“Here it is,” Kieran announced, lowering the book to his knees as he looked over at Casteel. “Did you see them without the mask?”

“That I did,” he drawled. “At first, I thought my vision had gone out on me, and then I heard my father say something like, ‘What the fuck?’ and I knew it wasn’t just me.”

I got momentarily distracted by picturing the tall and ominous figure that was his father saying that. Kieran tapped on the page, and I looked down, my stomach hollowing as I saw an ink sketch of one of the creatures we’d seen outside. It was extremely realistic—the head, the thin slits for eyes, and then nothing but smooth skin. Then again, there wasn’t much for this artist to capture beyond a male body’s general, well-muscled shape.

“How do they breathe?” I asked again because that seemed like a fairly important question.

Casteel’s lips twitched as Kieran’s eyes closed. “If it was a Gyrm?” Jasper spoke, rising from the chair to look down at the drawing. “They don’t need to breathe because they are not alive.”

Confusion drew my brows together. “How is that possible? How can something walk around and interact with people and not be alive?”

“One could ask the same question about the Craven,” Casteel said. “They react to those around them. They have mouths, and their bodies go through the motions of breathing. They hunger.” He lowered his glass to his knee. “But do you think they live? Truly?”

I didn’t need to think about that. “No,” I said, looking back at the sketch. “Not once they turn. They’re no longer alive. Nothing remains that makes them mortal, at least.”

And that was sad because all of them had been mortal at one time—people who had lives and were someone’s daughter or son, friend or lover—before the Ascended ripped everything away from them.

My hands curled into the soft material of the robe. The number of lives the Ascended had destroyed was utterly incalculable. They could’ve done that to Ian and to Tawny, devastating everything that made them who they were.

The Ascended had to be stopped.

“The difference here is that the Gyrms were never alive in the first place,” Kieran explained, running a finger along sentences that looked like nothing more than scribbles on an ivory page to me. “They were created from the soil of the gods and from the eather—from magic—and used to do the bidding of the one who summoned them. Created them. They have no thoughts, no will beyond why they were summoned.”

I blinked once and then twice. “They were created from dirt and magic? Seriously?”

Jasper nodded as he started pacing. “I know it sounds like something made up to scare children—”

“Like the lamaea?” I asked.

He stopped and looked at me, glass halfway to his mouth as Casteel coughed out a quiet laugh. His pale eyes shot to the Prince. “I don’t even need to ask which one of you told her about that. Out of the things you could’ve shared with her, you chose that?”

“It was a passing comment in a wider, much more important conversation that she has somehow latched on to and never forgotten.” Casteel took a drink. “Not my fault.”

“How could I ever forget about a creature that has fins for legs and tails for arms?” I wondered out loud.

“The lamaea were never real. It was just a thing really twisted parents made up.” Kieran shot his father a pointed look. “But the Gyrms were, and they were usually summoned to serve as soldiers or guards—protectors of sacred places. It says here that they can be killed with any puncture wound. Apparently, it shatters the magic holding them together, so one doesn’t have to aim for the heart or the head.”

“Good to know,” I murmured.

Kieran continued scanning the page. “Once they’ve served their purpose, whatever holds the soil and magic used to conjure them—usually a vase or cloth of some sort—is destroyed by fire. Once nothing but ash remains, they disappear.”

“They’re just conjured into existence to do whatever someone needs, and then…poof, they’re gone?” My nose wrinkled. “That seems wrong and sad. And, yes, I get that they’re technically not alive. It still doesn’t feel right.”

“It’s not,” Casteel agreed, a muscle working in his jaw. “It’s why that kind of magic is forbidden by Atlantians and mortals alike in this realm.”

There was that word again. It tugged at the memories of my time in the crypts with Jansen. “When you say ‘realm,’ what are you talking about?”

“The Lands of the Gods, that realm,” Casteel answered as his hand wandered to my upper back and slid under my braid. “It’s called Iliseeum.”

“Iliseeum?” My breath caught as what Jansen had said finally came back to me. “Jansen mentioned a place called Iliseeum—and a place called the Shadowlands. I thought he was making stuff up.” I glanced around the room. “Both are real?”