Page 3 of The Rebel and the Rose
The lightning forked past him, reaching for Fantome like a crooked finger. It slammed into the Aurore, and he watched in horrified wonder as the tower fell before his eyes.
A manic laugh burst from his chest. ‘The first tower has fallen! The prophecy is coming true!’
The storm swallowed his cries.
He reached towards the next fork of lightning. ‘ORIEL, CHOOSE ME!’
This one arced over him, too, spearing west, towards the low hanging mists of Ra’azule. Nerves gripped him, his heartbeat so loud, he could hardly hear the terrified screams of his fellow scholars, his professors… even the provost, the prince’s own stalwart mentor, had come running in his nightcap and dressing gown.
The prince didn’t dare take his eyes from the sky. He knew the last prophecy like the lines on his palms. Some days itfelt like Oriel had scrawled its promise on the fabric of his soul. One more strike to go. One last chance. He told himself he would not beg. A prince of Valterre wouldn’t dare, but desperation got the better of him.
He rose to his tiptoes. ‘ORIEL, PLEASE!’
The clock tower began to chime. For a moment, it sounded like the heavens were crying out.
Gong!
Gong!
Gong!
Darkness enfolded the Appoline until the prince felt entirely alone in the world. The hair on his head rose in every direction. Even the fine blond wisps on his arms and the back of his neck lifted. His mouth filled with the taste of coppers, and a bead of blood dripped from his nose.
Slowly, the clouds above him parted, as though Saint Maurius himself was peeling them apart. From within, came a spear of jagged silver light.
The prince opened his mouth to swallow it.
It shot through him like a poker.
Back arching now, the agony of it wrenched a scream so loud it stole his voice.
The world turned silver as heat consumed him, chewing his bones to ash. His heart was a volcano, pumping lava through his blood.
No.No.
It was too hot. Too bright. Too painful.
He couldn’t bear it.
He couldn’tstopit.
His legs gave out as the clock tower began to crumble, and he slipped down the side of the roof. He grasped feebly at the slates, the stone scraping his back as he slid off the edge like a raindrop.
And plummeted to earth.
When the hard slap of grass came, he didn’t feel it. Nor did he hear the horrified screams of his peers as they picked through the fallen rubble to get to him. The prince was lost in the blackness that came after, snared by an ancient, golden gaze that watched him from the shadows of his mind.
Saint Oriel, weaver of fate.
She whispered, ‘Thief.’
Three months later
Chapter 1Seraphine
Seraphine Marchant stood trembling beneath the storm’s blinding fury, reaching desperately for the sky. A bell rang under her feet, signalling the changing of the hour.
Gong!
