Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 64872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 324(@200wpm)___ 259(@250wpm)___ 216(@300wpm)
“Reconstructed?”
“This scene is so vivid. He’s been here a lot. I imagine he’s added more detail with every visit.”
“Does that mean what we see may not be the complete truth?”
“Truth is always subjective. This is the truth he’s created for himself. The way he recalls—or wants to recall—what happened.”
“He’s able to meddle with his own memories?”
“You and I, too. Anyone who visits has the potential to change things. Be careful not to leave behind signs—”
I slip on a muddy patch of ground, leaving behind a long and deep groove through the grass.
“—of our being here,” Quin finishes drily. With a wan smile, I hurriedly patch it up as best I can, ignoring Quin’s shaking head.
“Onwards,” I say, and Quin points ahead.
“There he is.”
I stall. “He sees himself in his memory?”
“As he imagines himself, then.”
King Yngvarr—here, the kronprins—is a picture of ethereal beauty. He sits at the base of the tree, chiselling at a wooden mask in his hand. One moment, his head is gently bowed over the wood, and the next he’s glancing up and looking down the hill, a soft smile playing at the corners of his lips. I turn, following his gaze to a graceful, energetic young woman practicing archery. Exuding fierce determination, she nocks an arrow and aims for the target at the other end of the field. The arrow lands among others, littered around but not touching the bullseye.
She pivots slightly and on a sharp intake of air I move to grab Quin’s forearm, then quickly jerk my hand back again. Quin notices, staring at the space between us, the almost touch. “Your mother,” I whisper and clear my throat.
He slowly turns his gaze, and is quiet a few minutes as he observes her releasing another arrow.
It’s strange to see Casimiria, possibly only weeks before she’ll become pregnant with Quin, so full of life. She’s so full of youth; a free bird about to become caged. My stomach sinks at Quin’s reflective sigh and the twitch of his jaw.
Casimiria plucks the last arrow from her quiver and her body becomes taut with concentration as she aims and fires. The arrow whistles through the air and smacks the target dead centre. She jumps with an elated laugh and uses magical winds to yank the arrows free from the target and return them to her quiver. Prins Yngvarr tucks an admiring smile back towards his mask.
A smile too short-lived as two young men saunter up the hill towards him with an air of wealth and arrogance.
It’s obvious the two are related, and it doesn’t take much to guess who they may be. The gangly, slightly taller brother wears long boots and has a dark glint in his eye—a youthful echo of the tyrannical regent Valerian Aetherion. And the one behind him—handsome, gaze keen as he takes in the prins under the tree and Casimiria below—Anastasius Aetherion. Here, the crown prince of Lumin.
Soon to be Quin’s father.
Prince Valerian snickers as he throws a bolt of magic into the tree, making it shake violently. Yngvarr barely has time to set aside his mask and knife before he’s buried in a mound of green, the tree left stark naked and shivering beside him.
Prince Anastasius swats his brother over the back of the head, and at his voice, Quin stiffens. “Too obvious. Father will punish you.”
“You told me to have fun with him.”
“I meant include him in your games,” Anastasius says smoothly, but there’s a satisfied glint in his eye that has me narrowing my gaze.
Valerian frowns, confused. He doesn’t understand yet that he’s the borrowed knife.
I take a step forward and halt as I stub my toe on a tree root. The zip of pain is a reminder I can—and shouldn’t—interfere with this memory.
I stick to glaring at the brothers. It’s Anastasius’s cunning that will get under Valerian’s skin. Get him into trouble with the king. Make him feel inferior. Lead to his warped need to prove he can be cunning too; he can be worthy of respect, love.
I feel Quin’s shadow land over me. “How on earth did you turn out so decent?”
“I wish your compliments wouldn’t always come out through gritted teeth.” He steps beside me and glances from his young father to his young mother, who is charging up the hill, arrow nocked to her bow and aimed at the brothers. “She’s the reason.”
Casimiria is a fiery figure of justice as she fires an arrow over the princes’ heads. She readies another as Yngvarr emerges from the mound of leaves, coughing, and he catches the moment she fires again, making Anastasius jerk himself sharply out of the arrow’s path.
“Leave him,” she commands.
Anastasius lazily tosses magic her way, a spiralling blast of wind that knocks Casimiria back a few steps. She recovers her composure, fighting back with her own magic—strong wind of her own. Surprise flickers over the crown prince’s face. “You must be the general’s daughter.”