Suddenly, the shadow demons evaporate and Merlin’s face appears inside the optic. He stares into the room, his eyes blazing, and I shove my hand to my mouth. Remembering what he did to Moronoe – what he did to me – makes my stomach heave.

Morgan jumps down from the platform and drags me behind her. We retreat towards the others and I feel a tug inside my breastbone followed by another and another, like a series of strings snapping taut. It’s the connection I feel to my sisters, only this time I’m sharing their emotion, feeling what they feel: fear, along with a desperate need to protect one another.

Merlin’s dragon-headed sceptre appears through the optic, then an arm and leg clad in a long purple robe, followed by the rest of him. He glares down at us and nausea prickles my throat. I swallow a mouthful of thick saliva and step back, my palms clammy.

Morgan drops her gaze, her shoulders slumped, and the others do the same. They look worn out, their hair dishevelled from fighting, some with blood smeared on their faces. It’s more than that, though. It’s like they’ve deliberately made themselves seem smaller, weaker.

Merlin’s eyes meet mine, and I realise why my sisters can’t bear to look at him. There’s something rotten behind his stare, something so vile it makes my flesh crawl and my skin shrink on my bones.

Merlin leans over Morgan and I flinch as he grabs her face. ‘The years have not treated you kindly, I see.’ His voice drips with menace and yet he manages to sound disappointed, bored even. Squashing her cheeks, he turns her face to the other side. ‘It’s such a tragedy when a woman loses her looks, but then I suppose that’s why beauty is so alluring. A flower’s first bloom is made more delightful by the knowledge it must fade, and summer’s berries taste sweetest the moment they ripen.’ He releases her and sneers, ‘Whatever beauty you had has withered on the vine.’

Morgan gulps, her eyes filling with tears, but says nothing. It’s only when Merlin lowers his sceptre that I notice the line of livid bruises around her neck, as if her throat has been squeezed by an invisible hand.

Stepping down from the platform, he shoulders her aside and turns his gaze on me. ‘And this, I presume, is what became of Moronoe. I don’t suppose she had many vessels to choose from, but I had hoped for something better. The girl was dim-witted and lacking in talent, but at least she had the good grace to be beautiful.’

I glance in every direction, my insides squirming with a desperate need to escape.

He leans close, his breath hot on my neck. ‘Moronoe, Moronoe, Moronoe.’ He speaks like he’s admonishing a child and the name is a stick to punish me with.