the room, and Veronyka couldn’t decide which side was more intimidating: Both had powerful, experienced men and women—and yet the Riders were at their best on phoenix-back, soaring through the open air with bows and spears in their grasp. Here, in a darkened chamber where wax and ink were the weapons of choice, Veronyka couldn’t help but think that the politicians had the true upper hand.
As she compared and contrasted the opposing forces, something in Veronyka’s mind finally clicked. She understood where she was at last, what she had been dreaming of for years: She was in the heart of the empire more than sixteen years ago, in Aura Nova, and these were the princesses that battled for the throne during the Blood War.
If the girl across from her was Pheronia, surrounded by her councilors, then Veronyka was occupying the mind of Avalkyra, attended by her rebel Phoenix Riders.
A heavy silence fell as Veronyka’s dream self twisted a ring on her finger, pressing it into a thick glob of wax on a piece of paper, dark with ink. Her movements were brisk, but Veronyka felt the tremor in her fingers and the hasty, clumsy way she slid the document across the table. The tension in the room reached a crescendo as, with a nod at her advisers, Pheronia tore the sheet of paper in two.
Veronyka’s dream body leapt to its feet, but her own advisers descended upon her before she could speak or react, gripping her arms and steering her from the room. Veronyka glanced over her shoulder for a last look at the girl who was her sister, but bodies pressed in on her, blocking her from view.
Shadowy passages, whispered words, and suddenly Veronyka was in a bedchamber. Her people released her at last, and with a command laced with shadow magic, they fled from her presence.
As soon as the door shut behind them, Veronyka took up a heavy wooden chair and whipped it across the room. It smashed against the wall, shards of wood flying in every direction, but she wasn’t done. She smashed a ceramic jug and tore a silken pillow in half, the plump feathers dancing in the air like snowflakes. Panting, she lurched to a basin of water and splashed handfuls of cool liquid against her hot skin.
This means war, said a voice in her mind—a voice that was not Veronyka’s.
As the pool of water beneath her stilled, she dropped her hands and stared into the reflection of the dark bowl.
Val’s face looked back up at her.
Veronyka reeled back, casting aside the dream world as the true world came to life around her once more. Birds chirped, grass swished in the breeze, and sunlight beat down.
Val stood in front of her, so like the reflection in the dream that she felt she stared at a ghost, not a flesh-and-blood person.
The ghost of Avalkyra Ashfire.
My heart ripped open, my soul bled, and my very being caught fire.
- CHAPTER 42 -
VERONYKA
“VAL!” VERONYKA SHOUTED, AS her sister turned her back and stepped between the trees.
Val, Val, Val.
Veronyka kept repeating the word, out loud and inside her mind, as she chased after her sister. She had the feeling that if she said the word enough times, it would set things right—bring Val back, banish the images from her mind, and give her world equilibrium again.
But by the time Veronyka was able to scale the rocky hill above the tunnel entrance, Val was nowhere in sight, and Veronyka couldn’t see which direction she’d gone.
Veronyka tried their mental connection, but it was as silent as the world around her. She squeezed her eyes shut, but it did no good—the Feather-Crowned Queen was there, staring back at her with Val’s face.
Dread crept up Veronyka’s body like snaring vines, rooting her to the spot.
Val. Avalkyra. Avalkyra.
But . . . how?
Avalkyra Ashfire was dead. She’d died at the end of the Blood War . . . sixteen years ago. Everyone said so. Avalkyra had been burned to death, shot down during the final battle and consumed by her dying bondmate’s flames. But had she stayed dead?
Morra’s words from weeks ago floated to the surface of Veronyka’s mind.
All it takes is fire and bones.
Veronyka stared into the trees, her heart thumping in an uneven rhythm. She had the feeling that Val watched her—and yet she couldn’t unstick her feet, couldn’t seem to follow or call out for her.
If she did call out, what name would she use?
Eventually that prickly sensation of being watched receded, and