Agatha spotted Reaper’s shadow sprinting away from her mother and towards Graves Hill, a scrap of what looked like parchment between his teeth. Trapped on the pyre, she wrestled hopelessly against her binds, sweating from the heat of the torches above her. If her mother had entered the house one second later, she and Tedros would have had their magic back—they’d be far into the Woods by now, her mother no longer in danger. Stifling tears, Agatha searched for her again, but darkness rendered the crowd a sea of shadows. They’d called her a witch from the day she was born, destined to burn on a stake, and now they’d made their tales come true. In the front row, a few rosy-faced children gawked at Tedros, clinging storybooks to their chests, like talismans against the boy from inside of them.

“But we are not savages, of course,” said the Elder, turning to the captives. “Justice is only delivered when there is a crime.”

The crowd buzzed impatiently, eager to see the show and get to bed.

“Let us meet our guest from the Woods,” the Elder proclaimed. His shiny eyes flicked to Tedros. “What is your name, boy?”

A guard ripped out Tedros’ gag. “Touch her and I kill you,” the prince lashed.

The Elder raised his brows. “Ah, I see,” he said, peering between Tedros and Agatha. “For two hundred years, those from the Woods have kidnapped our young, ripped apart our families, and attacked our homes. For two hundred years, those from the Woods have brought our children nothing but terror, pain, and suffering. And here you are, the first to ever stand before us, claiming to protect one? An improbable twist . . .” He studied the way Tedros looked at Agatha, his tone easing. “But if it’s true, perhaps mercy is in the cards after all. Only the hardest of hearts can resist young love.”

The crowd rumbled, as if they’d cast their own hearts in stone to see vengeance for all the curses of the Woods. But as Agatha searched the Elder’s face, the old man’s smile was almost friendly now.

“You’ll let us live?” Tedros insisted.

Agatha’s heart hammered, praying her prince had just saved them.

The Elder touched Tedros’ chest with a shriveled hand. Tedros winced, his wound still tender. “You’re young and handsome, with your whole life ahead of you,” the Elder cooed. “Tell us what you know about those that attacked us and I promise we won’t hurt you.”

Agatha’s stomach sank. That tone. She’d heard it before. It was the same way he’d told Sophie she’d be sheltered from her assassins . . .

Before he left her to die.

Agatha pressed her fist into Tedros’ ribs. Whatever he did, he couldn’t play this game—

“Tedros,” the prince proclaimed to the Elder. “Tedros is my name.”

Agatha bristled, shoving him harder.

“And how do you know our beloved Agatha, Tedros?” coaxed the Elder, leaning closer.