Cleo stared at him with shock. “You disgusting coward!”
He cast a withering look at her. “I am a Limerian. You are an enemy, no matter whom you’ve married. You,” he said, the word twisting with distaste, “are the reason everything we’ve cherished in Limeros for generations has been destroyed.”
“My, you give me much more power than I actually have.” She straightened her shoulders and narrowed her gaze. “Lower your weapon immediately and perhaps I won’t demand your execution.”
“I don’t take orders from any Auranian.”
“Do you take orders from me?” Magnus asked, his tone edged in acid.
“I would,” the guard replied. “If you still had any power here.”
Hands fisted, Magnus stepped forward, but the guard responded by raising the blade to the prince’s throat. A gasp of fear caught in Cleo’s throat.
“Do you even know my name, your highness?” the guard sneered. “The empress does. She knows everyone’s name.”
“Amara Cortas clearly has an amazing ability to retain useless facts.” Magnus glowered at him. “So, what? You mean to march us up to her? Expect her to accept this generous gift with open arms and an appointment for you to captain of the guard? Don’t be a fool.”
“I’m no fool. Not anymore. Now come with me. Resist, and you will die.”
The guard then grunted as the tip of a sword appeared through his chest. He lost his balance and dropped to the ground in a heap.
Standing behind him was the other guard, wiping his comrade’s blood from his sword with a handkerchief. He glared down at the fallen guard with disgust.
“Pathetic weakling. I had to listen to his blabberings, his plans. I disagreed with each and every one. Please excuse his disloyalty, your highness.”
While so relieved her legs nearly gave out from beneath her, Cleo exchanged a concerned glance with Magnus.
“What is your name?” Magnus asked the dark-haired guard.
“Milo Iagaris, your highness.”
“You have my deepest gratitude for intervening. I take it we can depend on your loyalty?”
Milo nodded. “To the very end.”
Cleo let out the breath she hadn’t even realized she’d been holding. “Thank you, Milo,” she said, casting a hateful look down at the dead guard lying by her feet. “Now, let’s leave this traitor far behind us.”
? ? ?
Cleo used her green cloak to shield the shocking red of her dress and the brightness of her hair during the journey to the village.
After hours of travel via several modes of transport, including walking, wagon, and horseback, she, Magnus, and Milo arrived at their destination, exhausted. As luck would have it, the innkeeper’s wife was a seamstress from whom Cleo was able to acquire some simple new garments. Then, true to his word, Magnus escorted Cleo to her separate, private room.
Too exhausted to discuss the matter of the curse any further than they already had, Cleo shut and locked the door, collapsed onto the hard bed, and fell asleep immediately.
The morning sunlight woke her rudely, and as soon as her eyes were open she shielded them to block out the glare. Moments later, the seamstress knocked and brought in a basin of warm water to wash up with. Cleo was grateful for the chance to finally clean off the dirt that had accumulated on her skin during her travels. After she washed, she slipped into her new plain cotton dress and spent the next several minutes working hard to pick the tangles out of her hair with a silver comb left next to the basin.
As she finished up, she eyed her reflection, halfway expecting to see someone completely different. It felt as if so much had changed in a matter of mere days. But there in the mirror was simply the same Cleo she always saw. Golden hair, blue-green eyes that had lost only a bit of the weariness that started creeping into them only a year ago, and freshly seventeen years old.
She turned from the mirror with a sigh and reached for the chair over which she’d slung the cloak she’d stolen from a Kraeshian guard during her escape from Amara’s borrowed villa. She inspected it in the bright light, looking for tears, but was pleased to find it intact.
As of today, her only possessions were a borrowed gown, a stolen cloak, and an obsidian orb.
And, of course, her memories.
Before she had a chance to consider everything that she’d lost over the last year, she was interrupted by a very loud grumble in the pit of her stomach.
When was the last time she’d eaten? She honestly couldn’t remember.
Cleo left her room and peered down the hallway, briefly wondering which room belonged to Magnus. She drew the hood of her cloak close to her face, just in case someone was about at this early hour who might recognize her, then descended the creaky wooden staircase down to the inn to search for breakfast.
The first person she came upon in the empty dining room was tall, with broad shoulders and dark hair. He wore a black cloak and, with his back to her, gazed out of the front windows toward the village center.
Magnus.