The Girl Who Belonged to the Sea by Katherine Quinn

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Bash

“Where the fuck is Ortum?”Bash screamed, attempting to shake Margrete free from whatever trance she was under. But she was glued to the damned throne, held down by some kind of dark magic.

Bash didn’t know much about the dark arts, which his father had banned decades prior, but he surmised only a potent spell could be used to paralyze a person, to still their body as their mind drifted someplace else. At least, that was what he assumed to be happening, if her clouded eyes were any indication.

He was late coming to meet her, stopped by too many doting courtiers, and when he walked into the throne room, he found her perched on the dais, eyes glazed and unseeing.

His panicked shouts must’ve been heard, for Adrian appeared at his side minutes later, and his friend ordered guards to search for Ortum. The advisor may not be as powerful as he once was, drained from decades of holding the sea’s children back, but as Malum’s descendant, he knew more about magic than anyone on the island.

A guard raced over to whisper into Adrian’s ear, and his commander’s features fell. “No one can find him, Bash,” he said in a frantic rush. Adrian rarely lost control, but his breathing hitched, and panic shone clearly in his eyes.

“Well, search harder!” Bash grabbed at Margrete’s arm, attempting to pry her free, but just as before, she couldn’t be moved.

A sharp ache throbbed in his chest, intensifying the longer she remained under her spell, his desperation causing his hands to tremble. Sweat lined his brow, and he let out a guttural curse.

Bash rested both hands on the high back of the throne as he hovered over Margrete. He’d never felt so powerless.

“This is dark magic, Bash,” Adrian murmured behind him. “The air reeks of it.”

Indeed, the room smelled of rust and smoke, and a scent he didn’t recognize. Only once before had he witnessed dark magic with his own eyes. He was five at the time, and a disgruntled council member of his father’s had turned the fresh water supply into blood using an ancient spell book he had salvaged. Bash could still recall the scent of darkness, of the lethal enchantment the man had used. The spell was broken the moment his head tumbled from his traitorous shoulders, the old king delivering the fatal blow himself.

Only those willing to sacrifice a piece of their souls used such magic. Their power was supposedly granted by Charion, God of War and Vengeance, but only once they relinquished all the good within their hearts, turning them into a husk of the person they’d once been.

Now someone was practicing the forbidden magic again, but who would target Margrete? And why?

After the council member’s death, his father destroyed all texts and lore devoted to the subject. He sent guards from home to home, sweeping the island for practitioners, and there had been no signs of it since. Until now.

“Margrete,” Bash whispered, reaching out a shaking hand to cup her cheek. “Wake up, princess.” Her skin was like ice, and he flinched at the contact. “Please.”

Bash was aware of the shuffling footsteps behind him, of the courtiers’ hushed murmurs as they wandered into the room. His people were watching as he leaned over Margrete, his emotions on display for all to see.

Bash didn’t fucking care.

“Princess.” He trailed a finger down her cheek, gently clutching her chin with his thumb and forefinger. “I’m so sorry.”

Sorry for bringing her here. For initially hating her because of the blood running through her veins. Sorry he hadn’t shown his true face to her when he had the chance. Because her pulse was slowing, her skin growing even more pallid, and Bash feared—

He feared so very much.

“Bash.” A heavy hand fell onto his shoulder. “People are watching, and as much as I hate to say this, it probably isn’t for the best that you—”

“Wait.” Bash cut Adrian off as his eyes landed on a hint of red. He twisted around to the side of the throne and crouched, bringing himself closer to inspect what appeared to be two interwoven circles.

Painted in blood.

“I need a cloth. Water!” he barked. A minute later, someone sat a pitcher of water and a clean cloth at his feet.

Adrian wordlessly hovered above him, but Bash ignored his friend and instead swiftly dipped the cloth into the warm water and scrubbed at the throne, where the circles—no more than two inches in size—had been drawn. When the metal shone clean, he dropped the cloth, red streaks staining the pristine white linen.

“Was that what I think it was—”

A loud gasp silenced Adrian.

Margrete’s lids flew open as she sucked in air, her eyes wide with terror.

“Margrete!” Bash grasped both her arms, helping her rise before clutching her trembling frame to his chest. He didn’t give a damn if everyone on this island witnessed him now, because she was alive, and he hadn’t lost another person he…Well, another person he cared about.

And he did care about her. More than he thought possible.

“Are you all right?” He supported her head as she leaned back to meet his worried gaze. “What the hell happened?”

He wondered what could have possessed her to sit on the throne, but the blood he found painted on its side was evidence enough that someone planned this.

Margrete caught her breath, her cheeks regaining color, but the fear remained in her eyes.

She met his stare, opened her mouth, and spoke the words that would shatter his world.

“Bash. I know where the Heart’s power went.”