Shocked, uncomprehending, Dion traced the bolt’s flight back to the source: a soldier had reloaded. The string of his crossbow still thrummed. His expression was surprised.

As a voice screamed in Dion’s head that this wasn’t happening, he started to crawl toward Isobel. He panted as he dragged himself along the ground, eyes burning, so stunned that he felt numb. His vision was blurred when he finally reached her.

He heard a rush of footsteps. Suddenly he felt a sword point pressed into his back.

‘Soldier, stop! Don’t kill him.’ He heard Tarik’s rasping voice.

Dion ignored the sword as he turned Isobel over and stared into her face.

The breath rattled in her chest. ‘I . . . I . . .’

Her lifeblood pooled underneath her, and her eyes glazed as she shuddered.

He would never know what she was trying to say.

35

35

In a man-sized cell, somewhere far from all hope, Dion lay on the ground and shivered. An iron collar once more enclosed his neck, tight enough to hurt. His ragged tunic did nothing to ward off the chill, for the cell was dark and damp, and never saw natural light. But it wasn’t the cold that hovered over him like a shadow.

He again saw the thick iron crossbow bolt, far too powerful for Isobel’s slender frame, plunging between her shoulder blades. He imagined how she’d felt, terrified, far from home, vainly trying to flee, before agonizing pain ripped through her insides. He again saw her quivering and shuddering as she tried to speak and then took her last breath. She was dead. The child she’d carried was dead with her.

Once, Dion had dreamed that he would have a son or daughter, with a name, and a unique personality, and perhaps Isobel’s beauty. He would watch his child grow, nurturing his or her talents, imparting wisdom where he could. He would keep his child safe; for what was the most important role for a parent, if not to protect sons and daughters from danger?

Trembling on the ground, he looked up when he heard a voice.

A middle-aged woman was standing over him. She was dark-haired and slender, with delicate features, and wore a flowing chiton of pale-blue silk and a golden necklace. Her eyes were concerned as she crouched at his side.

‘My son.’

‘Mother?’

‘Your struggles are nearly over,’ she said. Kneeling beside him, she smoothed back his hair. ‘Let the darkness come.’

‘It hurts,’ he said, and he knew he wasn’t talking about the wounds on his body.

‘I know,’ she soothed. ‘Now you understand, don’t you? Why I hid what I was, even from your father. They’ll never see us the way they see each other. We’ll always be feared or used. Never treated as equals.’

‘I’m not an eldran . . .’ Dion murmured.

‘But you’re not human either, Dion.’