“I don’t know why it’s happening,” she said at last, “but I’ve heard Remy say the same phrase dozens of times now. ‘Will you hurt me to get her back?’”

She searched every scar on Simon’s face, the curve of his bottom lip, the sharp line of his jaw. A bead of sweat rolled down her neck. She imagined striking him with fists of fire, what his face would betray as he burned.

“‘Get her back’,” she whispered. “Get me back. Because Harkan had taken me. It made sense to me that you brought Remy with you when you came after me. You loved me, I thought. You wanted me to be with my brother because it would make me happy.”

Eliana approached him slowly. Her gown’s heavy train trailed across the floor. “But now I understand. Now I see that you never loved me. Every time you touched me was a lie. So why, then, would you drag along my little brother when you could have moved more quickly without him?”

Simon watched her approach, his expression still as an etching.

“Because you were desperate for my power to surface,” Eliana answered. “You wanted to see more than patchy summoned fires and ships sunk by storms. You wanted to see my real power so it would awaken yours, and you knew the best way to scare it out of me.”

Three steps from him, Eliana stopped. A distant roar of anger churned in her ears. Her body ached with tension. “You shot him.”

Simon’s smirk returned. His eyes glinted, lupine. “I did. I shot him right in the gut.”

With a terrible sharp cry, Eliana lunged at him, her fist raised to strike. He shot forward to meet her, blocked her punch with his own. His fist caught her on the arm, and then the other dealt a hard blow to her stomach. Once, she would have recovered quickly from that, but weeks at sea followed by weeks in the prison of Corien’s mind had left her thin and soft.

She staggered from the blow, gulping for air, but the white-hot blades of fury blazing up her spine would not let her rest. She flew at Simon, advancing on him with wild kicks and punches, her throat raw from her screams. He trapped her in his arms; she jabbed him in the ribs with her elbow, then turned and clipped his jaw with a ferocious punch. He faltered; she kneed him in the groin.

As he stumbled, she whirled around, grabbed a vase from a table, and brought it crashing down on his head. He staggered, and when she kicked him, he flew clear across the room and collided with the far wall. Several framed paintings crashed to the floor; he slumped beside them, his face streaked with blood. On his left, the hearth simmered.

Eliana sank fast to the rug. Rage held her shaking in its grasp, turned her vision red and black. The windows cracked in their panes. On the mantle, candles became blazing spears of flame. Beyond the terrace, out in the city, a slender white tower swayed and collapsed. Distant cries of alarm floated up through the palace.

Not here. Eliana huddled in a tight ball on the floor, her clasped hands hidden against her chest.

Not here, not here. She was herself. She was a girl, a child, an infant.

Not here, not ever again. She was clean and swaddled in white. Soft and cocooned, her power a mere whisper. She was not angry. She was not afraid. She would not despair.

As she listened to the palace quake, hot tears of shame rolled down her cheeks. For so long, she had resisted the urge to give Corien any part of herself, had kept her power closed off and quiet—until tonight. Had it been Corien who had planted Remy’s voice in her mind, hoping it would provoke her? Or had the memory come from someone else?

She glanced up, saw Simon push himself to his feet and raise his arms, reaching for threads. Faint lights sparked at his fingertips for only an instant before the room went dark once more.

Eliana’s eyes fluttered closed, her castings dark inside her fists. When she smiled, she tasted salt.

Then a familiar roar of rage pierced the air, followed by the crash of glass. Someone grabbed her by the hair and yanked her to her feet. Remy’s face bloomed in her mind, gaunt and bloody. One eye blue, the other reddened from a cruel punch and ringed with bruises. She wanted to reach for him but would not. She shut her eyes, fought against the pull of his dear voice whispering her name.

It wasn’t real. She lived inside a nightmare, that was all.

“I will hurt him again,” Corien hissed against her ear, his breath sour with wine. “And again, and again. I show you beauty, I promise you peace at last for weeks, and this is what I get in return? You goddamned idiot girl. You’re fighting a war you cannot win, and you know it. I will hurt him right in front of you, just like I did before. Yes, that was real, and it will be so again. I will rain agony upon him until you break. Is that what you want?”

He was dragging her across the room, his arm wedged under hers. She struggled against him, but his mind held her fast, forcing her to walk. She felt sick with fear as her legs moved against her will.

“I want to see the concert,” she gasped out.

“Oh, no, my pretty one,” said Corien, laughing. “It’s too late for niceties. Consider the peaceful life I have given you forfeit.”

Their progress through the palace was a blur of motion and color, her feet clumsy under Corien’s direction. When she came to herself again, blinking rapidly, she stood on a terrace blazing with torchlight. The wind howled, and a quick glance around showed her that they stood on one of the topmost levels of the palace, the space lit by a dozen torches. Two white watchtowers flanked the terrace, and Eliana went cold with horror as she saw Remy dangling from one of them. An angelic guard held him by the collar. His face, bloodied and hollow-cheeked, was framed by neatly trimmed dark hair.

And from the other tower…

Eliana stared at the man hanging in the air, held suspended just as Remy was. She knew the face, but her mind refused to accept what it might mean.

“Father?” she whispered. Her arms were ice.

Ioseph Ferracora stared down at her, his face wet with tears and his eyes no longer black. They were blue, like Remy’s. His square chin jutted stubbornly, like Remy’s.

“Oh, yes, I’ve been meaning to tell you this,” Corien said cheerfully. “Your father—I’m sorry, the man who raised you; we know who your real father is, don’t we?—he didn’t die in the Battle of Arxara Bay, as you may have been led to believe. He was alive when Admiral Ravikant found him. And since Ravikant is one of our most talented, one of our strongest, he was able to inhabit your father’s body while still preserving his human life, keeping his mind intact and healthy. The admiral, of course, has graciously absented himself for the purposes of our little reunion tonight.” Corien gently touched Eliana’s cheek. “Isn’t this happy news? Ioseph Ferracora still lives after all!”

Eliana could not find her voice. Her eyes locked on to her father’s face and wouldn’t let go. She could not stop thinking of the vision Corien had sent her—Remy, Simon, Ioseph, and herself, happy and laughing in a sunlit house. And there was every memory from her childhood: Ioseph going off to war; dancing with Rozen in their kitchen; holding little Eliana in his lap after the annual Sun Queen pageant, both of them glittering with gold powder, watching the sun rise while the statue of the Lightbringer towered above them.