THE TWISTED TRUTHThe sun was high now, turning the inside of the tent into a sweltering oven. I didn't care about the heat. I didn't care about the breakfast Demetrius had left for me on the small stool. I was staring at a piece of parchment that looked different from the others. It was thinner, the edges too clean, the ink too dark.

I had spent the last few hours comparing the old scrolls—the ones from the King-Healers—with the "Official Prophecy" that Rhys had preached from the pulpit ...