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“I believe we make our own destinies, every last one of us,” she’d told her mother last night. “Who leads us makes no difference.”
Her mother’s body lay halfway across the threshold. Her father’s body was only ten paces away, lying in a pool of blood.
“Follow me,” he growled, “and I’ll put an arrow through your heart myself to save you from whatever fate now lies before our friends and neighbors.”
Imprisoned for weeks at the palace after her capture, Cleo had experienced the very depths of despair and grief—for Theon, for her father, for her sister, Emilia. All ripped away from her. Such sorrow had carved a cold, bottomless hole in her chest that could never be filled. She could lose herself in such darkness if she wasn’t careful.
How old are you?” “I already told you, princess. Old.” “Yes, but exactly how old?” He hesitated, but only briefly. “Two thousand years.” She stared at him in shock. “You’re not old. You’re an ancient relic.”
“He’s doing it,” Jonas grumbled. “That bastard is fooling them into submission with his shiny speeches and pretty promises. They don’t realize that he’d happily destroy them at his whim.”
Her father had believed in her so much, far more than she believed in herself. She couldn’t let him down now.
“You’re trying to be so strong, but I know, Cleo. I know how much you miss him. How much you miss Emilia. I miss them too. It’s all right to let yourself cry.
had warm feelings for the handsome lord, but no more. She too saw him for what he truly was. An opportunist who would sell his own mother’s soul to a demon from the darklands if it meant he might gain the king’s favor.
You have a kind heart, Magnus. And there’s nothing you can do to change that.”
“I’m not planning to assassinate her.” Jonas met each of their gazes in turn. “I’m planning to kidnap her.”
“The prophecy is that there would one day be a mortal king who would rule over this kingdom.” She brushed her hand against the map of Mytica again. “One who would discover a great magic that would turn him into an immortal god. That he would rule his kingdom with a goddess as his queen. And that they would in turn rule everything, this world and all that lies beyond, and everyone, be they mortal or immortal, would bow before them. It is you, my king. And I shall be your queen.”
With unexpected speed, he took hold of her head with both hands and twisted sharply. The girl’s neck broke with a loud crack. She crumpled to the ground, her wide eyes now blank and glazed and absent of life.
I reallly hate this man
You must always give voice to how you feel. Don’t hold it inside.”
“Now,” the queen continued, “only love remains. Love is the only thing that matters in the end. What I’ve done has been out of love, Lucia.”
It didn’t really matter who someone was, princess, peasant, rebel, or just a boy or a girl. Everyone mourned when their loved ones died.
Sometimes, to regain sanity, one had to acknowledge and embrace the madness.
The problem with hate, however, is it leaves you at a disadvantage. It clouds your mind every bit as much as five goblets of wine can.”
There was grief. There were sadness and tears. But at least it wasn’t an ending, Lysandra thought. It was a new beginning, a commitment to the cause, forged from blood and loss.
But even the coldest hate can shift into something warmer if given enough time, just as an ugly caterpillar can turn into a beautiful butterfly.
The key to destroying the King of Blood was his very own daughter.
