He murmured incoherently as he scanned the page. “Her name was Gianna Ravyn, a witch who died during the Seventh Battle.” Alaric paused, continuing to read. “She was the daughter of the Witch Queen, which I would presume makes her a princess? And she was also General and First of her coven, the Legacies,” he went on, faltering slightly at the end.

  “You must know more than a little Erese to gather all that,” Wren expressed.

  Ric winced, looking sheepish. “Most of this page is in Common, actually.”

  “Oh,” she chuckled. “Does it say anymore about the necklace she’s wearing?”

  “‘Around her neck, the General Princess Gianna wears the Ravyn Shield, made and gifted to her by Mother Rianna herself. The Ravyn Shield, an insignia of one circle with four tangled loops inside, is infused with magic that protects the Ravyn bloodline and its heirs.’ That’s all.”

  “The witches must refer to the goddess Rianna as Mother Rianna. So she forged the necklace?” Wren’s hand drifted to the chain looped over her neck. She turned her head to Alaric, eyes wild. “Do you think this is the very same necklace? The woman at the shop did tell me it was cursed.”

  He shut the book, shaking his head back and forth. “Even if it were the same one, how would Lithians ever manage to lay their hands on it if it’s as important to the witches as this book suggests? No, it’s probably just some fancy trinket that happens to resemble an ancient witch symbol.”

  They sat in charged silence for a long period of time, each lost in thought, absorbing everything they’d just discovered.

  “You realize everything we just did has to be illegal,” Wren muttered.

  “It most definitely is,” Ric returned softly. After a beat he said, “I should leave. We both have preparations and things to do before day’s end.” He stood and dusted off his impeccable princely attire, and Wren couldn’t contain the giggle that bubbled in her chest while watching him. He looked down at her, confused. “What?”

  “Never change, Prince.” Wren rose and placed a kiss on his cheek before flouncing off to her bedroom, witch book in hand.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  The night before she was to be married, Wren sat at her vanity with arms crossed over her chest, fuming. Dahlia had insisted on properly preparing Wren for bed, which consisted of bathing, dressing appropriately, and then finally brushing and arranging her hair in painstaking perfection.

  Dahlia touched her shoulder gingerly. “All done, milady.”

  “Thank you,” Wren gritted out sweetly. She rose from the chair and swept towards the bed, flopping onto it rather gracelessly as she buried herself under the covers and awaited sleep anxiously. She heard Dahlia shuffle over to the balcony to shut the glass doors and draw the curtains, and then she disappeared from the room, leaving Wren in peace.

  But she was feeling far from peaceful tonight as she stared up at the ceiling. Tomorrow, her future would be set in stone. She would wed a prince and be enslaved by the king for the rest of her life. Wren Farley would cease to exist, and only Kerensa Na’labesc would remain. The King of Lithera was already exploiting the gold blood that coursed through Wren’s veins—she’d healed four more people in the past weeks to save a family and a village who would have killed her without a second thought. And each time, she had woken up in this very bed with no recollection of what had come after her blood had touched the lips of the plague’s victim.

  She rubbed at her face with her hands, trying to scrub away her conscious mind. Tossing the blankets off her body, her bare feet lowered to the chilly floor. Wren turned in the direction of the balcony, stilling at the sight of the tall silhouette standing between the now open doors.

  “I figured you wouldn’t scream,” the shadow said in a distinctly female voice, dripping with condescension. “I must thank you for that.”

  Wren froze in place, petrified by her racing heart and screaming instincts as the female silhouette stepped forward into a beam of moonlight.

  Her hair shone the colour of blood, bold and dark. The woman’s eyes gleamed silver, and her nose curved upwards slightly. She was incredibly tall and strangely beautiful in a harsh way.

  Wren had never seen her before in her life. “Who are you?” she demanded, lifting her chin in what she hoped came across as intimidating.

  The woman laughed, straight teeth flashing. “All that matters is that I know who you are and that you have something my sisters and I would like back.” Her silver eyes narrowed in on Wren’s neck.

  One of Wren’s hands floated to the chain at her throat of its own accord. “You’re a witch then,” she stated.

  “I hear you’ve done your research,” the witch purred, “and it’s paid off so far. But tell me, darling, how do you kill a Ravyn witch?”

  Her voice trembled as she breathed the answer. “With fire.”

  “A pity, then, that you lack…control over your peculiar magic.” The Ravyn smirked, taunting.

  Wren gritted her teeth and clenched her fists. She wanted nothing more than to prove her wrong, but that would mean… No.

  “How tragic.” The witch prowled closer, and Wren ceded a step. “And your sweet little maid left you completely helpless.”

  “I can still scream,” she threatened.

  “I don’t think that’s wise, Aevym Saquis,” the witch advised. “Unless you would wish death upon those who would come to your aid.” She squinted, studying Wren. “Which I do not believe you do.”

  Despite her hesitations, Wren was convinced that this witch was speaking true, that she would kill anyone who came between her and Wren. Her and her prize.

  The Ravyn sauntered nearer still, causing Wren to step away until her back was pressed against the wall. She felt the pendant warm against her chest. The Ravyn Shield, the very same that the book had spoken of. And this witch was here to retrieve it for her kin.

  In half a second, the Ravyn witch was upon her, seizing her neck in a strong grip with one hand.

  “Avim Sakus,” Wren gasped. “What does that mean?”

  The witch cocked her head, pausing for a minute. “Aevym Saquis,” she sneered. “The Lithians are not the only ones who marked Wren Farley, darling.” Then she grabbed the Ravyn Shield with her other hand.

  Light exploded, throwing the witch across the room. Wren doubled over, gulping down air. The Ravyn leapt to her feet, crying out in frustration. She stomped to Wren and wrenched her head back by her hair. “What did you do to it? Why does it protect you?” she insinuated with ferocity.

  “I didn’t—” Wren’s words were cut off by her sharp intake of breath. She clutched at her abdomen, where the witch’s dagger protruded, shining gold blood leaking from the wound.

  “Clearly you don’t have the Shield’s full protection,” the Ravyn disparaged, “otherwise that knife wouldn’t have cut so deep.” She extracted her dagger from Wren’s stomach and wiped it clean on her pants. Wren slid to the floor, pressing her hands to her aching wound. Gradually, the bleeding slowed, but didn’t halt. “Not to fret—your unique ability to self-heal will prevent death from blood loss,” the witch drawled, crouching in front of Wren. She surveyed her a moment before standing and stalking to the balcony. “My work here is done. For now.” She turned to face Wren, who was slumped against the far wall, languidly bleeding out. “You and your prince should watch your backs, Aevym. My sisters are coming.” And with that she turned and vaulted off the ledge.

  Wren groaned, trying to keep her breathing even. She half-crawled-half-dragged her body across the floor to her bedroom door, head spinning as she tried to keep from fainting. She shook her head to clear it, blinking furiously. There was no way she would make it to help like this. Once at the door, she reached for the doorknob, but her muscles were already too weak from the pain to turn it. “Help,” she pleaded through the door. “Someone, please help.” Her hands were covered in her own blood, drops of it spilled on the floor she’d just traversed.

  Her shoulders quivered with unshed tears. No one would hear her. No one was coming to help. Wren could do nothing as the wound leached away her strength, causing her to drift off into darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Prince Alaric paced the length of his room anxiously on the morning of his wedding, wearing a tread into one of his rugs. There were many things troubling him in the early light of day, the most worrisome being the feeling of dread that had settled in his stomach when he’d risen at the crack of dawn. He simply had this awful feeling that something bad was about to happen any second.

  He knew he wasn’t technically allowed to see his bride before the wedding for it granted their marriage bad luck, but he had to see Kerensa, if only to make sure she was doing alright.

  But when he opened his door to do just that, he came face-to-face with a grim-looking Gray.

  Alaric’s heart lurched in his chest before his friend had even uttered a word. Though he was terrified of the answer, he still gathered the courage to ask, “What is it?”

  Not her. Please, gods, don’t let it be her.

  “Lady Kerensa was found in her room this morning, bleeding out from a stab wound to her gut.”

  And the world went quiet.

  Alaric wasn’t sure where he was anymore, if he was still standing upright or if his knees had given out from beneath him. I should’ve known. He never should have tried to build a relationship with her, tried to make her like him. Put her in that kind of danger. Everyone he cared about always paid for it somehow.

  Gray was still relaying information while Alaric reeled from the consequences of his heart. “She’s stable in the infirmary as of now—”

  That was all he needed to hear before he took off down the hall. Everything passed in a blur, his focus elsewhere at the moment. His pulse beat in tandem with his footfalls, breaths reverberating in his ears.

  Bursting through the doors to the infirmary ward, his gaze wandered over the cots dotting the pristine room, searching for a single pair of copper eyes to ease the grip fear had wrapped around him. His breathing quickened when he didn’t find them, moving further inside. That’s when his attention caught on a corner of the room sectioned off by a ring of curtains.

  He headed for it, neglecting to stop when a couple healers called out to him. “Your Highness!” One of them rushed over, putting herself in his path. “You should not be here.”

  “I have to see her,” he replied absentmindedly, swerving around her and reaching to pull the curtain back.

  The healer grabbed his arm before he could act. “I apologize, Your Highness, but your betrothed is not up for visitors. His Majesty forbade it.”

  “Please,” he murmured, turning watery eyes to her.

  “Let the prince through.”

  Alaric looked over his shoulder to see Gray coming up behind him. The lieutenant nodded to the healer. “It’s alright.”

  She retreated, pulling the curtain open for Alaric to pass. He ducked through with Gray following right after.

  The moment his gaze landed on her unconscious form laying atop a cot, the tears he’d been trying his hardest to keep locked in fell freely. Her skin was frighteningly pale, and her dark hair framed her face woefully. Those brilliant copper eyes were closed, giving the impression that she was asleep. Her abdomen was wrapped in bandages while her wound healed over, but the steady rise and fall of her chest was enough to reassure him tenfold.

  “The healers say she’ll be fully recovered by the end of the week. The wound had reportedly already been half closed on its own when her maid found her just a few hours ago. We’ve found no trace of the attacker.”

  Alaric nodded, hardly listening to Gray while he stared at Kerensa. He moved to her side and delicately pushed a strand of hair out of her face. “This is my fault,” he whispered.

  Gray rebutted swiftly, “You know that’s not true.”

  Alaric drew in a shaky breath. Do I? “Either way,” he intoned, dragging over a chair so he could sit near her, “here we are.” He didn’t notice Gray slipping out as he took her hand and dropped his forehead to the mattress.

  As desperate as he was for answers, Alaric knew all he could do was wait for someone else to procure them. In the meantime, however, he would stay by her side in case she needed him.

  “I’m sorry.”

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  Bright light flooded Wren’s senses as she opened her eyes. She was in a strange room with an unfamiliar bed beneath her. Her entire body ached, and a grunt escaped her when she tried to move.

  “Kerensa?” someone called. A figure hovered above her, Wren’s vision slowly coming into focus. Violet eyes examined her, a worried crease between her brows.

  “Ambria,” Wren croaked, voice hoarse from disuse. “Where am I? What happened?”

  “You were found in your rooms bleeding out from a stab wound, do you remember? You’re in the infirmary now,” Bri said quietly. “The healers helped you.”

  Memories flooded back to her—the fiery haired witch, the flash of light from the Ravyn Shield, the dagger in her stomach. You and your prince should watch your backs. “Where’s Alaric?” Wren required urgently, pushing to sit up. Please let him be alright.

  She would never forgive herself if he was hurt because of her.

  Ambria shushed her, gently easing her down onto the mattress again. She nodded to the other side of Wren’s cot.

  Turning her head, Wren beheld Alaric draped in a chair, soundly asleep. One hand rested on the bed next to her, as if he’d been holding hers. His dark blond hair was stuck up at odd angles, and his usually flawlessly pressed clothes were wrinkled and untucked, like he hadn’t changed them in a while.

  “The few times he’s left your side,” Bri explained softly as Wren continued to stare at Ric, “he has gone to the Privy Council to try and convince them to push back the wedding further, for your sake. Unfortunately, it hasn’t done either of you much good—you will be wed four days from today. The king won’t be swayed from his decision. I’m sorry, Kerensa.”

  Wren couldn’t bring herself to care then. She listened as Bri left, leaving her alone with a slumbering prince. She watched him for what seemed like a very long time, when suddenly his eyes popped open and immediately connected with hers.

  Her heart stuttered over a beat. “Hi,” she whispered.

  “Hi,” he whispered back, blue-green eyes wide. They shuttered closed briefly before opening to look at her again.

  Wren tilted her head, gaze fixing on his face. “Were you faking, Prince?”

  His eyebrows shot up his forehead. “Whatever do you mean?”

  “I mean, you weren’t actually asleep, were you?” she interrogated, fighting off the smile that tugged at her lips.

  Alaric stared at her for a long minute, then chuckled. “Something you should know about me, Thief,”—he leaned forward, bracing his arms next to her on the cot—“is that I don’t sleep.”

  Her brow furrowed, sure she’d just misunderstood. “You don’t sleep?”

  He shook his head.

  “Ever?”

  “Ever.”

  “Why not?” she pushed, eyes widening in concern.

  Ric sighed. “My subconscious mind has a tendency to compel me down paths I would rather not walk again.”

  Wren shot him an exasperated look. “So you’re afraid of your dreams?”

  “To put it simply, I suppose,” he ascertained, shifting in his seat. “How are you feeling?”

  She let him change the subject, responding truthfully, “I’ve been better.”

  “Are you in pain?” he asked, a wrinkle appearing on his forehead.

  “No. Just sore.”

  Ric nodded, expelling a breath as he stood from his chair. “I’ll go get a healer to check your wound.” He moved to the part in the curtain that acted as their wall, but Wren reached out and grabbed his hand, stopping him before he got too far.

  She bit her lip and inquired, “How long was I out for?”

  “Only a day.” The corners of his mouth quirked up as he squeezed her hand. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

  Her head bobbed in agreement. “Okay.” She dropped his hand and watched him go.

  A few minutes later, Alaric came back with a light-haired woman following behind him. She came up beside Wren while he retreated to a corner, allowing them space. The healer smiled warmly at her. “Good to see you looking a bit livelier today, milady. Let’s have a look now, shall we?” She took hold of the bandage around Wren’s torso and began unraveling it.

  Wren glanced at Alaric with brows raised, lifting a finger in the air to motion in a circle. Gradually—reluctantly—he turned to face the wall. Wren couldn’t help but chuckle at his back. He made a vulgar gesture in return.

  The bandage came off, exposing her bare stomach. Wren risked a quick peek of her injury, looking away again before she caught sight of the long, puckered scar that lived just below her ribcage. It was enough to see that only a thin slit remained of the once large wound.

  “Incredible,” the healer muttered. She tore her gaze away from the miraculously healed gash to look Wren in the eyes. “And you feel alright? There’s no lingering pain?”

  “No, I’m fine,” Wren assured her.

  The healer nodded, an expression of wonderment dwelling on her face. “Then, if you’re up for it, it’s time to get you on your feet, Lady.”

  ༺═──────────────═༻

  After a few stumbles, Kerensa was relatively able to walk on her own. At the moment, Alaric supported her by the arm as they walked through a castle courtyard.

  He’d requested that Gray accompany them outside as a simple precaution. They were surrounded by nobles milling about their day, but Alaric wasn’t keen on risking Kerensa’s safety in any form.

  The three of them walked side by side, Gray and him flanking either side of Kerensa. They chatted back and forth, dancing around Kerensa’s injury.