Do not sob. Viori tenderly cleaned the blood from the woman’s nose, then returned to her father. An ox-strong charmer too beautiful for words, admired by too many ladies in town, according to Momma. With thick black hair, darker, dusky complexion and rich brown eyes, he resembled an older version of Kaysar. Or he used to. Like his wife, he looked ready for a grave.

As gently as possible, Viori wiped his brow. He cringed from her touch, the slightest pressure seeming to bring him incomparable suffering.

Do. Not. Sob.

“Heal…us,” he rasped, his voice wretched. “Please. Must…try.”

Distress choked her. She gave her head a violent shake. “I…I can’t.” Every day Kaysar had warned her: Do not even consider it, love. Not yet.

He believed her glamara—a fae’s strongest supernatural ability—mirrored his. That she must only speak a command to force others to obey. And maybe he was right. But she had rarely practiced. With good reason!

Fear, sadness and anger delivered a bad outcome for Kaysar. The listeners might obey him, but they did it…wrong.

Her brother had explained it this way: Words are vessels containing everything we feel. Our secret and not so secret intents. When we speak, we unleash a creative force no one can outrun. A gift, if we use it right.

Before she dare attempt to control a fae, she must first harness her emotions.

“Please, darling,” her mother echoed, barely audible. “Can’t make it worse. Dying anyway.”

“No! You aren’t allowed to die.” To stop herself from agreeing to sing, Viori mashed her lips together. Do not even consider it. Except, she had brought birds, cats and deer back to life.

What if she could do this?

What if she couldn’t? She’d helped the animals only after she’d calmed. A process that had taken days.

Momma issued a louder moan, almost a scream, and Viori sniffled. Did she have time to calm? Could she calm? Whenever she tried, she ended up hiding under her covers. But…

What if she could save her parents and didn’t? Could she live with the guilt? Could Kaysar?

What if he grew to hate her? What if she grew to hate herself?

If she succeeded, all became right, exactly as he’d promised. Momma would smile again. Papa would ruffle her hair and tell her she wasn’t allowed to marry until she reached the age of two hundred and fifty—at least! Kaysar could finally return to his studies. How he must long to do so. No one enjoyed books and learning more.

And if she didn’t succeed?

Did it really matter if emotion warped her commands at a time like this? If she was her parents’ only chance, shouldn’t she offer one?