Page 62 of Too Dangerous To Die

I sit cross-legged in the center of a crude circle of glowing runes etched into the sand. They claimed it was for clarity. Protection. Truth.

I know better.

Behind her, the other Purnas watch me with eyes like shards of obsidian, their faces unreadable. Their magic pulses through the air, like a net stretched tight over my skin. I can feel the collar around my throat tightening with every breath, and the bond I share with Rhaegar—it’s still there. But distant. Muffled. Like someone shoved it into the back of a drawer and slammed it shut.

“I’m not confused,” I say flatly, meeting Ivenna’s gaze. “I’m angry.”

She smiles at that. “You should be. You’ve been manipulated. Bound. Chained to a creature who, if given the choice, would kill you. They’re our enemies.”

“Then why haven’t I given him that choice?”

Her lips tighten. Good. I want her off-balance.

“You deserve your answers,” she says instead. “You deserve to know the truth of who you are. What you were. The life Medea lived before your time, and the magic that lies dormant in your bones.”

I tense.

“And we can give you that,” she adds, her voice dipping low, persuasive. “We can undo the Wraithborn’s tether to your soul. We can free you.”

I inhale slowly. “In exchange for what?”

There’s a pause.

Softly she says, “Rhaegar.”

My heart thuds once. Then again. Louder. Like a war drum against my ribs.

“You want me to kill him.”

A beat of silence. “You must,” Ivenna says, her voice calm. “He’s unstable. The bond he shares with you is feeding his magic. It’ll drive him mad. Worse, it’ll pull the Wraithborn straight to you. They sense him through you. He’s a beacon.”

“He’s also the reason I’m still alive.”

“You’re not thinking clearly. He’s already taken too much.”

I rise to my feet slowly, fists clenched. “So have you.”

One of the Purna flinches. Another narrows her eyes. The collar crackles around my neck in warning—but I don’t stop. My power, though suppressed, is still there. Roaring beneath the surface. Hot and wild and furious.

“Let me speak to him,” I demand. “Let me see him.”

“No,” Ivenna says. “Not until you’ve made your choice.”

“I already have.”

And then the world shatters.

A gust of wind explodes outward from the west, ripping across the sands like a scream. The torches lining the ritual circle flicker violently—and then die. The very ground vibrates beneath our feet. Dust kicks up in great choking clouds as figures appear on the horizon.

The Wraithborn.

Their forms rise from the desert like ghosts given flesh—armor scorched black, faces obscured by helms that hiss with blue light. And their eyes, gods, their eyes—nothing but endless hunger behind obsidian masks.

Panic ripples through the Purnas like lightning. Spells are cast. Shields go up. Screams echo into the air as the first Wraithborn leaps into the circle and drives a blade through the chest of a priestess beside me.

Blood hits my face.

Everything breaks.

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