Too late.
Too. Damn. Late.
I turned on the woman who hovered in the hallway, blinking like an owl.
“Where is she?” I asked. No longer gentle.
Her mouth opened and closed. “I—I don’t?—”
“Her name. Give it to me.”
“Cleo,” she whispered, taking a step back. “Cleo Rathmore.”
Rathmore. A human surname, common in the outer provinces. A false name. No Starborn mage would carry such a name, nor bestow it upon a child. Unless they were in hiding. “How old is she?”
“This is her twentieth summer.”
Void be damned, she was old enough to be mine. A full-grown woman. “And where is she now?”
“I told you, she’s not here?—”
I closed the distance between us in a blink. “Do not lie to me.”
Her knees buckled, and she braced herself on the railing.
“She… she ran,” she said, voice shaking. “Tried to, anyway. Took her things and slipped out just before dusk. But… but someone came for her.”
Ice flooded my veins. “Who?”
She shook her head.
“Tell me.”
“One of yours.” She swallowed hard. “One of your kind. A Death Mage. Lord Morren. Jarrik Morren.”
My vision went white.
Jarrik? He was formidable. Powerful. Connected. A Death Mage who would want her power for himself whether she felt the bond with him or not.
One of mine.No. Jarrik was nothing like me. Had he felt her presence, as I had? Felt the pull of her magic? Decided to claim her as his own? Use her to take the throne? Use her power to gather favors, gain influence?
“And you just gave her to him?” I snarled.
“He had papers!” the woman squeaked. “He said he was her betrothed. The match was arranged! Signed and sealed with the Matron’s mark!”
A low, terrible growl built in my chest, and the lantern lights flickered. If he touched her, I would kill him.
“If he’s taken her,” I said, more to myself than her. “He knows what she is.”
That was the only reason. The girl—Cleo—wasn’t just a trinket or a trophy. If he’d gone to this much effort to secure her, it was because heknew.
He knew she was Starborn, wanted to solidify his hold on the royal court with her power, her influence, a magic not seen in all the realms of Lunaterra for decades. A fire feared for centuries before that.
My hands clenched into fists.
But the bond with Cleo Rathmore was mine. I had felt it. If legend was true, she would not feel the same connection to Jarrik or any other soulless bastard The Spire had spawned. She was mine. And she had looked at me like she felt the bond, too.
No wonder she ran. What woman would want a cursed soul like mine?
