collected on it. Then Marroc turned the wand so that it pointed at my head.
The magic slid over me, cold as quicksilver, freezing me in place. A liquid metal filled my mouth. It streamed down my throat in a silver torrent, rushing into my stomach. In seconds, it began mixing with my blood.
Pain like nothing I’d ever experienced coursed through me. I spasmed as the magic arched my back, wrenched my lips open in a silent scream, and ripped my consciousness away. I seemed to float up until I was looking down at my shivering form. On the dais, everything moved in slow motion.
Marroc stood over me with regret in his eyes. He held the wand straight over his head. It had changed, transformed. The wand was now a sharp silver blade, flashing and shining as though lit by a thousand suns.
The king’s guards stood around us, wands leveled at us. Marroc’s hair blew in the winter wind. All around us, twined Levateinn’s magic. Silver coils traced over the stones, twisted about my body, and continued to unspool down my throat in shining loops.
Marroc’s voice rose, chanting louder than before, and the magic began to rush from the wand.
I saw it pool at Marroc’s feet, saw him stumble, then fall to his knees. I watched as Levateinn’s magic rushed up his massive thighs, over the smoldering runes on his chest. For a moment, it paused at his throat, then his head snapped back as Loki’s magic began to pour into his mouth.
In seconds, he’d transformed, his pale skin glowing until he looked like he’d been dipped in liquid gold. The magic carried our bodies together. My body twisted, shuddering, and something burst from my chest.
Agony shot through me as my soul separated from my body. It hung there, suspended, an orb of pulsing light. Then the silver magic formed over it, and it dimmed until it faded away entirely. All that was left was a tiny silver ball hovering in the winter air.
For a second I thought I was dead, but my consciousness didn’t dissipate. Instead, I continued to watch from above as the ball split in two. A pair of orbs now hung suspended above the dais.
Everything happened in an instant. With a crack like a thunderclap, one orb shot into my body, the other into Marroc’s. My consciousness raced downward, plunged into my chest.
I opened my eyes, shocked by what had just happened. My entire body trembled.
And when I looked up at Marroc, I saw him completely transformed. His eyes were no longer blue but gold, the color of the rising sun. His black hair had transformed to blond, and it whirled around his head in the winter breeze. Now, he looked like the High Elf that he was—a golden warrior gleaming like the sun.
He rose to his feet like a conquering god, his gaze still fixed on me. The crown gleamed on his head.
Then, with one hand, he pulled me up from the floor. I hung limply as he drew me to his blazing chest. Heat from his body washed over me, and I felt like I was melting into him.
“Ali.” His voice was deep and strong like the tolling of a church bell. “Ali,” he repeated, holding me tighter. His expression was ecstatic, rapturous. His hair continued to swirl around his head.
Pressed against his chest, I could feel his heart beating thunderously. The smoky smell of his curse was gone, replaced by the scent of fresh sage. He lifted me up so that my face was level with his. For the first time, I got a clear view of his features. Golden eyes, tawny skin, sensual lips. Tingly warmth rushed over my skin.
“I need to return the magic I drank,” he whispered, his voice smooth as whiskey.
Marroc leaned down and pressed his lips to mine, and my body warmed as magic flowed into me. My magic. Slowly, I could feel the strength filling me once more.
He pulled away, looking into my eyes. Marroc’s golden eyes held mine with a sort of magnetic connection neither of us could break. Whether I liked it or not, we were bonded in some way.
And that bond was so strong, so deliciously warm on my skin—I almost didn’t notice who he really was.
All the warmth drained from my body.
“Galin?” I clenched my jaw. “What the fuck?”
“Oh, you’ve caught on?” King Gorm echoed in his flutelike voice. His eyes fixed on mine, flashing with unsurpassed glee. “Marroc is dead, but Galin now