“We weren’t much help at first. We hate prophecies.” Holland laughed dryly. “It wasn’t until Eythos came to ask what, if anything, could be done about his brother, that I recalled the prophecy and Kolis’s interest in it. We shared it with him, and Eythos seemed to have some sort of understanding.”

“What was it? This prophecy?” Nyktos asked. “Can you tell us?”

“What I saw was just disjointed images. People ruling in the mortal realm that didn’t appear mortal—places I don’t think yet exist.”

“Like what?”

“Like cities forever laid to waste. Kingdoms shattered and rebuilt. Great and…terrible wars—wars between Kings…and between Queens.” Her brows pinched. “A forest made of trees the color of blood.”

Nyktos frowned. “The Red Woods?”

She nodded. “But in the mortal realm, and full of death. Steeped in the sins and secrets of hundreds and hundreds of years.”

“Well,” I said, exhaling slowly. “None of that sounds good.”

“But I also saw her. I saw them. A Chosen and a descendant of the First.” The eather burned brightly in Penellaphe’s eyes as they met mine. “A Queen of Flesh and Fire. And him, a King risen from Blood and Ash, who ruled side by side with man. And they…they felt right. They felt like hope.”

I really had no idea who they were or what that meant, but I would have to take her word for it. “Did you see anything else?”

“Nothing that I can understand enough to tell, but I remember the words. I’ll never forget them.” She looked down as Holland squeezed her hand once more and then let go. She cleared her throat. “‘From the desperation of golden crowns and born of mortal flesh, a great primal power rises as the heir to the lands and seas, to the skies and all the realms. A shadow in the ember, a light in the flame, to become a fire in the flesh. When the stars fall from the night, the great mountains crumble into the seas, and old bones raise their swords beside the gods, the false one will be stripped from glory until two born of the same misdeeds, born of the same great and Primal power in the mortal realm. A first daughter, with blood full of fire, fated for the once-promised King. And the second daughter, with blood full of ash and ice, the other half of the future King. Together, they will remake the realms as they usher in the end.’”

She paused, looking up with eyes as bright as polished sapphires. “‘And so it will begin with the last Chosen blood spilled, the great conspirator birthed from the flesh and fire of the Primals will awaken as the Harbinger and the Bringer of Death and Destruction to the lands gifted by the gods. Beware, for the end will come from the west to destroy the east and lay waste to all which lies between.’” She exhaled unsteadily. “That’s…that’s it.”

I started to speak and then stopped, glancing up at Nyktos. There was a thoughtful pinch to the set of his lips and a whole lot of what the hell to the arch of his brow.

“That sounds…” Nyktos blinked slowly. “That sounded intense.”

Penellaphe laughed lightly. “Isn’t it, though?”

Nyktos nodded slowly. “I think it’s safe to assume that the latter part is referencing my uncle. He is the great conspirator—the rightful Bringer of Death. He, along with my father, were born in the west.” Nyktos looked down at me. “They were born in the mortal realm. Roughly where present-day Carsodonia stands.”

“And the last part of the prophecy means that he will destroy all the lands, from west to east, including the mortal realm?” I wiped my hands down my thighs.

“Depends on how one defines Chosen,” Holland said. “It could be speaking of those chosen to serve the gods or…or those like you, chosen for a different purpose.”

“And the ‘birthed from the flesh and fire of the Primals’ could mean a rebirth of sorts,” Nyktos said. “Not an actual birth.”

“Okay. I get that, but how can that be referencing Kolis?” I asked. “How can he be awakened when he’s already…” I trailed off,

“Unless he goes to sleep,” Nyktos murmured, looking over at Holland and the goddess. “That will never happen.”

Holland head inclined. “Prophecies…they are only a possibility. So many things can change them, and from what I understand, not every word is to be taken literally. The problem is, we do not often know which words should be.”

I snorted at that. “The first part? The desperation of golden crowns? Could that be referencing Roderick Mierel? He was desperate if not yet a King at the time the deal was made.”

“I believe so,” Holland confirmed. “Eythos made the deal with Roderick shortly after he learned of the prophecy. But again, so many things can change a prophecy. That can change the meaning and the intention behind every single word.”

“Well, that’s great,” Nyktos muttered, and I almost laughed.

Holland’s smile was sympathetic. “There is never just one string that charts the course of a life or how that life will impact the realms.” Holland opened his hand, spreading his fingers wide. I gasped as numerous strands appeared, no thicker than a thread and shimmering a bright blue. “There are dozens for most lives. Some even have hundreds of possible outcomes. You.” His gaze lifted to me, and I swallowed. “You have had many strings. Many different paths. But they all ended the same.”

A chill skated down my spine. “How?”

“Sometimes, it’s better not to know,” he answered.

Penellaphe drifted closer. “But, sometimes, knowledge is power.”

I nodded. “I want to know.”

A brief, fond smile appeared, and then Holland said, “Your paths have always ended in your death before you even saw twenty-one years of life.”

I went numb. Before age twenty-one…? That was…gods, that was soon.

Nyktos stepped forward, partly blocking me. “That’s not going to happen.”

“You may be a Primal,”—Holland’s attention shifted to him—“but you are not a Fate.”

“Fate can go fuck itself,” Nyktos growled. His skin had thinned, revealing the swirling shadows underneath.

“If only.” Holland’s smile was faint, clearly unbothered by the storm brewing within Nyktos. “Death always finds you, one way or another.” His focus had returned to me. “By the hands of a god or a misinformed mortal. By Kolis himself, and even by Death.”

I stilled, my heart lurching.

“What?” Nyktos snarled.

“There are many different threads,” Penellaphe said softly, looking up at Nyktos. A great sadness had settled into her features. “Many different ways her death could come at your hands. But this one.” She lifted a finger, nearly touching one of the shimmering strands—a thread that appeared to have broken off into another shorter thread. “This was not intentional.”

“What are you talking about?” Nyktos demanded.

“She has your blood in her, doesn’t she?” she asked.

Nyktos went so still, I wasn’t sure he even breathed. My gaze darted between them. “I don’t have his blood. He hasn’t—” I sucked in a breath. The night Nyktos had fed from me. I’d bitten his thumb and drew blood. I’d tasted it. I saw the moment Nyktos remembered. I twisted toward Holland. “It was just a drop. Barely even that.”

“But it was enough,” Holland stated. “The ember of life in you is strong enough to cause you to have the symptoms of the Culling, but it wasn’t strong enough to push you into the change. The symptoms would’ve eased off, but not now. Not with the blood of a powerful Primal in you. You will go into the Culling.”

“No.” Nyktos shook his head, twists of eather swirling in his eyes. “She can’t. She’s not a godling. She’s mortal—”

“Mostly,” Penellaphe whispered. “Her body is mortal. As is her mind.” She looked at me, her eyes glistening. “But what has always been inside of you is Primal. It doesn’t matter that both of your parents were mortal. You were born with an ember of not one but two Primals inside you. That’s what will attempt to come out.”