many ifs that flood my mind. But I don’t move away from him. I sink into his hold around my waist, trace my fingertips along his forehead.
“It’ll hurt,” I warn. “During and after.”
He shivers against me. “I know.”
The raised scars that trace the pads of my fingers heat up, as if there’s a fire ignited from within. He’s never seen me use my power this way, just the aftermath of it when it goes wrong. Dez’s eyes widen at the sight of my hands, at the light that races along my palms. What startles me most of all is that look on his face. Not fear but wonder.
No one has ever looked at me this way.
“How does this work?” he asks. “Do they all go into the Gray?”
I shake my head. “The Gray is my own creation, I think. I’ve never known another Robári long enough to compare. But most of my memories up until I was nine are locked in there.”
“Why nine?”
“That’s when the Whispers burned down the old palace. That’s when I met you.” I press my hand over his heart and smile when I feel how fast his pulse is. “This memory wouldn’t be locked away. It would just be mine.”
The wrinkle on his forehead deepens, but he holds on to me tighter. His voice is nearly pleading. “Do it.”
And I do.
I reach for his temples and take hold. He gasps through the pain, hissing when his skin burns under my glowing touch. I’m an intruder, breaking down the walls of his past. But Dez is all too willing to let me in now, and I dive into the vivid memory he offers.
Even the sea is on fire.
Ships break apart and sink beneath dark waves.
Bells ring from the cathedrals.
Bodies are draped across gray stone streets, their blood running between the cobblestones like rivers searching for a way back to the ocean.
He knows he shouldn’t be there. The Whispers have retreated. Riomar has been lost. But he has one last thing to do.
Dez stumbles over the dead. He can’t tell the broken bodies apart. He’s searching for familiar faces. He hears his name, a strangled cry from a man trying to keep his insides from spilling out. General Almonte. The man who taught him how to wield a sword. Now Almonte’s gray beard is streaked with blood. He shuts his eyes, and then he’s gone.
Dez looks up at the darkening sky, but he cannot scream. Everything within him is numb. The purple-and-gold flag with the Fajardo crest of Puerto Leones is being raised in front of the palace. Up on the balcony is a sight that splinters his vision. Prince Castian watches Riomar descend into chaos. People ravage the dead like vultures, seizing the Moria’s jewelry, weapons, armor. Desecrating bodies. The prince just stands there taking in his victory. Hate and anger surge through Dez, propelling his body into a run. He climbs the carved walls of the palace, his hands caked in dirt and blood and sweat. There is still one thing he can do to end this.
Kill the prince. Kill the prince. Kill the prince.
Dez lands on the balcony with heavy boots.
Prince Castian’s long golden hair is matted to his face. A tender bruise blooms on his high cheekbone like spoiled fruit, his full lips split open and bloody. He’s still in his chain mail, though it’s been hours since the Moria forces, what’s left of them, retreated from the citadela.
His blue eyes light up with fury as he realizes he’s not alone. But he does not call for his guards or for help. He unsheathes his sword and walks across the balcony.
“Run home, boy,” he spits to the side. He levels those cold eyes of his at Dez’s still-approaching figure. He’s tired and injured. It must be why he gives Dez a chance to leave. “Do you have a death wish?”
“I do,” Dez says, rage strangling his words. “Yours.”
Prince Castian swings his sword first, and Dez raises his to meet it, the clash of metal drowned by the ringing of the bells. The crackle of fire. The cries of the dying down below. The revelers.
Each blow strikes Dez, rattles him down to the bone. The prince is stronger than he looks when parading on campaigns. His footwork fast, like he can predict each and every move Dez makes. Dez’s arms are growing tired, but he pushes through the fire in his muscles, the sting of sweat and blood in his eyes. He draws the prince’s