Now she aimed for retribution. She bore a lifetime of scars. Physical ones on her body and endless upon her psyche.
She was cursed. The moth women had anointed her marked by death. Asked her if she had heard their god’s call. And now, behind her ear was a tiny skull and pair of dice resting patiently, waiting for her to admit death was her future whether she liked it or not.
The king looked weary but determined. “If Topp didn’t understand me before, then he will now.”
She smiled up at him so pleasantly with her bloodied teeth gleaming. The king flinched and her grin grew wider. “Are we just going to chat all evening, then?”
Garrison let out a scoff and started dragging her back through the halls and into the ballroom. “People behave so strangely right before they die. Thought you’d fight like a wild animal.”
The people of Kava parted, their faces blanching and gaping at the sight before them. Their hero, their king—dragging the prince’s sweetheart by her hair while her red blood dripped down onto the tiled floor.
Winded and gasping for air, Elysia bent awkwardly beside the king as the band came to a terrible halt. Instruments clattered to the ground and chairs screeched as musicians flung themselves away. The king held her on the stage. He wanted everyone to see, to hear, tofeelwhat was to come.
“Garrison.”
The king looked down at her, perplexed that she was speaking. Elysia smirked and stared him dead in the eyes as she raised her voice loud enough for all the room to hear. “How’d you kill her?”
The king blinked, but she kept going.
“Tell the people how you killed your daughter for being born with magic.Did she fight like a wild animal?”
The king’s arm swung so fast she didn’t even see it coming. His palm broke against her cheekbone, her eye instantly swelling from the impact.
She kept going. “Or maybe we should talk about why magic disappeared because no one knows how that happened, right?”
Her mocking skepticism rang out loud and clear. The silent room suddenly filled with the sounds of quiet gasps and people stirring anxiously.
The king’s hand slid from her hair to her throat, squeezing to cut off her words. His face was splotched with wine stains, eyes bulging as he growled, “You will shut your mouth, you insufferable abomination.”
“Or what, you’ll kill me like your daughter?”
With a crazed sound, the king threw her down against the stage. The crowds murmured, crying out in dismay. The woman they believed would wear their crown was being forced to her knees in front of them all.
Two guards held her and heavy steps sounded behind her. She could feel the presence of the king. Heard the soft whine of his sword pulled from its scabbard.
Her time in this world was short.
Yet her eyes ran over the crowd.
She found her parents front and center. Frozen and unmoving. Her father’s face was blank, waiting for his king to tell him what to wear. Her mother was flushed with panic, whether for herself or her child, Elysia didn’t know. She didn’t move though—or scream or rage the way a mother does when their child is in danger. Silent and still, her mother told her truth.
Remy’s firm grip kept the blindsided Daphne in hand. Her gaze remained steady on Elysia, the heartbreak in her eyes clear from across the room.
Clawing her way to the front like a feral beast was her sister. Screaming and bloodying anyone who didn’t step aside.
Suddenly, the air became a cracking whip, a static buzz rushing through the room as the electric lights cut in and out. Topp stalked closer and closer to the stage, violence in his eyes and the hair on Elysia’s arms stood on end.
The king started his speech, relaying how she’d fooled them all. She was a poisonous snake, a fruit meant to condemn, but he would save them from her bite and poison on her lips. Hewrapped her long hair around his fist once more and raised his sword.
The crown prince was almost to the stage.
Guards were attempting to slow his path, but he shook them off like flies, the remnants of his magic shocking in and out.
You have one chance. And you better make it count.
She reached beneath her skirts, twisted, and plunged. The bronze handle of her blade protruded grossly from the king’s stomach, but even as he folded, he still clutched her hair and swung his sword. Wrenching herself back, she ducked his sword as the guards scrambled to regain purchase, grabbing at her dress and yanking until she was beneath them all again.
The king was a furious, bleeding mess, but she was yelling out into the ballroom, unafraid of the man behind her.
