Page 31 of Heirs of the Cursed (A Curse for Two Souls #1)

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Bellmare

The City of the Sea had plunged into chaos. The soldiers had ravaged Bellmare for days, with barbaric violence that showed the growing impatience of its ruler. King Kirus was unsatisfied with the constant failure of his army. They had to be faster, more voracious, no matter what that meant for the Bellmarians.

Naithea couldn’t allow it, not after her whole world had shattered.

The commander who had won her heart and soul was Killian Allencort, the faceless prince she had hated all her life—the one she had blamed for her mother’s death and her tragic fate. He’d deceived her all along and toyed with her while pretending to be someone who didn’t exist.

And she had foolishly fallen in love with him.

Naithea’s heart ached at the lies he’d told and the secrets he’d kept from her, but mourning a liar wasn’t a luxury she could afford. Her home and family were in danger as long as the Royal Army remained in Bellmare, so she focused on the Dark Twins and the role they played in Laivalon’s fate.

With her head covered under a warm cloak, Naithea left the brothel and walked into the streets in the direction of Dyron Selmi’s store. Upon finding it locked, she made use of the hairpins holding her braids and worked on the lock until the door finally opened with a low creak.

Naithea walked blindly through the darkness and soon reached a half-open door, the small room lit by flickering oil lamps.

“I knew you would come,” Dyron said, sitting on the ground and with his back turned to her. “Are you here to collect my debt?”

“Something like that,” she said, leaning back against the doorframe.

“What information do you seek now?”

“Who said it’s information I want?”

Dyron Selmi rose from the ground with the aid of his staff, the curved hilt of which enveloped a small crystal sphere composed of swirling shadows. Naithea’s eyes scanned the design carefully before focusing on him again.

“I can see it in your eyes, siren.”

“What did the commander want from you that night?”

“We both know he’s no commander.”

“Prince Killian,” she said aloud for the first time since she’d left him on the market streets. Her heart shattered at her own words. “What did he want?”

“Knowledge of ancient magic, unlike anything seen before.”

“Why?”

“He wishes to override the wards that keep the princesses hidden and protected,” he answered bluntly.

The pendant on her necklace burned between Naithea’s collarbones. “Did you give him what he was looking for?”

“Of course not.” Dyron blew out one of the candles, its wax melting on the table. “The future the goddesses have shown me requires that the princesses remain protected until they come to terms with their true selves. Until they assume their role. Do you understand?”

Naithea swallowed as she heard the truisms she could no longer ignore. Revelations of her past, dark promises about her future . . .

A completed puzzle.

“I do. That’s why you showed me the poem.”

“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Daughter of Light?”

She didn’t respond.

The merchant stepped back and revealed a painting of endless colors and changing images.

“What is that?”

“This will provide the answer to all your questions.”

“And why should I trust you?” she demanded.

Dyron raised an eyebrow. “Have I not proved myself worthy of your trust?”

He had, but Ward had also won her heart and lied to her. Naithea didn’t wish the world to think that they could take advantage of her without repercussions. She had to shed her sheepskin and show the true monster she hid underneath.

“I could be imprisoned forever. All magic has a price, like the necklace of the goddess Kazaris.”

“Although you don’t know your provenance,” Dyron said, his hands firmly on his cane, “yours and mine are the same.”

“If you’re lying, they’ll come for me anyway.”

“I know.”

Naithea moved closer to the painting. She rested her hand on the canvas and gasped as her hand disappeared into the colors, which quickly changed from vivid hues to dark and cold ones. The paint began to climb up her arm, like vines slowly devouring her just in time to hear Dyron Selmi’s last words.

“For the fallen, the dead and the missing. May your ancestors walk beside you and the goddesses guide you back home.”

And then Naithea Utari became light, shadows and doom.

Familiar yellowish walls, weathered and worn, emerged from the darkness. The sun’s rays streamed through the windows of the room, making the light curtains dance until they caressed the cheeks of a young Naithea who slept peacefully.

She was in her old room.

In her home.

Naithea spun on her heels to take in every detail of the stone house that held hundreds of memories; the happiest she had ever had. Until that life was taken from her and she had to do horrible things to survive.

“Thea,” her mother sang in the distance, warming her chest. “Wake up, sweetheart. It’s time for your tea.”

A woman full of life and joy walked through the door of her old room, very different from Naithea’s last memories of her: the olive skin with greenish tones, the lost eyes, the broken and torn voice . . . Back then, Iseabail Forsàidh had barely been able to stand up on her own, and every breath she took had posed an immense effort.

Her eyes watered with mirth as she watched her mother approach the bed where a small, exhausted version of Naithea lay. Iseabail stroked her daughter’s cheek and brushed the golden hair away from her boreal eyes.

There was concern on her face. She could see it in her pursed lips, something she often did when Naithea returned home from playing with the rest of the children with bruises and cuts on her legs.

“I don’t want it,” the girl complained, covering her face with her little arms. “It tastes like manure.”

Iseabail laughed, and Naithea could swear that that melody would remain engraved in her mind for the rest of her life.

“And how could you know that?”

“I just know.”

“Have you ever eaten manure?” her mother kept on asking.

“No . . .”

“Then it can’t taste that bad,” Iseabail answered sweetly. “Here comes the protector of the Akhirat to eat you!”

The room was filled with laughter as soon as her mother started tickling her. Weak as the little girl was, she couldn’t resist Iseabail’s love attacks.

Naithea stood to the side, fearing to be seen even though it was clear that none were aware of her presence. It was a memory, one she’d forgotten. She held herself, digging her nails into her arms to hold back the tears.

“It will make you feel better,” her mother assured her, holding out the tea. “Just a few sips, Ra .”

Naithea’s body stiffened at the sound of that name. The name Dyron had used in the library as he told her the story of the past; the story of the kingdom that had fallen so that a new one could rise.

She didn’t remember her mother calling her that name, not once. Yet, the endearment that accompanied her words only indicated that it was a habit. She felt guilty for forgetting, for pushing Iseabail to the bottom of her soul because remembering her hurt.

The girl’s boreal eyes lit up and, without a whimper, she took the mug in her small hands before tipping it to her lips. She drank the thick, orange liquid in large sips and wrinkled her nose in distaste.

“Disgusting.”

Her mother kissed her forehead for long seconds and Naithea longed to trade places with her smaller version, only to feel a kiss from Iseabail one last time.

“I have some errands to run by the harbor, but I’ll be back soon,” her mother said, adjusting the starry pendant around the girl’s neck. “Remember what I told you?”

The little girl nodded. “I must never take off the necklace,” she answered. “Not even if I’m afraid of it.”

“Good girl.”

Iseabail rose from the bed with a heavy hand in the pit of her stomach. Naithea remembered how much she hated to be left alone when she was sick, which was quite often.

Upon seeing her mother leave the room to head for the door, Naithea hurried after her. She watched her silently as Iseabail draped the cloak over her shoulders and buttoned it over her chest.

“Mother,” she whispered.

Iseabail didn’t turn around.

“ Mommy . . .”

She hadn’t called her that in years. Not since her death, the last day she had felt her warmth and love. Naithea took a desperate step toward her to reach for her hand, to brush it one last time, but the bursting of the door’s hinges pushed her back.

Iseabail’s face paled when three figures made their way through the now broken opening. She backed away with cautious yet trembling steps, her restless heartbeat pounding in her throat. No matter what she did, Iseabail Forsàidh dared not look toward the room where she’d left her daughter.

“It’s been a long time, Iseabail.”

It was Vandrad Utari, her husband. The man who had abandoned Iseabail out of fear and hatred, for the lies she’d told and the secrets she’d hidden.

“What are you doing here?”

“Where’s the girl?”

Iseabail shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“The bloody girl who did this to me!”

When Vandrad dropped the hood of his cloak, her mother gasped. Naithea’s lips parted in surprise at the extensive, jagged scar that fell in the shape of a lightning bolt across his forehead, across his brow and eye, outlining the bridge of his nose and his pale lips.

A scar that had disfigured his face completely.

“It wasn’t her fault . . .”

“If it wasn’t hers, whose was it?” he growled. “I’m going to collect my debt, Iseabail. One way or another.”

“I don’t have any money here, Vandrad.”

“Oh, I know, my dear.” A wicked grin tugged his decrepit lips upward. “But when the castle gates open before me, the king himself will shower me with riches and titles.”

“You won’t touch her!”

“The price on her head is one that has no value yet. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure to sell her to the highest bidder.”

Her mother’s face contorted into a grimace of hatred. “Try to take her away from me and you will suffer the wrath of the goddesses.”

“I don’t fear the Triad.”

Naithea screamed as his fist connected with Iseabail’s stomach, pushing her toward the wall before she fell to the ground. Her mother tried to sit up, but the next blow to her face got her on her knees.

The impact split her lip and caused her nose to start bleeding. Iseabail didn’t stop to wail. In a maneuver Naithea had never seen before, she kicked Vandrad’s legs on his way into the room, who stumbled and hit the floor. His companions propelled themselves forward to stop Iseabail, stepping on her leg until her bones snapped.

The pain vanished from her face as she noticed Vandrad dragging young Naithea by her hair. The little girl struggled with Vandrad, raising her arms above her head to claw at his arms, but nothing was enough. She was too small, too weak.

“Mommy!” she called out to her with tears in her eyes.

Iseabail had to get up and help her, before it was too late.

If she was taken to the capital, Naithea would fall into the clutches of a vengeful king who would use her to his advantage before murdering her in cold blood and hanging her body on the walls of Camdenn.

They would find . . .

Iseabail stumbled and fell again.

“No!” she cried disconsolately.

And as if that cry had given the little girl back her strength, Naithea felt the darkness within her grow, summoning a monster she’d never be rid of again. A monster that had come to save her, to protect her and the person she loved most in the world.

‘Take.’

‘Take.’

‘Take.’

Her magic exploded around her in particles of boreal light, like snakes that advanced at her command until they reached the men’s ankles. The green, blue and violet rays of light ascended their legs, paralyzing them.

The monster’s ghoulish laughter rumbled in her ears. While she’d abhorred that darkness within her, she now understood why it had spawned in the first place. She’d given it life out of love, to protect her mother.

With a silent command, Naithea’s power snapped the men’s spines, bone by bone, feeding on their pain and despair until it reached their necks.

Until there was nothing left of them.