Before he knew it, Jonas found himself shoved out into the hallway by a blast of air magic, the door slamming shut in his face.
So this was the thanks he got for defying his own damn prophecy and saving her life last night by very nearly giving his own: a door magically slammed in his face the morning after.
“Doesn’t matter,” he said aloud through clenched teeth. “This is almost over. Can’t be soon enough for me.”
As soon as he delivered the Limerian princess to her hateful family, his association with the Damoras would officially and thankfully come to an end.
In a fouler mood than any in recent memory, he descended the inn’s stairway. He focused on finding some breakfast to fill his empty stomach. A traditional Paelsian breakfast of runny eggs and stale bread would be perfect, he thought. He didn’t expect to find the exotic fruits and vegetables that graced the dining tables of shiny, pampered Auranians or stick-up-their-arses Limerians. This close to the western wastelands, he’d be lucky to get a wilted piece of cabbage or partially rotting tomato to go along with his meal.
And he was just fine with that!
“Jonas.”
He froze momentarily at the unexpected greeting as he entered the shadowy, nearly vacant tavern. Instinctively, he reached for the dagger hanging from his belt. But when his gaze fell upon a familiar face, his scowl was replaced by a grin.
“Tarus?” he asked, stunned. “Am I seeing a spirit right now, or is that really you?”
The young boy with messy red hair and a memorable face full of freckles grinned brightly back at him. “It’s really me!”
Without hesitation, Jonas embraced his friend tightly. This welcome face from his past worked as an immediate balm for his wounded soul. “It’s so good to see you again!”
Tarus Vasco had given his heart and soul to the rebel cause after his kid brother had been killed in King Gaius’s battle to take control of Auranos. Later, after a failed uprising in which countless rebels had been slaughtered, both Tarus and Lysandra had been captured and had nearly lost their heads at a public execution.
Lysandra. The loss of a girl who’d begun to mean so much more to him than just a fellow rebel was still fresh and raw. Any reminder of her made Jonas’s heart ache with grief and regret that he hadn’t been able to save her.
So many memories came along with Tarus’s face—both good and bad. All Jonas had wanted when he’d accompanied the boy back to his home village was for Tarus to be safe, but there was no such thing as “safe” in Mytica anymore.
Tarus gripped him tightly by his upper arms. “I did what you told me to do. I’ve learned to fight as well as any trained soldier. You’d be proud of me.”
“I have no doubt about that.”
“I’m relieved that you managed to escape.”
Jonas frowned. “Escape?”
Tarus lowered his voice. “Is the witch asleep? Is that how you managed to slip free from her control?”
Jonas suddenly became acutely aware that the tavern was completely empty apart from the three men who stood silently behind Tarus like hulking shadows.
“You’ve been waiting down here for me,” Jonas said slowly and carefully.
Tarus nodded. “As soon as the innkeeper sent word last night that you’d arrived with the witch, we got here as fast as we could.”
“You’re rebels.” Jonas spoke softly, but he could see the truth now right in front of him.
“Of course we are. We heard what happened during Empress Amara’s speech—that the witch managed to put you under her dark spell. But it won’t last. My grandmama said a witch’s magic dies when she does.”
This almost made Jonas laugh. Tarus had always had tales to share that he’d learned from his grandmother to help explain the unknown. Jonas had once dismissed magical stories as amusing but utterly worthless.
So much had changed since then.
“I promise we will help free you from her evil grasp,” Tarus said gravely. “I know you wouldn’t be with Lucia Damora of your own free will.”
Jonas flicked a wary glance at the other men. They didn’t look at him with concern like Tarus did. The nearby wall torch reflected in their cold, dark eyes. They were filled with distrust.
“I know you’ll have trouble believing this,” Jonas said, “but Princess Lucia is not what you think she is. There’s something else out there . . . someone else. The greatest threat that has ever been unleashed in this world. That’s what we need to stop.”
“What are you talking about?” Tarus asked quietly.
Jonas licked his dry lips. How best to explain the unexplainable? “I know you’re well aware of the legend of the Kindred.”
Tarus nodded. “A magical treasure many have sought, thinking it might turn them into gods.”
“Right. But the thing is, Kindred magic isn’t just magic someone can use for themselves. They’re actually gods already—air, water, earth . . . fire. Trapped inside the four crystal orbs. And the fire god has been freed.” Lucia’s horrific dream flashed through his mind, and he cringed at the memory. “He wants to destroy the world. Princess Lucia is the only one who has the magic to stop him.”
Chest tight, he waited for a response, but for several long moments there was only silence.
Then one of the hulking men scoffed. “What nonsense.”
“He’s definitely under the witch’s influence,” another hissed. “We gave you a chance to speak with him, Tarus. But our time is running out. What should we do now?”
Jonas frowned. Was Tarus their leader? Did these men look to a boy of only fifteen years of age to command them?
Tarus met Jonas’s gaze. “I want to believe you.”
“You have to believe me,” Jonas said simply, but his voice felt strained. He knew it sounded like the most far-fetched story he’d ever told. Had he not witnessed much of it with his own eyes, he’d be the first to deny such insanity. “You always believed in the possibility of magic, Tarus, and you must believe this. The fate of our world depends on it.”
“Perhaps,” Tarus allowed. “Or perhaps the witch has a tighter hold on you than I thought she did.” His brows drew together, his gaze growing distant. “I saw her, you know. Princess Lucia Damora walked with her male friend amongst the carnage in a village they’d just destroyed as if it were only a pleasant bonfire, set ablaze to warm her cold heart. I remember that she smiled as she walked past the charred corpse of my mother.” His voice broke. “I watched both of my parents burn to death right before my eyes, and I couldn’t do anything to save them. We were visiting my aunt for a few days. And . . . then they were gone.”
Jonas couldn’t breathe, couldn’t form enough words to speak. To argue. To explain that the male friend had been the fire Kindred, Kyan. It didn’t excuse Lucia’s behavior or choices while aligned with him. How was he supposed to explain something as horrible as this?
“I’m so sorry” was all he managed to say.
“The King of Blood’s daughter belongs to the darklands,” one of the other rebels snarled. “And we’re here today to send her there. Her and her spawn.”