Afia approached her, and Clythia’s spinning head stopped, drawn to the moment.

“May I?” Afia was staring at her cautiously, as though she was tiptoeing around a sleeping beast. “May I talk to you privately, my queen?”

Clythia nodded, and they strolled further from earshot.

“What is it?” Clythia crossed her hands over her chest.

“As you know, I have a gift for drawing,” Afia said, “An Intuitive Drawing.”

Clythia’s brows furrowed, and she waved her hand impatiently. “I hope what you are about to say is worth my time.” Clythia’s gaze darted to the door; two people had already exited: Morven, Modyr and his three guards.

That was fast.

“I will make it worthwhile, my queen.” Despite the smoothness of her tone, her lip quivered. “The painting of the girl was an Intuitive Drawing. I was thinking of the palace’s main resident, you, while painting that. Intuitive paintings have the capacity to draw someone’s layered truth to the surface.” She took a sharp breath. “Perhaps, if you recall what you felt when you saw that drawing, it might be the bridge of knowledge to your heart’s greatest remorse.”

“But that girl looked like you,” Clythia’s voice was low. “Honey eyes, auburn hair. Although yours is a vibrant hue of red.”

“I dye it.” Afia’s fingers trailed through her hair. “It’s actually blonde.” Clythia’s eyebrows perked up but she remained silent, and Afia continued, “The details of Intuitive Drawings can sometimes be purely aesthetic or hold a meaning; they are subjective. And the message it delivers to you is for you.”

Was this information worth her time? Clythia wasn’t sure. However, she couldn’t blame Afia because the way she presented it was raw, concern sprawled out on her features. Perhaps she had seen the struggle on Clythia’s face. Watching the girl in neat clothes clutching the doll while other children played had swelled a cathartic feeling in her. Was it remorse? If so, remorse for what? Clythia had no answer for either question.

“What did you feel drawing that?”

“Heaviness. Burden.” Silence lapsed for a moment before Afia continued, “Emotions are tricky things to label.”

All the humans were out on the sand, along with a couple of werewolves.

Clythia joined the remaining crowd, with Afia following.

“My greatest remorse is-” Casarda started, her eyes flickering to Clythia before she drooped them low and looked at Kay, who was swaggering on the sand with the humans tapping each other’s shoulders. “being spineless.”

Vina scowled at the Lady of Melop. “All we see is your spine.” She was right in a way: the back of Casarda was donned in a fabric thinner than lace, with most of her pale skin exposed. How this woman didn’t catch a cold was a mystery Clythia always wondered about.

Casarda stepped out and raised her palm. A flame erupted from it, and she beamed and did a twirl on the sand, sending the grains floating.

Another scowl from Vina.

A werewolf cleared his throat. He was bulky and intimidating like any average werewolf. He dipped his chin, and his brown dreadlocks swung down his chest. “My greatest remorse is...” he gave the petite female werewolf at his side a sad look; her olive skin was shining with anticipation. “Cheating on you, my cupcake.”

Then his foot was on the sand. His face scrunched, and a groan left his throat. The act went on for a while. The sight was a tad embarrassing; it was like he had constipation, and if he continued, he would soil himself.

Clythia didn’t know the basics of werewolf transformation, but she was certain his cringey effort was to do just that—and he had failed.

Not even Morven’s pale skin would outdo the color draining out of the female werewolf’s face, turning to the color of Stormia’s sand. One second she was frozen, and the next, a blade was tearing through the air, puncturing the heart of the male werewolf.

Blood oozed out of his bare chest, right through his beating heart, a calculated and precise throw. The werewolf’s knees gave out, then his face sank onto the sand. Moments later, a pool of red drenched the white around the corpse.

“What have you done?” Glythia roared, transforming into his human form.

“What I should have done long ago, your majesty,” the female werewolf seethed. “My greatest remorse is not putting the blade in his heart long ago.”

Then, with no care in the world, she stomped out, transforming into a white werewolf mid-air, her paws landing on the sand.

Kay whistled in awe.

Her scholars and guards confessed their greatest remorse; to Clythia’s own amazement, some of them hated the path they had chosen. They were lucky Lord Masai or General Arkansov weren’t here to hear this.

And Vina was the judge and jury, humming in approval when the confessions were ambition-coated. But when they weren’t, she tisked and scowled, and when they were neither, she held her tongue—like in cases of sentimental reasons that included loved ones.

Unfortunately, two of the scholars cursed when they found themselves stripped of their magic, and the smirks she saw on the humans’ faces and the beastly growls from the werewolves sent a chill down Clythia’s spine.

And finally, it all came down to Afia, Vina, and her. Was she going to confess her heart’s greatest remorse? She still didn’t even know what it was.

She was in deep shit.

Then an idea sparked in her mind, a very bad idea. She couldn’t believe she was going to resort to this. However, her mind was a blur, and she was on the spot to ruminate over the supposed remorse ignited by the painting.

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Fuck it. Time was of the essence, and she wasn’t someone who took personal time to assess her mind and feelings because that was for scholars, philosophers and people with no decent occupation.

“Modyr,” she called to the faerie king, the only person who was casting a soft stare at her. “We aren’t on faerie land anymore, right?”

“Yes,” he said.

I will protect you from whatever unprecedented occurrence you will face there. You only have to obey.

Tiyus’ words rang in her mind.

Clythia was certain if she begged Tiyus for help, she would regret it gravely. Possibly the greatest remorse of her life would come after she committed what she was about to commit.

Her greatest remorse could be Tiyus.

Could. Be.

She hated him, she was enraged by him. She regretted the fact that she had succumbed to his temptation. She regretted being here because of him—to destroy the only hope the planet had.

But if she admitted this, who knows what that cocky pot Evil would do? He would degrade her before the four rulers of Zyvern, their people, and her people.

And as strange and weird as it sounded, Tiyus wasn’t her greatest remorse according to her gut—it was something else. And even without mentioning a name, if she confessed something like “trusting someone wrong” or “her emotions getting the best of her,” she could risk losing her magic.

If the werewolves weren’t going to tear her limb by limb, the humans would, or Kay would. True, some of her companions had magic and would protect her, and she was well trained in weaponry, but one thing she discovered from this trip was that there were many things she didn’t know. And she didn’t want to take that chance when her life was at stake.

Besides, even if she avoided the wrath of the two races, Stormia was a dish of peril on its own.

She wasn’t certain what she was about to do would work, yet it had once, when Clen was on his deathbed, she had prayed to the dark god.

“Tiyus, protect me,” she murmured, out of earshot from the hyper ears of Morven, the faeries, and the werewolves.

A wave of lust permeated through her. As much as she was disgusted, her body welcomed the feeling. Before she lost it all, relief coursed through her, cooling down the throbbing.

Gasps and murmurs broke out as she stepped onto the chalky ground, and a ball of blue fire sparked from one palm, and a green from the other.

“How did you do that?” Casarda asked.

Clythia was either one step closer or several steps closer to losing her sense of self, but she masked her expression to stay blank. Cowering was not going to stop the inevitable.

“I am the queen of DavinSaw,” her gaze bore into the shocked Lady of Spies. “I can do anything.”

Her eyes found Morven, who was quiet, unlike the disheveled crowd. He had probably suspected, and disapproval was oozing from his stiff frame.

“My greatest remorse is,” Afia began, her voice drinking in the shocked murmurs until there was silence. “Nothing. I have no regrets so far.”

“Are you sure about that?” Vina glared at her.

Clythia had noticed Afia rubbed Vina the wrong way; her audacity always earned her a snap or retort from Vina. Complaining more than once about the quality of the wine on a daily basis was now common, almost every time they sat down to dine. To her credit, Afia brushed it off, never losing her cool.

Afia’s nod was curt, her eyes on Clythia as she exited. She opened her mouth. Red, green, and blue powder sprouted from it, settling on the sand around her.

“The writing said nothing about someone who doesn’t have remorse.” Kay smiled at her with admiration. “You are a loophole.”

Afia grinned at him. “I guess I’m lucky.”

The Lady of Hypercas was glaring down at them all. It didn’t matter if some of them were a few inches taller than her; those steel eyes of hers were assessing them as though she had crafted the warning herself.

“My greatest remorse is,” Vina said, “being born in this wretched world.”

Vina swaggered out with controlled grace. She held out her hand, and an ice cube appeared. She hated her existence? And she had flaunted the fact as though she was reciting words from Wigmond’s textbook. Clythia didn’t realize her jaw had dropped until she closed it.

The door slid shut, barring them from the cavern and sealing their place on Stormia.

They were on an endless seam of white, harsh on the eyes as it was nearly blinding with the noon sun beating down. They had to squint, shielding their eyes with their palms.

“There is nothing out here,” Glythia said. “We are nowhere near the altar.”

The altar was where they presented their Tithes, where a sword hovering above a stone was perched. They had never taken the long route to Stormia, the seven rulers Eventuated to the exact spot where they presented their Tithe and Diseventuated from there, reappearing on their respective continents.

“Stormia is a continent, not a scrap of land like Neut,” Clythia said. “We have to search for it for a while if we are not dead first.”

Clythia wasn’t going to end up dead, thanks to the Evil, but she wasn’t going to exclude herself from the statement, now would she?

“We have to look for the Sovereign first,” Morven said. “It’s possible we couldn’t find them—her—there. Since we never have.”

“Let’s just keep moving,” Modyr sighed.

“To where?” Glythia glanced around.

Kay stretched out his arm, pointing. “I say north.”

No one moved.

“Why?” Clythia asked at the same time Morven did, “How do you know that’s north?”

“No reason.” Kay stared at Clythia, agitated, then his gaze landed on Morven. “I don’t know. We don’t know.” His eyes raked over the rulers. “For once, agree with my idea.”

It wouldn’t hurt to do what he said. They were clueless, for what it was worth, and whatever direction they took was a direction taken on forbidden territory. Hence, they began heading “north.”

Relief swamped through Kay’s features—darn, they really did a number on him if he was excited that they had backed him once on such a trivial request.

Their shadows were stretched out from their feet, miniature versions of dark silhouettes flanking their bodies. Heat was lancing through Clythia; she wiped her dripping face with a kerchief. Panting and whimpering were their constant companions as they ambled forward to whatever place their feet took them. Or who knew, they might die wandering in the endless desert.

“This is how it feels to be tired from walking?” Modyr asked, panting, as he fell into step at her side.

“You haven’t confessed,” Clythia said.

“It’s not like I have many things to lose,” the faerie king shrugged, sweat beading down his forehead and onto his crimson cheeks, “but I’m already regretting that.”

A strong gust licked them, staggering them backward. Clythia’s eyes shut on reflex. It was a welcome sensation, a stark relief from the sun, which was adamant about evaporating them to their bones.

Her eyes opened.

A person twice the height of Clythia and jacked with muscles was blocking their path. He had blonde hair sparkling silver against the sun. Where his irises should be, there were flames dancing. He was clad in gold armor on his chest and clutching a silver spear that could gut them all with one sweep.

However, that wasn’t what took the breath out of Clythia’s lungs. From his back, as though he were an eagle, dark wings sprawled out, shielding them and more land around them. It would have been a nice shade if the being before them weren’t reeking of death.

“You are trespassing.” A thunderous growl escaped from his mouth. “You have broken the law. You will be punished.”

“Pardon me,” Glythia began, his hand stretched up in surrender. “We are here for the Sovereign. We have to speak with her; our lands are dying, and she—” he stuttered.

“She hasn’t kept the end of her bargain,” Clythia said, those flaming eyes zeroing in on her. “We need to know why and fix the problem with our planet.”

The being was quiet for what felt like an eternity, so much so that they were shifting uncomfortably in their places. His eyes roved over them, lingering on someone behind her for a while before he set his eyes upon her.

“I believe you are searching for the Sovereign in the wrong place.” It never got better the second time; his voice was the sharp edges of the sword of dread lancing through her essence.

“She isn’t in Stormia?” Morven asked.

“She is. But the Sovereign has instructed us to allow no one to see her.” His face split into a grin, revealing white teeth, a match for the sand beneath their feet. “You are trespassers, and you will be punished.”

Then all hell broke loose.