When she raised her hands before her eyes and found them rather small, Mara quickly deduced that she had slipped into a dream. Her flint-like features conveyed exasperation more than anything else. With a sigh, she struggled to stand.

She was back on her childhood legs, it seemed, left to wander the rundown marketplace where she’d spent most of her days seeking scraps. Her weakness in those days was wholly alien to her now: so much so, in fact, that she managed only a few steps before her legs gave out and left her to fall on her face in the dust.

She groaned weakly as she pushed herself up. As she raised her face, she was surprised to find that all the eyes that once refused to see her now refused to see anything else. The specters of the Hovaleans stared on curiously, quizzically, but ultimately, dispassionately. Her own eyes glazing over, the loveless orphan moved into a seated position and hugged her legs to her chest.

“The maralekt has made a most grievous mistake.”

The voice of the hag was the first she heard as she awoke from her dour dream. Her eyes fluttered open, and there Hethys sat at the edge of her bed wearing a smile more somber than usual.

Mara pushed herself upright. “What happened?” she asked.

“You fell unconscious,” Hethys answered. “In the midst of what I’m sure would have been rather a rousing speech.”

Mara grunted, irate. “What is this, hag? I know you know.”

“Then why have you waited so long to ask?”

“Must I pry every morsel of knowledge from you?”

Hethys chuckled. “Your will binds me, Mara. I offer only what you desire of me.”

Mara was of a mind to strike the hag for what sounded so much like mockery, but it was Hethys’ good fortune that she felt too weak to act on the impulse. She settled for a caustic scowl to make her displeasure known. “Tell me what’s happening to me,” she demanded.

Hethys nodded. “The same thing that happens to any well when many draw from it and none see to its source: the well runs dry.”

Distressed by the notion, Mara let her features soften. “How is that possible?” she asked. “Is my power not divine?”

“Divine and borrowed,” Hethys stressed. “By virtue of your bloodline, you are entitled to a share in the glory of Ancestor. But that share is finite, and you have shared it quite liberally.”

“This is because of the Mark-bearers?”

“Yes, girl. Your power might have held strong for a lifetime or two had you kept it to yourself. But you have overstepped your boundaries to play in the province of Kings, and as a result, you are spread too thin.”

Mara stared down at her quivering hand upon the bedspread. She furrowed her brow. “And if my power is spent, the others…”

“They will lose their power as well. They will work Wonders no longer.”

Mara’s thoughts momentarily turned to fury, aware as she was that Hethys had long been sitting on this vital information. Her lips parted, but she thought better of putting forth the question on her mind. “Because you never asked,” the hag would surely answer, and she would only anger the Ikoras all the more.

“Have you not enough, child?”

Surprised by the pointed query, Mara suppressed her rage and turned curious eyes on the hag. “This Ikoria project has gone so swimmingly,” Hethys continued. “I’d wager you could live the rest of your days in comfort with all you lot have built. If you would abandon expansion and choose instead to maintain this, the need for such great Wonders would decline. Perhaps then your power might be preserved a while longer.”

“Mm,” Mara uttered as she considered the point. It was true that they had achieved rather a lot in two years. More, perhaps, than she’d ever intended when first she’d shared her power with the Hovaleans. She could name no specific comfort she desired and could not get. Meat, mead, cloth, gold: all were available to her in abundance.

But whenever she thought of resting--whenever she let her mind go idle--her thoughts turned to that pathetic girl in the market, to the pugnacious young Master that girl had grown to conquer, and to the Kingdom that saw fit to raise the highborn even higher. Her features twisted as her fury returned.

“The province of Kings,” Mara repeated. “What does the King have that other Ikorae lack?”

“What else but the Throne?” Hethys replied. “It is the lynchpin of The Ancestor’s vow: so long as an Heir to that holy bloodline holds that holy Throne, Auberalea shall ever know prosperity. The infinite power in that promise rests in the hands of that blessed regent. Never shall that one want for power to share with his subjects, if he so chooses.”

“Then that is the answer.” With effort, Mara stilled her hands and forged them into fists. “If I ascend the Kingdom Throne, I trade this finite well for the infinite power of the King. I must make myself known to The Kingdom. I’ve a birthright to claim.”

“I have warned you child. It will not be so easy.”

“Nothing has ever been easy,” Mara replied darkly. “But this time, I have sown the seeds to secure my triumph. All that remains is the harvest. The time has come.”

She spoke the words with unshakeable conviction, but they held true as well for a distant soul far more fortunate than she. That good fortune had ended the day their fates had become intertwined. Now, the silver-haired princess lay beneath a crimson sheet, so objectionable to the eyes her condition had become.

An unending procession of green rings of light passed gently over her as she rested there drawing labored breaths. Summoned by chanting monks garbed in black vestments and black veils, they were aimed to preserve by Wonder the life her body could sustain no longer.

Alas, it could never be enough.

“Brother,” came Auriel’s voice from beneath the crimson shroud. “Brother,” she uttered again. Then stepped forward the only other person in the room not clothed in black. His luminous purple and gold robes struck a stark contrast against the red that covered her. Disregarding the rings, he drew near enough to place his hand upon her forehead.

“The eyes, Brother,” spoke Auriel. “They are still here.”

“So am I, Sister,” said Aurin. “So am I.” He managed to hold back all but one of his tears as his baby sister breathed her last. The monks ceased their chanting as her limp hand fell from the table on which she rested, some turning to avoid seeing the black, bubbling, puss-filled boils that covered every inch of her flesh.

Aurin wiped his face and backed away from the table. After a deep breath, he did his best to drain his countenance of emotion. “Princess Auriel goes to our Ancestor now,” he said. “Funeral preparations are to begin immediately. I go to inform Father.”

He brushed past the gathered monks quite harshly as he moved to exit the chamber. As he did, his sleeve slid up to reveal the collection of black boils that adorned his own arm: a mark of grave misfortune that he and all of his siblings had come to bear.