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It was strange to see the queen like this—small in her nest of pillows, looking hardly more than a girl though she was twenty years old. This queen who had allied with the angels and helped them kill thousands of humans. This queen who had murdered her husband.
Corien knew—that his father was a marque, and Simon was too. Neither angel nor human, but with the blood of both inside them.
She was supposed to be the Sun Queen, their savior and protector. And yet she had become the Blood Queen. The Kingsbane. The Lady of Death.
“My daughter.” Rielle’s voice was hollow. “I think Corien will kill her. Or he’ll try to.”
And with that, Rielle pressed her daughter into Simon’s arms and hurried back into her rooms.
Monster or no, she was now a parent, and that was a thing he craved more than anything.
He would have to use his magic—his half-blood marque magic, the traveling magic that had doomed nearly all of his kind—to send them both hundreds of miles away, to Borsvall and to safety.
Simon turned away, his chest tight with fear. How could he possibly do this? He was only eight years old.
Every elemental who had ever lived—every waterworker and windsinger, every shadowcaster and every firebrand like Tal—had to use a casting, a physical object uniquely forged by their own hands, to access their power. Their singular power, the one element they could control. But not Rielle.
She needed no casting, and fire was not the only element that obeyed her. All of them did.
And I have a warrior’s strength, she thought, but the heart of a coward.
Unlike Quill, the Wolf was not some Red Crown lackey. He was the right hand of the Prophet, lieutenant to the mysterious leader of Red Crown himself.
“Dread,” he murmured, his breath caressing her cheek, “is only a feeling, easily squashed. But wolves, my dear, have teeth.”
