Ayla Crown tasted death at the back of her tongue. A few minutes earlier, she had unlocked the secret crypt in the Hall of Mirrors. Inside, power swirled, whispering in a language she did not understand, calling something deep within her marrow. She felt it urgent, obvious, like the answer to a question she had somehow forgotten.

The rest of the abandoned palace was collapsing, but this door had remained closed as long as the curses existed. Her ancestors had fought to keep it secret. The crown was the only key, and Ayla thought, as she opened the door with a creak, that there must have been a reason they had hidden it so well. Her heart beat fast as she looked inside.

But before she could see anything interesting, a force surged from the void, struck her in the chest, and threw her to the other side of the room. The door slammed shut with force. For a moment there was silence, almost peace, which had become the most coveted and rare luxury. It was the only thing she dared to wish for these days: peace from the pain that pulsed inside her chest, where an arrow had torn her heart in two.