“You are Nehemia,” she said. The princess whirled, her hunting leathers stained and damp, the gold tips on her braided hair clinking. An assessing look with eyes that were too old for barely eighteen; eyes that had stared long into the darkness between the stars and yearned to know its secrets. “And you are Elena.” Elena nodded. “Why have you come?” The Princess of Eyllwe jerked her elegant chin toward the stone chest. “Am I not called to open it? To learn how to save us, and to pay the price?” “No,” Elena said quietly. “Not you. Not in this way.” A tightening of her lips was the only sign of
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