Three hundred years ago, the Earth split and the sky trembled. And then the monsters came.
The island of Lowynn is cursed. The Veil between worlds has torn, and now, monsters come with vengeance. They can only be placated by the blood of sorcerers...
Hoppla! Dieses Bild entspricht nicht unseren inhaltlichen Richtlinien. Um mit dem Veröffentlichen fortfahren zu können, entferne es bitte oder lade ein anderes Bild hoch.
Ciara stared at her furious bruise and nearly burst into tears. The arrest had left her spotted with many scrapes and injuries, but none stung quite so badly. None of them had come from someone she trusted.
She hastily swiped away an unfallen tear, reminding herself that wounds could be healed. It was her power to make things disappear, to watch pain and suffering melt away as if it had never existed...
But, try as she might, she could not will the bruise away. "Stupid," she muttered, the third time she opened her eyes to see her hideous, hurt face. Ciara had long begun to suspect that there were limits to her powers when she had been unable to heal her own scrapes and scratches during her journey. But she had hoped...
Ciara cried out in frustration, striking the vanity. Realization came to her, sudden and terrifying. The tether that bound her to the rest of the world-- it didn't work on her. I can't heal myself. She suddenly felt so vulnerable.
She threw herself at the ebony door-frame with a shriek. Ciara angled her shoulder as a battering ram, and the pain of contact left her eyes watering. Another bruise, no doubt. But her only other option was sitting primly and quiet, as the perfect little prisoner.
So she pounded on the door until her fists bled, throwing herself into futile battle after futile battle against the immoveable stone. She slumped to the ground, searching her quarters for other exits. Silken carpets and a four-poster bed large enough to comfortably sleep a dozen people, but not a single window. For a moment, Ciara wondered if she could use the solid weight of the mahogany furniture to break down the door. But it was rooted to the floor, and impossible to drag.
The draodih in her stories were fearsome and powerful. They could control the waves, reshape the earth. Even Ayla would not stand to be imprisoned like this. But even as they gave her magic enough to make her a target, the gods would always make her weak.
She did not have the power to bring an army to its knees, as Queen Berit did. She did not have the power to command daggers and steel, as Ayla did. What little she had could do her no good in battle-- she could not even escape this room. Her power was a fragile, broken thing,
I was so close, Ciara thought, and the words stung with the sharpness of daggers. Somewhere in the palace, her caves waited, empty and expectant. A small part of Ciara was grateful she had been spared the journey. Her entire soul had plummeted when the voice asked her to make a choice. Ciara had never chosen her own gown for a ball before, much less the fate of her kingdom. But she also couldn't bear to be trapped, choice-less and alone as her father made his own decisions-- the kind to destroy her people. The kind that, if Lord Connal was to be believed, slowly destroyed the rest of them too.
Faint voices drifted down the hallway, and Ciara hastily pressed her ear against the cold wood of her door. A gentle female voice was rimmed with fury. Mother.
And then, the general's hateful voice followed. "She's confused, Moyra. You know how naive she is. Ciara heard that madman's ramblings and thought she found truth in them. I had to, before her madness spread to the rest of my men."
