The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Margrete

Margrete floatedbeneath the swooping arches and beyond the perimeter of the grand hall where the feast was held. Picking up her skirts, she abandoned the festivities and dashed down the hall to the throne room.

Bash had yet to arrive, the chamber devoid of revelers. The place still unnerved her, though she didn’t understand why. Whenever she drew near the dais, her skin prickled, and the heavy sensation of foreboding wrapped around her throat and squeezed.

Gritting her teeth, she ambled over to the steps leading up the dais, determined to squash her nonsensical trepidation. The silver netting shone brilliantly beneath the sconces, and the throne appeared otherworldly beneath the intricate lattices. Having never been this close, she was only now noticing the carved symbols of convoluted design encircling the empty bezel of silver. It looked as if a jewel would rest there, and then she remembered—

The empty bezel used to hold Malum’s heart.

With a hasty glance behind her, Margrete touched the foreign yet familiar figures, tracing each swirl and line. The silver marks roused a distant sort of memory, one that didn’t belong only to her.

As her finger outlined the final marking, completing the circle, something ached inside of her, an old and obscure yearning that exposed itself in the form of fluttering nerves. These nerves tickled her stomach, spinning in her gut and rising up her throat. It was a strange sensation.

Margrete wondered if it was nerves at all.

Cautiously, she turned and lowered herself onto the throne. It was more than harmless curiosity that had driven her to sit, to rest her hands on the carved arms and caress the delicate designs the God of the Sea had supposedly crafted himself.

Sit. Watch, a voice whispered in her ear—the voice she knew in her soul didn’t belong to Malum. It belonged to him. Darius.

Margrete closed her eyes and a surge of adrenaline swept through her veins. It was heady and addicting, and her body buzzed with it.

When she opened her eyes, she realized she'd been tricked.

Margrete couldn’t movefrom the throne.

With a grunt, she tried in vain to pry her arms free, but invisible shackles held her wrists in place, imprisoning her in the ancient chair.

She heard the distant screams, but they faded as the world shifted and blurred. The scent of copper filled the air, clogging her nostrils.

She blinked, squeezing her lids closed in the hope that this was merely some nightmare, but when she opened them once more, she knew the scene before her was anything but a dream.

Watch, said the same sensuous voice she’d come to know. Its rich timbre was a far cry from Malum’s gentle caress, passion and hunger embodying the deep growl of his command.

Margrete gripped the armrests as a milky haze wafted into the opulent chamber, the scent of metal and rust potent in the air. Blood.

It was everywhere, painting the throne room floor and speckling the grim statues lining the chamber. It coated the intricate tapestries and azure drapes, and crimson splatters stretched up to mark the arched windowpanes that let in the moon’s hazy glow.

What is this?she asked, hoping the voice would answer. She needed to be reminded that this wasn’t real. That there was an explanation for why she was being forced to see this.

A stuttering heartbeat later, the voice answered.

This is your beginning.

She was about to scream, to yell out to the supernatural entity haunting her, when a new voice—one she didn’t recognize—broke through the air. She squinted as the churning fog cleared, revealing a man on his knees, gazing up at a cloaked figure cast in shadows.

“I trusted you.” The wounded man spoke, his voice cracking. He clutched his stomach with both hands, crimson saturating his cerulean robes. “Why? After everything we have been through, my friend?”

Margrete tasted the anguish in the man’s voice—the betrayal—but she was anchored in place. Even without the invisible bonds, she couldn’t have looked away if she wanted to.

Ten soldiers wearing thick leather and carrying broadswords swept into the room as the hooded man chuckled, the sound one of twisted triumph.

Gods. His was a voice she knew all too well.

Margrete gasped as the men formed a circle around their leader who now lowered himself to his knees and reached out to grasp the dying man’s chin.

“Oh, Eldoris. This is all your fault, really. You were the one who showed me what could be achieved. What I could do with the magic you were too weak to utilize.” The captain gave a humorless laugh. “The world could’ve been yours to rule. Not just this small island.” His hand dropped from the man’s chin. “You settled for a crown when you could’ve been a god.”

Margrete twisted in the seat. She wanted to go to the man on his knees, to save him. But through his pain, the man, who wore a thin circlet of gold, lifted his head.

At that moment, she knew who he was.

Bash’s father.

The hood fell from the captain’s head. He turned his steely gaze to the throne, seeming to look directly into his future daughter’s eyes. Her breath hitched, and with one simple glance, every act of cruelty he’d inflicted on her over the years hurtled into her rapidly beating heart.

The captain looked away and returned his focus to the King of Azantian. “You lost, friend,” he hissed, his lips twisted at the corners. Her father went to say more, but fresh footsteps sounded from behind the line of soldiers, interrupting whatever cruel words he planned to deliver.

The muscled warriors parted, revealing a beautiful dark-haired woman with red lips and the deepest hazel eyes Margrete had ever seen. With a hand clutched to her protruding belly, she approached the captain, who bestowed her with a smile borne of deep affection. It was a look Margrete had never seen him wear. The sight of it was nearly as shocking as the scene playing out before her.

“Arlin, my darling.” He took her delicate hands within his and pulled her to his side. “I was wondering where you ran off to.”

The woman—Arlin—beamed at the captain, her eyes twinkling beneath his adoration. “I had some loose ends to see to,” she said, her voice a delicately cruel thing, “but I wouldn’t have missed this for all the world, my love.”

The king sputtered blood, barely able to keep his head lifted, though he managed to speak, hatred lining every syllable he forced out. “You’re a traitor, Arlin.” He fumbled to stand but slipped in his own blood, his hands splayed out flat upon the throne room’s floor. “How could you do this to your people?”

Arlin scoffed, rubbing her belly. “You know why better than most why, my king,” she spat the last word. “You always overlooked my talents. My intelligence. When I asked for a larger role, you surpassed me in place of half-witted men who didn’t have the sense to see what Azantian could become.”

“I overlooked you because you are short-tempered and—”

“Enough,” Arlin thundered. “I don’t want to hear any more of your lies. You are weak. Soft. And you never deserved the crown you wear.”

Margrete’s lips parted in a soundless shout as a soldier kicked the king in the gut. His grunts of pain echoed throughout the room. More mercenaries rushed to attack the old king, but her attention drifted, captured by another sight she questioned was real at all.

There, tucked away in the corner, well behind the captain and his men, was a whirling of dark shadows. The dancing haze morphed and settled until the faint outline of a man took form.

The captain was speaking now, but she couldn’t take her eyes away from the intruder, from the magic that he possessed as he took shape.

Ortum.

Margrete gripped the throne as Ortum’s lips moved without a sound. He lifted his hands in the air, his fingers curled like talons. Time froze as a rush of wind blew through the hall, and the captain slowly lifted his face from the dying king to scan the room.

Her heart thundered when his eyes landed on Ortum, but her father’s gaze moved on, clearly unable to see the advisor or the power Malum’s descendant wielded. He returned his attention to Arlin.

A woman who wore Margrete’s every feature.

She knew then, with a sickening realization, who Arlin truly was. Perhaps she’d known since the moment she saw her walk through the throne room doors.

“It’s time we end this,” the captain grumbled to the king, reaching for his sword. “I’ll do you the favor of putting you out of your misery before I kill your son. Consider it my final act of friendship.”

At the mention of Bash, Margrete’s heart ached. Her skin burned as she twisted to free herself from the throne. Never before had she desired to kill her father as much as she did now. The phantom bonds around her wrists slackened before pinning her back in place.

“May the sea god embrace you,” Arlin said, grinning.

As the captain lifted his weapon, ready to bring it down up the old king’s neck, the shadows that cloaked Ortum whirled once more. With his hands raised high above his head, Ortum mouthed a final word. A flash of iridescent blue light flared across the expanse of Arlin’s belly, there and gone before anyone noticed.

A wave of adrenaline shot through Margrete as the light faded, and a deep knowing settled into place—Ortum had transferred the Heart’s power.

Into Arlin herself.

The figure of smoke that was Ortum wavered, but before he vanished, Margrete made out the way his mouth gaped, his coral eyes wide with shock.

He hadn’t meant to transfer the Heart to Arlin. He’d made a mistake, and a dire one at that.

Margrete’s thoughts were cut off as the captain’s sword fell. It sliced through bone, severing the king’s neck. She screamed as blood splattered her father’s face, which blazed with triumph.

“Now, the Heart.” The captain stepped over the king’s dismembered body, his boots leaving bloody footprints across the floor as he strode for the dais.

Margrete thrashed in her restraints. Every step her father took, each inch closer he came to her trembling form, sent wave after wave of pure, unbridled panic surging through her veins.

Just as the captain reached the steps leading to the throne, mere feet before the daughter he couldn’t see, he lifted his gaze.

His eyes seemed to find hers in the space across time, the icy blue searing into her flesh. Margrete saw hatred and greed trapped in his irises, but there was also a sliver of what appeared to be a feral sadness, the kind that eats away at a person until there is nothing left.

Margrete wouldn’t let him do that to her. Not anymore.

Her father took a step up, then another, and Margrete clenched her fists and roared. It was a savage sound, one mixed with fear and cutting rage. It held all of the venomous hatred she’d been forced to suppress. The resentment. The fear. The helplessness.

Margrete erupted.

The shackles holding her to the throne burned her skin, and flames coiled around her insides. This fire flared within her chest until there was nothing but a fine red mist of rage and a pounding heartbeat in the air. Her body shook from the sheer intensity of foreign power, but the shackles around her wrists continued to hold her down.

Margrete let loose a screech of frustration as white fog curled around the edges of the room, dancing up the pillars and statues. Her father’s face blurred, but the malice that contorted his features could never be washed away.

That cursed voice returned to her ears, echoing in the chambers. That damned voice that refused to leave her alone.

You’re the one I’ve been searching for.