern camp, even farther south than our hometown of Elwyn.

And I would bet it’s warm and sunny there today, especially with spring so close.

I pull my cloak tighter around my body, fighting the chill in my damp hair that feels as if it might freeze the end of my braid straight off.

The library will offer a reprieve from the cold.

When I approach, I lay my fingers on the strong wooden handles of the doors and let them wrap around the ornate surface, carved with a delicate touch and so much more sophisticated than the entrances to the other buildings here.

Aside from the temple, that is, but no one goes there anyway.

I inhale deeply, readying myself for what waits beyond the doors because honestly, I’m just not in the mood today.

But I step inside the old building anyway.

The smell of musty books fills the air, and I’m hit with a gust of warmth emanating from the roaring fire on the far wall.

Thousands of old tomes line either side of the great room and the ceiling soars overhead.

The high windows let in the early morning light, pouring golden sunbeams across the room.

“Early riser today. Are you eager to keep learning, Prophecy?” The withered old man appears in front of me, and I startle.

There is no need for it. And I hate when he does it.

“Show off,” I spit, narrowing my eyes to a glare. “And don’t call me that.”

“Hmmmm,” Cato hums. “You’re in a mood today, it seems.”

He walks to a nearby table littered with books, clearly laid out by him in anticipation of my arrival.

Despite his age, the man moves smoothly, so quiet he is nearly imperceptible.

His gait is more a glide than a walk. I wonder if that has to do with the old magic in him.

I also wonder how old he really is. Given how magic slows the aging process, and he’s a ripe old geezer, I gather he might be as old as time.

Following behind him, I strip off the heavy cloak and gloves, tossing them onto a chair and pulling back another to slump into. Cato silently moves into the seat across from me and slides a book toward me. I pick it up, studying the dusty cover, worn and gray.

Eyeing the odd title, I tap my nails on it. “ The Art of Bones ? I thought we would be continuing to work on the shadows.”

“You’ve mastered the shadows, dear girl.

The creatures you can summon and control give even me nightmares.

” He shakes his head, pure white hair falling around his face, a deep roadmap of wrinkles.

“And I haven’t had a nightmare in over one hundred years.

” He frowns at the thought, and I laugh at his genuine display of discomfort.

I still remember the day he showed up at the rebel camp requesting to see me. He had been drawn to me, drawn to the dark magic that lies within me, though he was vague about how he found me. I suspect Helara knows more about it than she lets on.

Over the last several years, we’ve spent countless hours together.

He taught me how to use my magic, how to draw upon the shadows and bend them to my will, how to cloak myself in the dark mist that swirls around my body.

And how to keep it contained, to restrain myself and manage my emotions so I can remain undetected in a land where I am hunted.

Magic is nearly gone, and what is left remains hidden, thanks to the king.

His anger and fear got the better of him years ago and eventually he began a crusade to find all those with magic to ensure he would never be defeated, and that the prophecy could never be fulfilled.

Instead, he allowed his priests and high priestess to be the only ones who wielded magic in the name of their true god, Vaohr. It’s all bullshit.

Somehow, he’s never found Cato. Probably because the man can shield himself from sight and manipulate the air and space around him. One of the last remaining old magic wielders—a relic in this changing world.