The light was different near the edge of the Glade. It shimmered faintly, like the last ripple of a spell about to collapse. Caroline could feel it, the thinning magic and the whisper of freedom. Her chest rose and fell in eager breaths as she stood beside Cynthia, whose fire-wreathed fingers pulsed with warmth.
They were so close.
The trees had begun to bow away, bending as if they too were ready to let her go. Caroline looked up at the sky breaking through the branches. She hadn't seen so much open sky in days.
"This way," Cynthia murmured, low and steady. The fire around her hands dimmed to a soft glow. "We're almost through."
Caroline took a step forward.
"You're not going anywhere."
The voice froze her mid-step.
It came from behind them, sharp as a blade unsheathed in the quiet.
King Cyrus.
