“Failed the—What Jewels?”

Jaenelle slipped her hand into the folds of her blue dress and pulled out a velvet bag. She upended it on the low table beside his chair with a proud but watery smile.

Saetan closed his eyes, leaned his head against the back of the chair, and sincerely hoped the room would stop spinning. He didn’t need to look at them to know what they were: twelve uncut Jewels. White, Yellow, Tiger Eye, Rose, Summer-sky, Purple Dusk, Blood Opal, Green, Sapphire, Red, Gray, and Ebon-gray.

No one knew where the Jewels had come from. If one was destined to wear a Jewel, it simply appeared on the Altar after the Birthright Ceremony or the Offering to the Darkness. Even when he was young, receiving an uncut Jewel—a Jewel that had never been worn by another of the Blood—was rare. His Birthright Red Jewel had been uncut. When he’d been gifted with the Black, it, too, had been uncut. But to receive an entire set of uncut Jewels…

Saetan leaned over and tapped the Yellow Jewel with the tip of his nail. It flared, the fire in the center warning him off. He frowned, puzzled. The Jewel already identified itself as female, as being bonded to a witch and not a Blood male, but there was the faintest hint of maleness in it too.

Jaenelle wiped the tears from her cheeks and sniffed. “The lighter Jewels are for practice and everyday stuff until I’m ready to set these.” She upended another velvet bag.

The room spun in every direction. Saetan’s nails pierced the leather arms of his chair.

Hell’s fire, Mother Night, and may the Darkness be merciful!

Thirteen uncut Black Jewels, Jewels that already glittered with the inner fire of a psychic bond. Having a child bond with one Black Jewel without having her mind pulled into its depths was disturbing enough, but the inner strength required to bond and hold thirteen of them…

Fear skittered up his spine, raced through his veins.

Too much power. Too much. Even the Blood weren’t meant to wield this much power. Even Witch had never controlled this much power.

This one did. This young Queen. This daughter of his soul.

With effort, Saetan steadied his breathing. He could accept her. He could love her. Or he could fear her. The decision was his, and whatever he decided here, now, he would have to live with.

The Black Jewels glowed. The Black Jewel in his ring glowed in answer. His blood throbbed in his veins, making his head ache. The power in those Jewels pulled at him, demanding recognition.

And he discovered the decision was an easy one after all—he had actually made it a long, long time ago.

“Where did you get these, witch-child?” he asked hoarsely.

Jaenelle hunched her shoulders. “From Lorn.”

“L-Lorn?” Lorn? That was a name from the Blood’s most ancient legends. Lorn was the last Prince of the Dragons, the founding race who had created the Blood. “How…where did you meet Lorn?”