Page 91 of A Dance of Lies

He places the parchment in my lap.

Laurent had mentioned the prophets and their capture, but I was so distracted that I had forgotten until Gustav warned of a prophecy—the first in so long. And the fire . . . It means it’s confirmed—a true message from the Fates, if I dare believe it. I unfurl the paper in my hands, a peculiar darkness settling in my chest when I read the words.

From Beauty foretold, a trap unfolds,

A return to the living, a plight of souls,

Eyes of shadows, glazed like mist,

Whose touch will kill, and lips will kiss,

Consumed by darkness, His heart a snare,

Those around Him will remain unaware.

I pause, glancing up. Anton’s lips are a tight, thin line. He motions for me to keep reading.

Beware, beware, His time is near,

Through one of three sons, He shall appear,

A jewel in His palm, a path divine,

With the Fate of Morta, He will align,

When Crowns divide, and nations collide,

Blood will run, high as tides.

Ice slips up my spine; even my bones grow cold. Beside me, Anton shifts closer. “Back to the top,” he says, pointing at the parchment, a sweep of hair falling across his cheek. “Beauty foretold. A return to the living.”

He tilts his head at me, expectant.

My voice feels distant as I say, “Eremis.”

“Gustav believes it will be Eremis’s soul corrupted by the Fate of Morta, sent to carry out her wishes, while others in my council think it will be a new Eremis, a different spirit darkened by Morta’s touch.” He jerks his chin. “What else?”

My throat bobs. I trace my thumb along the parchment.

“Beware, beware, His time is near,” I read aloud. “Through one of three sons, He will appear.”

One of three sons.

One of threebrothers.

Again, I meet Anton’s gaze. He sips from his glass, assessing me over the rim.Who is it, Vasalie?he seems to ask.

You,I want to say. A return to the living? I know the rumors; they say he, too, cheated death. And there’s his oldest brother. I think of Estienne’s cruelty, thedrip drip dripof vengeance.

But I know it isn’t Anton or Estienne, because one line stares back at me, stark as a full, unfazed moon.

A jewel in His palm.

The jewel is me.Iam the Jewel of Illian’s court.Iam held within his palm. He is my prison. Should he close his fingers and squeeze, I would crack in two.

The prophets he captured prove it further. Why else would Illian kidnap them? Why keep the truth from his own brothers? He heard the prophecy, saw the flame, and knew it was about him. Then I remember something else: Morta’s statues. There are hundreds of them, maybe thousands. They haunt Illian’s palace as if it were a graveyard.

But this assumes I believe the prophecy, or the man who shares it with me. Believing in anything feels like offering something I’m not ready to give.