Page 169 of The Shadowed Oracle

He angled his head to see down into the darkness of the dungeons. “Not at the moment, no.” He was calm, but there was a slight urgency in his movements. A discordance that seemed, somehow, wrong. The shift from icy composure to whatever thiswas, Monia couldn’t help note how unnatural it felt. It was like he was expecting someone, had planned for something that was now going awry.

“I apologize,” Sylan said. He placed his hand over his chest, right at the emblazoned silver Hydra sigil of his court. “I didn’t want to do that to you. But it was necessary.”

Monia gaped, shocked. “Sorry for what? What did you do to me?” she asked too suddenly. The workings of her mouth still felt wobbly, and she couldn’t tell if her blurting seemed mocking or genuine. “I mean, this is your castle, Prince Sylan. What do you have to be sorry for?”

He shot his brow upward. “I think you know. You know what I did to you.”

With his words came an instant acceptance. Like she’d been granted access to his thoughts, she instantly knew that it was him. He’d thrown that veil over her. And she knew why he had done it.

He was using her to point the blame for Ingrid’s escape away from himself.

Monia nodded, still rigid. “Yes,” she said. “I understand.” She didn’t know whether to thank the prince or to spit at him. To be so violated, and so suddenly, it was something she never wanted to experience again. On the other hand, he’d likely saved her life. Ripped her from Enitha’s violent grasp and allowed her to live another day.

For that alone, it was impossible to hate him. And it would feel too close to groveling to thank him. So she landed somewhere in between.

“Make it up to me.” Her eyes were wild, wide and demanding. “Forget your apology. The only thing I want is to never see that dungeon again.” She shook the chains draped around her hands. “Please. Let me go. Let me leave this place.Please. I’m begging you!”

“Do not beg,” Sylan said with a smile. “After all you’ve done, it is below you.” A draft of air flooded in from above, ruffling the prince’s pitch-black hair. He ran a hand through it, moving it from his face.

Then Sylan Aloris, feared Prince of the greatest kingdom in Ealis, leaned over to whisper in the brave lady’s maid’s ear.

A promise. A dream. A grand story contained in only a few words, the vibration of which tickled Monia’s ear and made her mouth pucker at the sensation. Her eyes shut tightly from the chills running down her neck.

And when she fluttered her eyelids open again, she was alone, back in her cell. A new cell. Larger, cleaner, with a candle for the smell she’d complained about and a plated, steaming hot meal sitting atop a small wooden table.

As hard as she tried, she could not remember how she’d gotten there, how long she’d been back, or, more perplexingly, any specifics of what the general had said to her.

Only the sentiment remained, the poetry of his tale filling her with an all-consuming hope.

That story. It was more than a dream Sylan had painted for her. It was just as real as the chains strapped to her legs. Somehow, she knew it. It was real. It was inevitable.

Something was coming.

A new beginning to an old tale.

Shifting the very fabric of Ealis.