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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.”
“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.”
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.
But before she could speak another word, he crushed his mouth against hers.
Sometimes, to regain sanity, one had to acknowledge and embrace the madness.
Magnus took a tight hold of her arm and turned her around. Before she could say another word, he put his hand behind her neck, drew her closer to him, and kissed her.
And for a moment, just a moment, she found it didn’t seem to matter.
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.
