Someone grabbed the woman, dark hands on her pristine garments, shoving her back and away from Aurora. The terrible crushing pressure on her chest eased, but she was hit by another wave of nausea so extreme she rolled to the side and retched. Nothing came out despite the desperate, painful heaving of her stomach.

“Help her. Please, Zephyr.”

Someone pulled on her shoulder, rolling her back and pushing away the sweaty hair that hung across her face.

“Why should I?” Aurora heard as her vision cleared enough to make out the stern, serious face of the man who had once been her guard.

Taven’s eyes were wild and panicked like she had never seen them.

“Because she’s the rightful heir to the kingdom of Pavan.”

Under the will of the goddess, and my own power as a Stormling king, I offer my services to the city of Pavan as its protector and ruler in its time of need.

—declaration signed by King Cruzef Locke

5

Novaya woke to hands on her person, and her magic screaming in revolt. She shoved blindly, and ended up slammed against the rough stone wall for her troubles. Her bones clashed painfully with the stone, and liquid fire churned in every joint.

It was a soldier who held her against the wall—his palm planted on her chest to keep her pressed backward.

In her mind’s eye, she saw that hand burst into flame, and she knew she could do that with the raw magic inside her, was tempted to simply let it out, to pour all her frustration and fear and fatigue into the fire, and burn it all away.

But then the man spoke. “The prince wants to see you.”

Her eyes flicked to the door, expecting to find the dark, sinister form of her only visitor in the doorway. But it was empty. And … open.

She raised her hands in a show of supplication, and the man stepped back, taking away the hand that had felt like a brand on her chest.

Metal clanked, and the soldier held up a pair of iron manacles. “Put these on.”

He shoved them toward her, and she took the irons with shaking hands. They were heavy, so heavy it sapped all her strength just to hold them. She was not sure she could put them on herself, but she forced herself to try, knowing she would prefer her own touch to that of the soldier.

Her wrists were so thin, she thought she might be able to slip them off later when no one was looking, but then the soldier invaded her space, moving a bar to make the manacle openings smaller, trapping her skin right up against the iron. Then he tightened it with a small tool just to be certain.