It isn’t too late to jump. It isn’t too late to jump. It isn’t too late to jump.

Elysa’s parting words rang like a mantra in my head as I listened to the churning black water so far below. A fog had rolled in, the thickness in the air heralding rain. The vapor obscured the waxing moon and plunged the wrathful waves below into darkness. The surf’s angry roar reached me, but not even their white tips were visible in the darkest hours of the night.

I clung to the iron rail, not caring as the cold seeped up my arms, as it searched out every ounce of magic the metal could devour. The dread that gripped my heart made me numb to it. Numb to everything.

Elysa, Varian . . . A knife twisted in my gut. How had I never seen how deep her hatred ran? How had I never known the cruel truth that lived beneath Varian’s handsome surface and glimmering promises?

Varian would come soon. He would take me to my mother’s temple and in the light of dawn, we would be wed. The priestesses would force the bond and my magic, my life, and my body would be his. He’d free me from this cage only to put me in a new, gilded one in Hyperion. Then he could use me until I was nothing but an empty husk. A shell where life and magic had once lived. And if I died . . . he would live on.

Lightning brightened the horizon. Thunder rolled, muted with distance. I listened to that far-off growl, to the raging tide hundreds of feet below, and knew that freedom would be nothing more than a distant memory, full of molten silver eyes and mischievous smiles, one I would cling to as Varian placed his heirs in my belly, as he used my power to wage Doria’s wars.

His wars . . . How many people would die by my flames? How many innocents would feel the slaver’s brand burn their flesh because my power had been used against them?

And there was nothing I could do. Nothing except—

It isn’t too late to jump.

I stared down towards the dark, frigid waters that were hidden by the fog. A gale blew in from the storm brewing off the horizon, carrying the fog on towards the city, revealing the sharp rocks below. I tightened my hands on the rail and stepped onto the lowest foothold in the wrought iron. A quiet sob ripped from my throat, the wind carrying my tears to join the sea. I stepped higher.

The wind whipped my hair, and I froze. Voices. Voices were carried on the wind. The words were indistinct, but other sounds were clear enough—laughter and song. Probably drunk commoners, heading home from the tavern. But whoever they were . . . their voices held no fear. There was no darkness in their song. Only warmth and light and life.

My trembling hands released the rail, and I threw myself back towards the door. I made it a step into the tower room and collapsed on the cold stone, heavy, wracking sobs shaking my body as the terrible truth of what I’d just considered rushed through me.

No. No. No. Again, those voices rose on the wind. And for some reason, hope filled me. And with this hope, as I listened to those distant people sing, my resolve steadied. As long as there was breath in my body, power in my veins, hope still lived.

I breathed deep, quieting my sobs, and after a long moment, my mind began to turn.

And then I remembered.