At some point, food was brought to me, carried in by either a man or woman wearing the bronze mask of a Descenter. They placed the tray just within my reach and then quickly backed out without saying a word, leaving me to wonder if Alastir and these Protectors had played a role in the attack on the Rite. Casteel hadn’t ordered the attack carried out in the name of the Dark One, but it had been organized and well planned regardless. Someone had set a fire to draw many of the Rise Guards away—something Jansen could’ve ensured happened.

I clenched my jaw as I stared at the hunk of cheese and the lump of bread wrapped in a loose cloth next to a glass of water. When Casteel learned that not only had Alastir betrayed him but that Jansen had, as well, his rage would be unyielding.

And his pain?

It would be just as ruthless.

But what I felt when I thought about Alastir’s involvement the night my parents died? The rage scorched my skin. He’d been there. He’d come to help my family and had betrayed them instead. And what he’d said about my parents knowing the truth about the Ascended? Obviously, they had learned the truth and escaped. That didn’t mean they knew for years as they stood by and did nothing.

And my mother? A Handmaiden? If that was true, why didn’t she fight back that night?

Or had I just not remembered that she had?

There was so much I couldn’t remember about that night, things I couldn’t decipher as real or only nightmares. I couldn’t believe I’d forgotten them. Had I blocked them out because I was scared of them? What else had I forgotten?

Regardless, I had no idea if the Queen’s Handmaidens were guards or not. And I didn’t believe that any darkness—besides Alastir—was involved with that night. His twisted sense of honor and righteousness prevented him from owning up to what he’d done. Somehow, he’d led those Craven to us and then left everyone in that inn to die. All because I carried the blood of the gods within me.

All because I was King Malec’s descendant.

A part of me still couldn’t believe any of it—the old part of me that hadn’t been able to understand what about me, beyond a gift I hadn’t been allowed to use or being born in a caul, had made me special enough to be the Chosen. Blessed. The Maiden. And that part reminded me of when I was a child and used to hide behind Queen Ileana’s throne instead of going to my room at night because the darkness had scared me. It was the same part that had enabled me to spend afternoons with my brother, pretending that my parents were out walking together in the garden instead of being gone forever. It felt incredibly young and naïve.

But I wasn’t that little girl anymore. I wasn’t the young Maiden. The blood in me explained the gifts I’d been born with and why I’d become the Maiden—how my gift had grown, and why my skin glowed. It also explained the disbelief and agony I’d felt from Queen Eloana. She’d known exactly who I descended from, and it must have made her sick to think that her son had married the descendant of a man who’d repeatedly betrayed her and nearly destroyed their kingdom in the process.