She did not know this dragon. The beast was black and burly, his horns long. He had not seen her, and Issari quickly hid behind a column and peeked. The dragon stood still in the water; the only movement was the smoke pluming from his nostrils. Finally, with a grunt and shake of his head, the dragon began to shrink. His wings pulled into his back, his scales faded, and a man floated in the water, bald and shirtless.

Issari slapped her palm over her mouth to stifle her gasp.

It was her father.

Slowly, dripping water, King Raem stepped out from the pool. Issari pulled her head back, pressing herself against the column. If he saw her here, he would not merely beat her again; he would drown her in this pool. She crept deeper into shadows, waiting for Raem to climb the stairs and leave the cistern.

But she did not see him leave. For a long moment, she saw and heard nothing. Then a loud crack pierced the silence, followed by a grunt. A second crack followed.

Issari dared to peek around the column. Her father was kneeling by the pool, chastising himself with a belt. Welts rose across his back, much like the ones he had given her.

"Diseased," the king hissed. "Cursed. Shameful." With every word, his belt lashed again.

Issari stared in disbelief.

Her father. The man who had banished his daughter and imprisoned his son. The man who had murdered scores in the city, those he called weredragons. The man who had released an army of demons to purify his kingdom with blood and rot.

Her father . . . was Vir Requis.

Issari's eyes stung.

All those you killed, she thought, trembling. All that you destroyed. All this pain, all this terror . . . because you are ashamed. Because you are one of them.

Her amulet blazed in her hand; it felt like holding an ember. Issari took ragged breaths and raised her chin. She knew then. She knew what she could do, what she had to do. She knew that only she, here in this place, could save Eteer, could save Requiem, could return light to the darkness.

She drew her dagger.

Leaving her hiding place, she walked toward her father, daring not breathe.

He did not see her. He was still kneeling by the pool, chastising himself. Blood dripped down his back.

It will be just one more wound, Issari thought, staring at his blood. Just one thrust of the blade.

Her dagger shook and her heart thrashed, but Issari knew she had to do this. She would sin. She would murder again—like she had murdered the crone. She would save the world.

She reached her father—the man who had beaten her, tortured her siblings, the man who had to die—and raised her dagger.

With a sob, she thrust the blade.

Raem spun around.