The crowd continued to grow, but from the bits of conversation all around her, Lucia heard no mention of the former chief and his pleasures. All she heard was talk of the greatness of their new empress.

Lucia had no idea Paelsians were so easily fooled. Then again, they had believed that Chief Basilius was a sorcerer for far too many years to count.

Chief Hugo Basilius. Her birth father.

And this had been his home—the place where she would have been raised had she not been stolen from her cradle.

She gazed around at the cottages and streets and fighting arena that made up the compound, expecting to feel something, some sense of loss of the life she might have had.

But there was nothing. If there was a home she longed for, it was a black palace surrounded by ice and snow.

The sooner she could leave this dry and unpleasant kingdom, the better. She’d had more than her fill of Paelsian culture after she’d first entered it with Kyan.

She’d heard no rumors of the fire god causing more havoc and death during her travels. She held tight to the amber orb that she had hidden in her pocket. Timotheus insisted that Kyan couldn’t be killed. But if that was true, then where was he? What was he planning? Had she deeply harmed him in their battle? And if she hadn’t, why hadn’t he gone back to the Forbidden Mountains to reclaim his orb before she found it?

She curled her fingers around the amber crystal at the thought. Would she be strong enough to fight him if he found her today?

Lucia hated to admit that she wouldn’t be.

No, that’s not good enough, she thought. There’s no other choice anymore. I have to be strong enough.

“She is indeed incredible,” another Paelsian droned on, an old man with a hunched back. “If there’s anyone who can rid our land of its current deadly disease, it’s the empress.”

“I want vengeance for my family’s death,” a younger woman replied.

“As do I,” an older woman agreed.

“What disease are you talking about?” Lucia asked.

“The disease of the dark witch,” the old man snarled. “Her evil has scorched this land and killed thousands of Paelsians with every touch of her gnarled, ugly hand.”

Lucia twisted her hands. “I . . . I have heard of these misdeeds . . .”

“Misdeeds?” he practically yelled in her face. Some of his spittle hit her cheek, and she wiped it away, cringing. “Some say that Lucia Damora is prophesied to kill us all with her fire magic, that she’s an immortal sorceress, born from the King of Blood mating with a demoness during a blood magic ceremony. But I see her for what she is—someone who needs to be slain before she harms anyone else.”

They knew her name. And they hated her enough to want her dead.

It didn’t matter that the old man didn’t include Kyan in the telling. What was done was done. She couldn’t go back and change all that had happened.

Paelsians looked at Lucia as a half-demon witch pulled from the darklands like a hateful weed. A nightmare and a disease that plagued their land.

She didn’t even try to argue with them, since they were absolutely right.

The crowd began to cheer as Amara finally took the stage. Lucia tried to see as much as she could of the beautiful girl, her black hair long and flowing, her emerald satin dress with a sparkling embroidered phoenix on it, as she raised her hands. The crowd went silent.

Amara spoke clearly and passionately about a bright future for the citizens of Palesia. Lucia couldn’t believe the lies she spewed, but when she looked around at the crowd, they were eating them up like a delicious, endless feast laid out before them.

The empress sounded so sincere in her promises. Lucia had to admire how easily she spoke about changing everything that was wrong with the world. Of making the decisions on behalf of these people who hung on every word she said.

Lucia stood there, her fists clenched at her sides, hating Amara and waiting for the chance to find out what her enemy had done with her family.

Then, almost instantly, the beautiful, false words Amara spoke were silenced. Someone screamed, and Lucia couldn’t figure out why until she saw a guard on the stage collapse, clutching an arrow lodged in his throat. Then another guard fell, and another.

An assassination attempt.

This can’t happen, Lucia thought frantically. I need to question her. Amara cannot die today.

With great effort, Lucia summoned air magic. Cool, windy wisps circled her arms and hands in translucent spirals as she strode forward through the crowd and toward the dais, using this invisible magic to nudge everyone out of her path. The sight of Kraeshian guards jumping into the frightened, confused crowd with their weapons drawn only caused more panic to rise. The guards cut down anyone who fought them or stood in their way, be they rebels or civilians, which only made a fight to escape break out.

Lucia strained to see what was happening on the stage. Amara, accompanied by a girl who looked very much like the servant who used to trail after Princess Cleo, cowered before a tall young man wearing a black eye patch, sword in hand.

Lucia’s cool air magic shifted to that of fire, ready to burn anyone who kept her from getting to Amara. Someone clutched her cloak, and she sent a glare down at him, ready to set him ablaze. Nicolo Cassian stared up at her, one hand gripping her cloak, the other pressed to a gaping wound on his stomach. When he coughed, blood sputtered from his mouth.

A mortal wound.

Her attention went again to the stage, but another choking sound drew her gaze back to Nic, a victim of either the bloodthirsty guards or a frightened Paelsian.