“What?” I say, realization dawning on me. That bastard tricked me into following him inside, and I did so like a gullible little duckling.

My magic sparks under my skin, begging to be released. All it would take is a flick, and all three would be dead. But who else would I kill?

My heart stutters in my chest when I think of Nadir’s lifeless face on the ground. Of the way it felt when his heart stopped and the screams ripped from my throat. I don’t think I can face that again—even if these Fae are all strangers intent on locking me up.

My hands ball into fists as the guards force me to walk-stumble down a set of winding stairs.

They’re just doing their job. I’ve been granted immense power at the tips of my fingers, and I’ve discovered the hard way that I need to learn how to use it responsibly. I can’t just go around blasting away everyone who pisses me off.

A previous Lor might have done that, but I’m trying to be a better person.

Besides, I’m inside the palace at least. I’ll find a way to convince them to grant me an audience with Cyan, though I’m painfully aware that spending any time in the dungeon means fewer days I have to save Nadir.

Inhaling a deep breath, I will my nerves to settle. I have to keep a clear head. I won’t do him any favors if I panic and mess this up. I need to earn Cyan’s trust. My insides war with the need to think logically while my heart flakes away bit by bit. I’ve always been a master of compartmentalizing my emotions, but even I have my limits.

Finally, we reach the bottom of the staircase, and the female guard leads us past a row of cells, some already occupied and some sitting empty, until she comes to a stop and points.

I’m shoved inside by the guards with such force that I trip and drop my boots, still clutched in one of my hands. Someone kicks them in after me, and the door clangs shut before the lock clicks into place.

“Let me out of here!” I shout, grabbing the bars and shaking them. “I didn’t do anything wrong!”

The female guard stands at the bars, and it’s then I notice the ornateness of her armor—it’s similar to the men’s behind her, but detailed scrollwork marks her shoulders and vambraces, suggesting she’s someone of higher rank. Stacked with lean muscle, she looks like she could kick my ass using just her pinky finger.

There’s also something familiar about her, but I can’t figure out what.

“You’ll be quiet,” the woman says with such vehement authority that I do, in fact, go very quiet. “Serce’s granddaughter is not welcome here.”