Page 63

Chapter Twenty

My neck aches from hours of hunching over reports. The candles have burned low, casting flickering shadows across endless pages about sewer systems and tax collection. The unglamorous backbone of ruling that no bard ever sings about. My head throbs with numbers and complaints and the constant pressure of trying to be so damned regal.

I reach for my tea, which went cold hours ago, when the world around me warps like heated glass.

Shit.

I’ve really gone too far this time. Mother always said if I drank too much tea⁠—

The vision hits without warning.

No gentle lead-in, no courteous tap on the shoulder of my consciousness, no confusing blend with where I already am. Just a violent yank into somewhere—something—else.

My study dissolves.

The neat stack of reports, the polished desk, the comfortable chair.

All gone in an instant.

Images flood my mind. Not clear and precise like Mar’s visions were during my coronation. Those warned about what would happen if I failed in my quest to burn Narc’s bones.

These…I can’t decipher. They’re fractured. Twisted. Smeared.

What am I seeing?

The images are bent and splattered, as if ridden through by muddy hooves. Every time I attempt to focus on crucial details, it’s like looking at words penned with water. The truth might be there, buried under all the obscurity.

I know one way to enhance my ability to see.

With a shrug, I unfurl my wings. They sprout from my back, sweeping up unseen. My vision sharpens, informing me that my eyes have turned golden.

I see a temple.

No. Several temples. Layered over each other. Narc’s, Ziva’s, Zeru’s, Aletheia’s, Cyphero’s, Valk’s. Crystalline growths smother their stone walls and pulse with inner light.

Clear crystals spread like ivy, consuming archways, statues, altars. They grow in straight lines but jut out in crazy angles.

Then the crystals curl. Melt instead of fracture. Bleed away like watercolors in the rain.

The scene shifts.

People kneel in prayer, hands clasped, lips moving. Suddenly, their bodies flatten. They become two-dimensional, paper-thin silhouettes against a backdrop I can’t quite identify. Their bodies wave like shrouds in the wind. They’re not dead. Their prayers continue.

But the people are…changed.

Wrong.

Their mouths still move, but now they pray with the frantic urgency of innocent people facing the gallows.

What are they saying? Who are they praying to?

I strain to hear their words, but the sound is muffled, as if I’m underwater.

The vision changes again.

Three figures hover around a pool. Their features blur like faces viewed through a waterfall, but their posture suggests importance.

Power. Arrogance, even. Divinity?