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My workout with Nessy was also short-lived as we both put what was probably a week’s worth of anger into our sparring. Ending with our bodies both trying to heal from multiple bruises, split lips, and what was probably a hairline fracture of the wrist. Hers, not mine.

I limped back to my room holding a cold cloth filled with ice against my face, which by the time I got to my door, were healed other than a slight ache in my ankle.

Immediately sprawling out on the bed, I letting my body relax from the brutal training.

Minutes later, I turned my head to the side table that still housed a stack of books, the one about the gods now at the top.

Groaning, I rolled over to grab it, curiosity eating at me.

Opening the page to the last one I read, my eyes scanned over the words that stood out. The prophecy.

The breath of the chosen does not falter,

Although the Sparrow’s vitality may crack,

Let it be seen that their path does not alter,

For they are the one bloomed from black.

What did it mean? Who could it be referring to?

I read the next line, finding that it was prophesied after the first rebellion. Which meant that this prophecy could have already happened, especially if it was that old. And who’s to say this was even real? That any of what this book said was real?

Despite my questioning of the integrity, I continued to read, getting lost in its withered pages for hours.

I learned even more about the time before the first revolution, like the fact that there were almost always citywide parties that typically ended with people having sex anywhere and everywhere they could.

The gods themselves would host some of the parties, inviting countless lucky humans into their beds.

That was until one of the humans tried to use it as an opportunity to try and kill them.

Shortly after that, even more rebellion groups started to rise up against the gods, frustrated with their unfit ruling.

Only a small excerpt talked about the first rebellion, which was full of the same thing I’d heard before—the humans eventually got the better of the gods, sending them into hiding.

About halfway through the book, it turned into less of a book about the gods and into more of a history lesson on certain people throughout the years.

The one that stood out to me the most ended up being about a woman named Dreha.

Princess and sister to King Moryet of Sorith—meant to take the throne once the second rebellion came to an end.

But as the end drew near, one of the smaller villages fell under attack.

Hundreds of innocent humans were slaughtered.

Dreha begged her father to send support, but was met with instant refusal.

Deciding to take matters into her own hands, she rode out to defend the village—alone.

The book noted that the battle against her and what started out as over a hundred men lasted until the next morning.

Dreha—gifted with an earth seal—used her power to throw large chunks of the earth at her enemies.

At times even crushing some between two boulders.

When her powers started to dwindle, she switched to her sword, working to kill every last one of them before she eventually succumbed to her own injuries.

Her father’s army arrived shortly after the battle was over—having received word of her actions to help the village hours after she left. Despite his best efforts, they were too late, causing Ramir Moryet to become the crowned king of the new territory.

Maybe this is who the prophecy is about.

I was just starting on to the next story when there was a knock at my door, followed by Nickolai letting himself in. “Do come in, Your Highness,” I said sarcastically as I set the book down on the table and stretched out my muscles that had sat stagnant for far too long.

“Must you always be such a pain?” Nickolai asked with the same mocking tone, shaking his head in amusement. He made his way over to the bed, sitting down on the edge. “What were you doing?”

“I was reading,” I deadpanned. I didn’t know how we were to move forward. We hadn’t talked since our argument in his office. Leaving a cloud of awkwardness above us with each minute we didn’t confront the problem.

Nickolai must have felt it too because he cleared his throat awkwardly before saying, “I’m sorry about yesterday.”

I stayed silent, waiting for him to add to it, to make an excuse. When he didn’t, I finally said, “I’m sorry, too.” It wasn’t that I was sorry for what I said, but more so for what it means for his life. I had come to terms with the reality of my decision, but that didn’t mean he had.

His eyes were filled with sincerity as he looked at me, “I don’t know what I’d do without you, Mira.

I need you with me. Only you.” My heart clenched and I quickly sat up on the bed while he leaned forward, both of us rushing to have our lips meet again.

We were frantic—hungry for each other. Our clothes were gone before I even realized they were being discarded.

Nickolai leaned me back into the bed, settling himself above me when he stopped the kiss.

Opening my eyes, I found him staring down at me. His voice was husky and full of need as he said, “Promise me you will stay with me.”

“I promise,” I breathed.