For a moment, I remain frozen where I am in the fields, my heart pounding, limbs numb. Somehow, I’m still hidden in the long grass, untouched by the devastation racing toward me. But then the thought crashes through me like a wave, drowning every other feeling.

Mam is in the house. Alone.

I choke on a breath, my legs trembling beneath me. I can’t leave her. I can’t stay here. I drop the basket in my hands and gather my skirts. They tangle around my knees, but I rip them free and bolt.

I don’t look back.

The village lies between me and home, a maze of cottages now shrouded in smoke, the air thick with terror. I dart down the narrow path, the grass beneath my feet quickly turning to hardened dirt, the stones sharp under my bare feet. My breath comes in short, panicked gasps as I run. I stumble over a raised rock, and my skirts catch on brambles. I tear them away, my lungs burning, my chest heaving with the effort.

Get to her. Get to her.

The cries grow louder as I near the village’s edge. I hear the sound of swords clashing, boots pounding the earth, and people screaming for mercy. Figures dart between houses, flames licking the thatched roofs, smoke curling in thick tendrils through the air. One house crumbles in on itself as fire consumes it whole. A woman stumbles out, her face streaked with soot, her hands clutching a small child to her chest. I almost collide with her, but she doesn’t see me. No one does.

Just get home.

The road twists ahead of me, steep and narrow. I see the roof of our house in the distance, perched on the hillside. I fight back the sob rising in my throat.

“Mam!” I cry out, my voice cracking, desperate.

I slip on the loose gravel as I round the corner and stumble, the earth tilting beneath me. My ankle twists, a sharp pain shooting up my leg, but I grit my teeth and force myself to keep going.

Don’t stop. Don’t stop.

The hill rises ahead, steep and unyielding. I push harder, my lungs screaming as I climb, dirt kicking up behind me as my feet pound against the earth.

I risk a glance over my shoulder and see a group of raiders, their faces smeared with blood and soot, cutting through the village’s fields like wolves through sheep.

A war horn blasts from the east, and I turn my head to see another group of men charging toward the village. One of them carries a standard above his head, flapping on a pole as the horse he rides leaps over bodies.

It’s King Afon’s standard.

My heart stutters. The king’s men are here to fight for us. My tad is here.

I can’t wait for them to save my mam. I have to get to her.

I run faster. My heart slams against my ribs, and my vision blurs with tears. The hill stretches before me, impossibly steep, but I throw myself forward, each step heavier than the last.

My legs are numb, my lungs burning as I climb. I’m panting when I stumble onto the path leading to my house.

My father’s forge is burning.

My father, who is fighting for the king.

The house is still standing, and my heart pulses in my throat as hope surges through.

The door to the house is open. I throw myself inside, not holding back my wracking sobs. “Mam!”

I halt in the entry.

Mam is here.

She lies on the hard earthen floor, back arched where she fell over a stool. Her open eyes stare blankly at the thatched roof, and blood soils her clothing, the ground beneath her, the tangle of dark hair, the smooth skin of her neck where a blade sliced her open and bled her life from her.

“Mam!” I stumble to her side and sink to my knees, a deep aching hollowness carving out in my heart. I’m too late. “Mam.” A sob rips out of my throat. I grab her and hug her to my chest, my body shaking as a torrent of tears escapes. I press my cheek against hers, but the cold stillness reveals nothing of the warm, gentle soul who guided me through childhood and prepared me for adulthood. “No!” I cry. The room seems to darken, goodness bleeding out with the crimson liquid spilling from my mother. My chest hums, the feeling of bees in my blood intensifying as my vision blackens.

A pot crashes behind me and I release her as I jump to my feet, whipping around to see a large soldier blocking out the sunlight as his frame fills the doorway.

“Is this home, girl?” he says.

His accent is garbled with the rolling Rs of the westerners, but I understand him. My eyes are drawn to the gold clasp on his armor. This is no ordinary soldier.

“Prince Madoc,” I gasp.

King Afon’s son is in my house.

I feel a flash of fear. His reputation precedes him. But I steady my nerves. He is the king’s son, sent to protect us. I wipe my face with my arm, trying to appear calm and fearless. “That is my mam,” I whisper, though I don’t look at her.

He steps inside, his body lolling from side to side as he moves toward me. I take another step and hit the table.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “Such a shock to find her this way.”

His words are kind but his voice is not. I hear a tone of amusement in his voice, and mockery pulls at his lips. The flash of fear turns into a siren of warning.

I make a move to dash around him, but his hand grabs my arm, stopping me. He reaches out and cups the side of my head, and I stiffen. My heart pounds so hard in my throat I think I’ll pass out. I can’t breathe for fear.

“No need to be frightened,” he says, and his grip on my head tightens. “This is our village now. It belongs to me. You belong to me.”

He yanks my hair hard enough to jerk me forward, and I utter a cry.

“You’re supposed to save us!” I scream. My hand grabs at the table, fingers fluttering, searching for something to deter him.

“I am saving you,” he grunts, slamming his body into mine. “No one will touch you after I take you.”

My fingers find the dagger at my belt. I grapple for it. I will slice his belly open, cut out his eyes.

But he’s so much stronger than me. He grabs me around the waist and pulls my chest against his, smashing the hilt of my knife into my hip, and suddenly I’m worried he’ll find the blade and use it on me.

He’s too distracted to notice it. He thrusts his face into mine, his lips prying mine open, his tongue gagging me as his hand slides under my tunic and up my leg.

I jolt, panic sending flashes of red into my mind, but his hands hold me tight. He thrusts me onto the table and hikes my tunic around my hips, his tongue still gouging my mouth. His hand pulls my shift up next.

I bite him. Hard enough that his blood fills my mouth with a salty, metallic wave.

He screeches and jerks away from me, holding his face. The moment he releases me, I scramble backward onto the table.

“You filthy whore!” he swears. He grabs me and drags me back. Blood splatters from his mouth when he speaks, spraying my face and neck, mingling with my mother’s blood soaked into my tunic. He yanks a dagger from his belt and backhands me across the face, the hilt of the blade cracking against my cheek. He grabs me roughly by the shoulder and drops the dagger to the ground, well out of my reach, and then uses his other hand to pull down his trousers.

My chances of escape dwindle by the second. I push against his chest with my hands, feeling like a mouse trying to outrun a snake.

“Release me!” I shout.

Or that is what I meant to say. The words that left my mouth were in another language, one I recognize but have never spoken.

And with the words, the vibration builds in my chest and explodes out of my mouth like a swarm of gnats. Black specks shoot out of me, out of my fingers, out of my chest, and I scream in terror.

I’m being ripped apart.

The prince shrieks and covers his face. “It’s you!” he cries. “Heir of the magic-bearer!”

His words chill me, frighten me even more than his hands running over my body did.

What does he mean?

One hand grapples for his sword, and he swings it wildly as he peeks through his fingers at me. “Soldiers! She’s here! I found—”

Energy bursts out of me, a dark, swarming shadow intent on swallowing my soul, blackening the room, blocking my vision, and his words cut off in a garble. My sight goes dark as if the sun were extinguished. The only thing I hear is a terrified, agonized howl before even that goes silent.

I collapse on the ground, shaking, my skin on fire as if hundreds of daggers have pricked me. I cough and choke on the ground, convulsing.

And then my vision clears. Light returns to the house. I hold my shaking hands in front of me, astonished to see I’m still whole. I lift my eyes to Prince Madoc, and I can’t stop the scream that rips from my throat when I see him.

His body.

His skin is sliced in ribbons, his clothing gashed open, and his face, his mouth, his eyes, frozen open in an expression of pain and terror. I get to my feet, and then my stomach turns over. I vomit there on the ground beside him.

I thought I was being ripped apart.

But it was the prince.

How did this happen?

You did this.

The voices. They’re here, louder than before, hissing and spitting into my brain.

“No!” I whisper, but something moving across my hands attracts my attention. I look at them, and swirls of black energy radiate over my palms.

The wispy fingers from the corners of my house. Clinging to my skin.

The darkness crawls over my skin like lice, tiny black dots.

I turn my hands over, studying them, and glance again at Prince Madoc’s body.

I did that.

King Afon’s son.

He will skin me alive for this.

A shout rings out on the hillside, followed by another.

“The prince’s horse! Up on the hill!”