Chapter 3 The Revelation

The soldiers moved quickly after that. Two of them unlocked Malachi's chains while another pair moved toward Thessaly. She held still, kept her breathing even as they bound her wrists with rope that bit into her skin. The rough fiber was nothing compared to the way her mother was staring at her—shock and horror and something that might have been relief all tangled together.

That hurt worse than the ropes.

"You didn't have to do this," Malachi said quietly as they passed each other. His eyes were red. "I would have survived. I always—"

"No, you wouldn't have." Thessaly smiled, and it felt like breaking. "But that's okay. I'm good at being expendable."

She walked out before he could respond. Before her mother could say anything. Before Isleen could run after her with tears streaming down her face and promises neither of them could keep.

The courtyard was full of horses, their breath steaming in the cold morning air. Dawn was just breaking over the mountains, painting the sky in shades of gray and pale gold. Thessaly had always loved sunrise from her tower window. Had spent countless hours watching the light change, imagining what it would be like to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

Careful what you wish for, she thought, and almost laughed.

One of the soldiers lifted her onto a horse without ceremony. Not her own horse—they didn't have any left to call their own—but a massive dark beast that probably cost more than everything in the palace combined. She settled awkwardly in the saddle, hands still bound, trying not to think about how far away the ground suddenly seemed.

King Davorin Noctis was younger than she'd expected. Maybe late twenties, with dark hair that fell just past his shoulders and eyes that were the color of storm clouds. He was tall, built like someone who'd spent his life training for war, and when his gaze landed on Thessaly, she felt the weight of it like a physical thing.

This was the man who'd destroyed everything.

He looked bored.

"My lord." The officer bowed. "We've brought the hostage as requested. Thessaly Ashenheart, princess of—"

"I know who she is." Davorin's voice was flat. He studied Thessaly for a moment longer, then looked back at the officer. "This is who volunteered to replace her brother?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Interesting." Davorin crossed the room in three long strides, moving with the kind of fluid grace that came from absolute confidence. He stopped directly in front of Thessaly, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to maintain eye contact. "Do you know why I wanted to speak with your family?"

Thessaly's voice came out smaller than she intended. "No."

"Neither do I, anymore." He reached out suddenly, and Thessaly flinched—but he only touched the ropes binding her wrists. The moment his fingers made contact with her skin, something happened.

The air crackled. Magic surged, wild and bright, and Thessaly felt it lance through her like lightning. But she was still standing. Still breathing. Still alive.

Davorin jerked his hand back like he'd been burned, and for the first time, expression broke through his controlled facade.

He looked terrified.

"What are you?" he whispered.

Thessaly stared at him, at the way his hand was shaking, at the shock written across his face. "I... I don't understand."

"You should be dead." Davorin took a step back, then another. "Everyone I touch dies. Everything. It's been that way for ten years, and nothing survives contact with my skin. Nothing."

The room had gone absolutely silent. Every soldier was staring, and the officer had gone pale.

Thessaly looked down at her wrists where his fingers had touched, where she could still feel the ghost of that contact like sunlight on skin. There was no mark. No burn. She felt fine. Better than fine, actually—like something that had been sleeping inside her had suddenly woken up.

"I'm sorry," she said, because she didn't know what else to say. "I don't... I've never had magic. I'm not anything special."

Davorin laughed, and it was the most bitter sound Thessaly had ever heard. "You survived my touch. That makes you either the most special person in six kingdoms, or the key to a prophecy I've spent a decade trying to ignore."

He turned to the officer. "Take her to the guest wing. The rose suite. Post guards, but treat her well." His eyes found Thessaly's again, and there was something desperate in them now. Something that made her chest tight. "We have much to discuss, Princess. Starting with why the moon goddess would be cruel enough to make you my Sun-Bonded."

The doors slammed shut behind him before Thessaly could ask what any of that meant.

She stood frozen in the empty war room, heart racing, mind spinning with a hundred questions she didn't have answers for. Sun-Bonded. Death touch. Prophecy.

What had she just walked into?

The officer cleared his throat. "This way, Princess. His Majesty has requested you be made comfortable."

Thessaly followed on numb legs, and tried very hard not to think about the way Davorin's hand had shaken, or the fear in his voice, or the fact that she'd somehow survived something that should have killed her.

She'd come here expecting to die.

Instead, she'd just become something far more dangerous: important.

And deep in her bones, in the place where her absent magic should have lived, something pulsed to life with a warmth she'd never felt before—like recognizing a song she'd never heard but somehow always known.

The Shadow King had called her Sun-Bonded, and Thessaly had the terrible, creeping suspicion that meant her life had just gotten infinitely more complicated than a simple execution ever could have been.