The azure bay spread far, far beneath her. A handful of ships dawdled in the water, masts lowered, their crew moving about like busy ants. The wind was warm, with a hint of chill, unlike the scorching plains that stretched behind the keep, or the humid city streets cradled by limestone cliffs.

Rina didn't know how she knew all this—she'd never been in this room, or this fortress, before—yet she knew it deep in her bones.

The realisation caused her to pause mentally. Her body didn't still, though, instead it continued, passing through a diaphanous gauze curtain to the balcony, pulling Rina deeper into the mind of a stranger.

She twisted her arms, resting the pads of her palms on the stone balustrade, the inner skin alabaster white, the veins in her wrists popping to the surface and slithering up to her elbows like blue earthworms.

This high up, she felt like she could reach out to the world below her, pick up the pieces and move them to her will like a game of duell. That soldier in the market over to the dock to punish the sleeping guard. That roaming dog back to its home. That palm tree to the banks of the river, to that spot she loved to sit as a child but had burned her skin to an unprincesslike olive.

Her sister-in-law, High-Princess Kiera, had such power. Well, almost. Being a Euran heathen, she didn't have the Carnelian Way, but her husband, High-Prince Raia—that traitor—would pull apart this city brick by brick and rebuild it a stone's throw away if it satisfied Kiera's fancy.

The crystal on her forehead blazed, and the smooth granite yielded like soap as her hands turned to grip the banister, her nails digging deep. A series of spiderweb cracks rippled out from the tips of her fingers and dust tickled her nose. It came with the scents of the hanging gardens that draped across the keep, of climbing rose and oleander. Of the decay of flesh in the fisherman's' nets, left to rot and fester, just like the traditions of her land, ever since Raia chose to impregnate that woman, and her father let the unnatural child live.

A tremor licked up her spine, and she shivered.

She hated the laws that kept her from the succession. No member of the Denean royal family had ever impregnated a foreigner before—much as the Euran royals had tried—and so there was no precedent for a clean female to trump an abomination like Mai.

It was traitorous. It was unclean. It was—her lip curled into a snarl—until the untimely deaths of two elder brothers, not a pressing concern.

Never. Raia's son would not succeed. Unfortunately, any attempt at assassination was near impossible now. Not with the round-the-clock protection her father had in place for his grandson. And a mage killing could be traced to her.

The world pulsed. Lines of energy streaked through the air, between the forms jostling through the streets.

Their life force, their élan vital, called to her.

A new flicker sparked—down this time—and her breath hitched. Heat throbbed in her, and the atmosphere grew so thick she could barely breathe.

She could drink it, though.

Few Denese had the gift of consumption. It was linked to life—and so usually seen in those whose gifts lay in agriculture. Some of the healers had it too, but in them, a weaker strain. A blessing and a curse, at her whim, she could suck the life from any living thing, from the earth itself, and feed it into any source she wished: to heal a wound, to grow a crop at an exponential rate, to power a city, to create a life—to take one.

Still, despite this, her father and Raia withheld the decision of who she would marry.

Some time ago, a sneaking suspicion had wriggled into her mind. Were they waiting for Raia to inherit? Raia, that soft-hearted brother of hers, so devoted to his wife and child—he would never relinquish his son's position.

Her father, though—he might be reasoned with. Were she to have a worthy contender. A fact, no doubt, Raia was all-too-aware of.

Well, she was not a woman to wait on the sidelines. After all, the most potent strains of the Carnelian Way flowed through the female bloodlines.

Now was the time to take action.

She returned to the dimmed light of her suite, bare feet rasping over the mosaic floors, anklet jingling, to an inner room with a full-length mirror. The material of her golden gown shimmered as the amber mage lights winked on. The dress was semi-translucent, the outline of her willow-like limbs discernable, her black hair coiled in a crown of plaits atop her head like a desert snake. She leaned forward to inspect the kohl about her hazel eyes—Rina flinched. Her eyes were yellow, not hazel! But the reflection carried on—wiping away a few stray specks of powder. Painted-red lips smiled, revealing straight white teeth with slightly elongated incisors.

A rap sounded at the door.

She paused, taking a slow breath, and swept her hand through the air.

The door didn't make a sound as it opened, though she sensed a shadow of a breeze. She applied Jasmine oil to her wrists and neck, in her own time, then made her way to the antechamber.

A man stood there, dressed in sapphire robes, his skin a deep tan, setting off startling yellow eyes.

She met his gaze, held it a moment, and said, "I've been waiting for you, Arkis." Then she turned on her heels and walked into the bedroom.

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A/N:

Hi all. Thank you so much for reading this chapter. As I hope you guessed, it's a flashback. I will have a few of them popping up in Rina's dreams as the story continues, hoping to slowly tie back in the events that led to the desolation of Denea to the current Denese situation.

Did you guess who the woman was?

Remember Arkis?

What relation do they have to Rina?

If you have any suggestions for improvement, I'd love to hear them and will take all on board for future edits. I hope to get a little further forward in the story before I go back and tidy up plot holes and clunky writing. Time is the best critic.

Thanks so much oxox

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Dedicated to the super-awesome @Imperfetto_Tesoro: a writer extraordinaire who inspires writers never to give up. Check out her brilliant work and her monthly magazine.