"Run, Princess. Run."
Those weren't the words I wanted to hear on a perfectly lovely, Zeus-blessed day. Tears and bloodshed? Definitely not on the agenda. But here I am, scrambling into the Cambrian forest, a million (give or take a few thousand) Seekers hot on my heels. Honestly, will this ever end? Branches snap and lash at my face as I barrel onward, hoping my feet know where they're going, because I certainly don't. For someone who hasn't even celebrated her eighteenth birthday, I'm finding this whole "warrior princess" thing awfully exhausting.
And of course, I trip. A rogue branch reaches out and snags my ankle, sending me sprawling. Graceful, I am not.
"Thought you'd get far, little princess," a voice sneers above me. Honestly, did they have to use that tone?
"I could get far, you imbecile," I retort, pushing myself up. Though, admittedly, sprawled on the forest floor probably isn't the most dignified position to deliver a withering insult.
"Poor soul," another voice chimes in. "Let us take her to Lord Ciaran, as ordered."
Before I can formulate a suitably cutting reply, I'm being dragged—quite unceremoniously, I might add—towards the highest point in the city. As we approach, I see Lord Ciaran addressing the crowd. What's he up to now?
"We want a wife amongst you..." His voice booms across the plaza, "...a descendant of Hestia and Astrea."
A collective murmur ripples through the crowd. "We have none that you ask for." Honestly, you'd think they could put a little more conviction into it. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of my prospects.
Lord Ciaran smirks, a decidedly unpleasant expression that does not improve his face. "Oh, really? I think we already have what we want."
My stomach plummets. (Again. Seriously, this is becoming a habit.) I'm hauled to the very edge of the point, the wind whipping at my hair and threatening to reveal that I skipped hair brushing this morning. The fighting stops. All eyes are on me. And I suddenly have a very, very bad feeling about this. A feeling that involves impending doom and possibly a very awkward proposal.
"This is what we are looking for," Ciaran declares, gesturing towards me with a theatrical flourish. "This will end the evil of King Caesar. If you work with us, the rightful King will bring a balance to the NAIN. Do you prefer peace or war?"
The crowd murmurs again, this time with a distinct undercurrent of panic. Honestly, couldn't they have chosen a less public forum for this ultimatum? My mother strides to the front, looking every inch the regal queen, even with a smudge of what I hope is dirt on her cheek.
"We choose peace," she says, her voice ringing with authority. "I am Queen Athenica, Mother of the chosen. We are sorry for the inconveniences, but you dropped in rather...harshly."
Ciaran inclines his head, a flicker of something that might be amusement in his eyes. "The Prince accepts your apology. He wishes to reverse the hands of this moment to before. But only you, him, and I will remember..." He pauses, his gaze lingering on me for a beat too long. It's unnerving, and not entirely unpleasant.
"As you wish," my mother says, her eyes narrowing slightly. She definitely doesn't trust him. And frankly, neither do I. But something tells me this is just the beginning.
The words are barely out of his mouth when a black smoke starts to billow across the battlefield. What is that? Some newfangled weapon? Or perhaps Ciaran is just trying to make a dramatic exit. Whatever it is, it looks decidedly unpleasant.
I watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the smoke spreads, engulfing everyone in its path. And then, the screaming starts. Not just the usual battle cries, but raw, piercing screams of terror. One by one, people are sucked away, dissolving into the blackness like… well, like smoke.
The smoke rises, swirling towards the point where I'm being held prisoner or, more accurately, where I'm providing a captive audience for Ciaran's pronouncements. I'm surrounded, trapped. The smoke reaches me, and I feel it a searing, agonizing burn that crawls across my skin.
My vision blurs. I look down and see the unthinkable: my skin is peeling away, flaking off like… like I'm turning into smoke.
I scream.