He took another step, entering fully into the tent, now frowning. Aron’s eyes were open and staring. The front of his shirt was stained with blood—blood that soaked into the dirt floor.

The realization hit him hard. Aron was already dead.

Someone grabbed him from behind, a strong arm crushing his throat.

“You think Paelsian scum like you can attack us so easily, that we won’t be able to kill every last one of you?” It was a guard, a large one with bad breath. “Think again, rebel.”

Jonas arched his blade upward, but the guard caught his wrist, wrenching it to the side to break the bone with a sharp crack. Jonas roared in pain and lost his concentration for a split second.

That was all it took.

The guard brought his own blade down, sinking it straight into Jonas’s heart.

Then he yanked out the blade and shoved Jonas forward. Jonas stumbled to the ground hard, only a few feet from Aron. He looked up, gasping, his vision swirling. The guard was a hulking black silhouette surrounded by morning light.

He wiped the blood off his hands. “You honestly thought you could stop us with your little group of savages? Gonna go kill me a few more before breakfast.” He was laughing as he left the tent.

Jonas’s chest bloomed with agonizing, searing pain. His life bled out onto the tent floor, oozing bright red, sliding across the ground to mingle with that of Aron’s.

“Brion . . .” Jonas’s throat was thick, his eyes burning. A memory—his and Brion’s childhood, running through the vineyard, stealing sweet, plump grapes, and being chased by Jonas’s angry father, who’d—so unlike his son—accepted his destiny without a fight, who’d always followed the rules set forth by Chief Basilius, even when these same rules left his family’s bellies empty.

Catching up to the always rebellious Tomas, who laughed at their antics—Tomas, who never followed a single rule in his life unless he made it himself. And Felicia, his bossy sister, who just stood with her hands on her hips, shaking her head and warning Jonas that he’d get in trouble one day for not toeing the line. Felicia was strong—strong enough to survive without him. Strong like their mother had been before the wasting disease had taken her. Jonas had heard rumors that Cleo’s sister had died of a similar ailment.

I never told her that. I should have told her.

Images of the princess with golden hair slid through his mind. He was in the cave again, kissing her as if he had no choice, confused by such overwhelming feelings toward a girl he’d previously despised and wanted dead. But even the coldest hate can shift into something warmer if given enough time, just as an ugly caterpillar can turn into a beautiful butterfly.

Images of Lysandra, smiling, her unexpected beauty this morning like a blow to his gut. The flashing of her brown eyes when she was angry, arguing, always gave him a hard time. But he was glad he’d accepted her as one of his rebels because she was so skilled, so determined, so damn passionate she lit a fire inside of him with only a few words.

And now he would die staring into the glazed eyes of Aron Lagaris. For months, Jonas had wanted vengeance toward him so much, more than anything else. And now the boy he’d hated more than anyone else in the world was nothing more than a shell—an empty shell.

Death solved nothing. It was only an end.

And now his own end had come.

A small surge of light caught the corner of his fading vision. Someone had entered the tent. His last gasps of breath were so slight he would already look dead to anyone but the most skilled healer.

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?”