"Exactly." He snaps his fingers, and for a moment we don't say anything. Then Dean smiles devilishly. "I have a confession to make. I'm the one who let Lopsi out."

I throw my hands up in shock. "You freed that creature! Why?"

He shrugs. "I needed a way to get you to my realm. It was the only real solution."

I groan, rubbing my temples. "People got hurt. Someone could have been killed."

"But they weren't, were they? Hey, how about we focus on something else? Like that. What's that?" Dean points to something in the wall. A handprint covered in spikes.

I step forward. "I know what that is. I’ve seen its kind before."

"Well, what—"

Before he can finish, I stick my hand onto the spikes, letting my blood flow into the stone. The glyphs begin to glow silver, and then the wall with the story begins to open. Not a wall then. A door.

And behind it there's a smaller courtyard with a pedestal in the center. Upon it sits a shallow bowl of gold filled with clear water.

Dean looks into the vessel, his eyes lighting up. "This can’t be. It can’t."

"What is it?" I ask, walking to his side, and then I see it, my reflection in the water, and I understand.

I see myself in the water, back in Portland, at a graduation. My graduation. From law school. I see Es and Pete congratulating me. I see us go to dinner at a restaurant fancier than I could afford, and there is someone there with me. A man, tall and handsome, whispering in my ear. I laugh at whatever he says, and then we kiss.

I reach to touch the water, grasping at the droplets that run through my fingers, at the images that seem half memory. I can almost feel—

Dean yanks my hand away. "Do not touch the water. It’s said if you do, you will be swept away into another reality, another existence."

I blink a few times, and the visions begin to fade. I begin to feel more like myself. "What is this?"

Dean looks at the bowl. "My Keeper told of such a thing, though even he thought it myth. The Mirror of Idis. It is said, at the deepest of his despair, the Primal One wept, and his tears created a pool, a mirror, showing how things may have been if he'd chosen differently."

So that could have been my life. If I had never taken the contract. If I had followed the path I was on. I could have been a lawyer. I could have been safe and happy with my friends. I could even have love.

But I could never have my mother.

She wasn’t in the vision. Because her soul was still trapped. Trapped for all eternity.

That path is gone. I can never go back.

Dean touches my hand, pulling me away from my dark thoughts. He looks at me, his eyes filled with a sorrow I haven’t seen before. "The mirror," he says, "the mirror showed me what would have happened if I had never let you go. If I had taken the first turn as was intended." He smiles, though his eyes fill with tears. "We could have been happy. Happier than I ever imagined. Perhaps we still can." He massages my hands with his own, caressing them with the softest touch. "I know what I want, Arianna. Do you?"

I step back, letting his hands fall away. Because I don’t. I don’t know what I want.

Fen, because he makes me happy.

Asher, because he can bring about peace.

Dean, because he reminds me that life can be thrilling.

All of them. None of them.

But I must choose.

And my choice will change the whole world.

Chapter 9

UNCHAINED

Fenris Vane

"I can hear Fen mumbling his complaints. I ignore them."

—Arianna Spero

My skills have grown dull. For weeks I was tortured, barred and caged. Now, I wield a sword once more. I feel the weight in my palm, the leather grip on my skin. The blade is perfectly balanced, thick and sharp for piercing armor and bone. It is of Kayla’s making. I strike at the wooden target before me, slicing through air, splitting the log in half. I move on to a stone pillar. The vampire blood coursing through my veins gives me strength, makes wood and flesh too frail. The stone will dull my blade, but I need something solid to practice on, something that won’t break at the hint of my power. I side step on the soft grass, light on my feet, striking at the column. I cut into the stone over and over, and then I change my technique. I begin to stop my blade short just as it meets my target, practicing control over strength. I imagine a body where the pillar is. Head, torso, legs. Strike. Strike. Strike. I aim for where the major arteries would be. I aim for a guaranteed kill.

The training yard is near empty this time of night, but a few practice in the shadows far off. The smell of roses and peaches carries on the wind, tickling my nose, as I wipe the sweat from my brow. White flowers and green vines spill over the walls around the field, sprinkling the darkness with touches of light. There is no fancier training yard in all Seven Realms, and I wonder why Dean mixes combat and beauty. War is simple, brutal, devoid of art, and yet my brother approaches the two as one and the same. I’ve seen it in the way he fights, twirling through a battlefield, jumping over his foes, more dancing than cleaving. There is elegance to his technique, but foolishness as well. Too often he leaves his back exposed. Too often he strikes with more flair than speed. I see his methods in the others practicing here. The Style of the Rose, I hear them call it. Such a soft name for such a soft form.

Despite myself, I begin to adopt its stance. Upright, blade far from the body. Legs bent slightly and loose. I twirl, spinning my blade like a storm, ravaging the stone pillar. I leap, leaving myself exposed, but covering a far greater distance than usual. My heart rate begins to rise. There is some sense to this method after all. Perhaps I will never use it in battle, but it will be of use if ever I am forced to fight Dean’s soldiers. If ever I am forced to fight my brother.