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he’s just going to kill me?
Another might feel relieved, but my insides
turn cold with fear. He will not kill me. Not
Maven. I feel it in his touch. His long, pale
fingers still cling to my wrist, while his other
hand still holds my leash. Even now, when I
am painfully his, he won’t let go. I would
prefer death to this cage, to the twisted ob-
session of a mad boy king.
I remember his notes, each one ending
with the same strange lament.
Until we meet again.
He continues speaking, but his voice dulls
in my head, the whine of a hornet coming too
close, making every nerve stand on edge. I
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look over my shoulder. My eyes drift through
the crowd of courtiers behind us. All of them
stand proud and vile in their mourning
black. Lord Volo of House Samos and his
son, Ptolemus, are splendid in polished,
ebony armor with scaled silver sashes from
hip to shoulder. At the sight of the latter, I
see scarlet, raging red. I fight the urge to
lunge and rip the skin from Ptolemus’s face.
To stab him through his heart the way he did
my brother Shade. The desire shows, and he
has the spine to smirk at me. If not for the
collar and the silent guards restricting
everything I am, I would turn his bones to
smoking glass.
Somehow his sister, an enemy of so many
months ago, isn’t looking at me. Evangeline,
her gown spiked with black crystal, is ever
the glittering star of such a violent constella-
tion. I suppose she’ll be queen soon, having
suffered her betrothal to Maven long enough.
Her gaze is on the king’s back, dark eyes
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fixed with burning focus on the nape of his
neck. A breeze picks up, stirring her glossy
curtain of silver hair, blowing it back from
her shoulders, but she doesn’t blink. Only
after a long moment does she seem to notice
me staring. And even then, her eyes barely
flick to mine. They are empty of feeling. I am
no longer worthy of her attention.
“Mare Barrow is a prisoner of the crown,
and she will face the crown and council’s
judgment. Her many crimes must be
answered for.”
With what? I wonder.
The crowd roars in response, cheering his
decree. They are Silvers, but “common,” not
of noble descent. While they revel in Maven’s
words, his court does not react. In fact, some
of them turn gray, angry, stone-faced. None
more so than House Merandus, their mourn-
ing garb slashed with the dark blue of the
dead queen’s wretched colors. While Evan-
geline did not notice me, they fix on my face
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with startling intensity. Eyes of burning blue
from every direction. I expect to hear their
whispers in my head, a dozen voices burrow-
ing like worms through a rotten apple. In-
stead, there is only silence. Perhaps the Ar-
ven officers flanking me are not just jailers,
but protectors as well, smothering my ability
as well as the abilities of anyone who would
use them against me. Maven’s orders, I as-
sume. No one else may hurt me here.
No one but him.
But everything hurts already. It hurts to
stand, hurts to move, hurts to think. From
the jet crash, from the sounder, from the
crushing weight of the silencing guards. And
those are only physical wounds. Bruises.
Fractures. Pains that will heal if given the
time. The same cannot be said of the rest. My
brother is dead. I am a prisoner. And I don’t
know what really happened to my friends
however many days ago when I struck this
devil’s bargain. Cal, Kilorn, Cameron, my
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brothers Bree and Tramy. We left them be-
hind in the clearing, but they were wounded,
immobilized, vulnerable. Maven could have
sent any number of assassins back to finish
what he started. I traded myself for them all,
and I don’t even know if it worked.
Maven would tell me if I asked him. I can
see it in his face. His eyes dart to mine after
every vile sentence, punctuating every lie
performed for his adoring subjects. To make
sure I’m watching, paying attention, looking
at him. Like the child he is.
I will not beg him. Not here. Not like this.
I have pride enough for that.
“My mother and father died fighting
these animals,” he rails on. “They gave their
lives to keep this kingdom whole, to keep you
safe.”
Defeated as I am, I can’t help but glare at
Maven, meeting his fire with a hiss of my
own. We both remember his father’s death.
His murder. Queen Elara whispered her way
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into Cal’s brain, turning the king’s beloved
heir into a deadly weapon. Maven and I
watched as Cal was forced to become his
father’s killer, cutting off the king’s head and
any chance Cal had of ruling. I have seen
many horrible things since then, and still the
memory haunts me.
I
don’t
remember
much
of what
happened to the queen outside the walls of
Corros Prison. The state of her body after-
ward was testament enough to what un-
bridled lightning