Rebel Spring A Falling Kingdoms(124)

A figure sank to her knees next to him. A warm hand pressed to his forehead, another to his mouth to open it. He couldn’t resist, couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even blink.

Something was pushed into his mouth. Small pebbles.

The pebbles heated on his tongue until they felt like burning coals. They melted like lava, burning him, spreading out over his entire tongue, his mouth, and down his throat.

He arched up off the ground as the fire slid to his belly and expanded from there—torture. In his last moments of life, someone was torturing him.

A firm hand pressed against his chest to keep him from lurching upward as his body convulsed.

Like a sun setting behind the horizon, slowly, slowly the pain receded until it was only a glow in the center of his body. His breath came quicker now. His heart pounded.

His heart? But how was this possible?

It had been sliced through, but now it sounded strong. He felt its beat—fast and hard, but steady. His vision cleared just as slowly, brightening and coming into focus until he could see who it was who’d been tormenting him.

The girl’s hair shimmered like platinum—paler even than Cleo’s. Her skin shone with sunlit gold and her eyes were light, a silvery color a few shades darker than her hair. She was wrapped in a tapestry, one pulled from the wall of this very tent. Otherwise, she was naked.

“I’m very angry at you,” she said. “You went and got yourself killed.”

His mouth was so dry. “I’m dead. This is my entry to the darklands.”

She let out a sigh, one that sounded annoyed. “Not the darklands, although I’m sure you’re headed there one day soon. Another few moments and these grape seeds wouldn’t have been able to do anything for you.”

Jonas studied her face, the long line of her pale throat.

“Who are you?” he whispered.

She regarded him steadily. “My name is Phaedra.”

“Phaedra,” he repeated, licking his parched lips. “Did you say grape seeds? What are you talking about?”

“Earth magic has pulled you back from the precipice of death. Earth magic can either heal or kill, depending on who wields it. You’re lucky I like you.”

He looked down at himself, pulling his ruined shirt to the side and wiping at the blood. So much blood, but there was no longer a wound beneath. His skin had healed. His body was whole again, including the wrist the guard had broken.

Had she said earth magic?

But magic . . . it didn’t exist. He’d never believed.

This was impossible. And yet . . .

His gaze snapped to hers. “You saved my life.”

“I did. I tried to resist, to continue to watch from afar. I still don’t know if you’ll be any good to me—to us. Getting captured is one thing. At least there’s still hope for escape. But dying . . .” She groaned and placed her hands on her hips. “I couldn’t help myself. I had to shift from my hawk form, and now—well, now I’m stuck here. You’re lucky I always keep a few healing seeds hidden in my feathers for emergencies!”

This girl was mad. Completely mad. “Hawk form?”

“Yes, that is what Watchers can do.”

His eyes bugged. Watchers?

“Here,” she said. “Since I can no longer shift form, I’ll show you proof of what I am another way. Or . . . what I was until now.”

She pulled at the tapestry she’d used to cover herself. The cloth slipped from her chest and he gawked at it. Not for the reasons he would ever have gawked at a girl’s breasts—although Phaedra’s were the loveliest he’d ever seen in his life.

There was a mark over her heart—a swirl the size of his palm—like molten gold dancing on her flesh.

“It’ll turn darker in the years to come,” she said wistfully. “As my magic begins to fade.”

He couldn’t find his voice to speak, could barely find the air to breathe. Could this be true?

The hawk—the one who perched near camp every day. The one who’d followed him here into Paelsia. The one he’d tried to ignore. Had it been Phaedra?

Magic was real? Watchers were real?

It flew in the face of everything he’d believed. But seeing it, seeing her, with his own eyes—

Jonas jumped as he felt the sharp tip of a sword press against his throat. He condemned himself for losing focus, for being utterly distracted by Phaedra’s strange swirling mark and the proof of magic that caused his thoughts to become a jumbled, confused tangle.

His newly healed heart sank as he flicked his gaze toward Prince Magnus, who had silently and stealthily entered the tent.

“Apologies,” the prince said. “I certainly wouldn’t want to interrupt this.”