A shift of his stance here.
A twitch of his hand there.
All telltale signs that he had yet to share the worst.
“The day after he was taken, his burnt corpse was being hung from a light post in the Relija by a mob in retribution for the attack in Sitya.” Liam rubbed a hand across the back of his neck, his face twisting into an expression of disgust as he said,
“They’re calling Aya the Dark Saint.”
8
Aya knew Sitya had never been a grand city. Its proximity to Kakos had all but ensured that. But it had carved out a space for itself nonetheless as a stalwart of the Midlands coastline, equal parts citadel and trade center. And while she had never visited the southern port, she had memorized its depiction in the maps that lined Gianna’s formal meeting chambers—a necessity when leveraging a network of marks and spies.
There were no palaces where upper merchants pretended to be kings, no booming tourist center that drew in those desperate for distraction and coin.
No, Sitya’s renown came from one thing: a large Zeluus-fortified wall that curved around the base of the city and jutted into the sea, its entrance just wide enough for two ships to pass through.
The Gateway of the Anath, they called it.
A gateway now blown open, leaving Sitya ready for ruin. And ruin Kakos had.
Aya stared at where that wall had once stood, the only remaining evidence of its existence the crumbled bits that lay near the base of the city. Even from this distance, she could see the damage to the trade depot that stood on the leftside of the harbor. Large sections were missing, as if a god’s hand had gouged out the cement walls. Beyond it, where the city stretched into the hills, terra-cotta-roofed homes were smudged black and brown, burned or destroyed entirely, creating haunting gaps in a once crowded hillside.
It seemed the only part of Sitya that Kakos had spared was the fortress. It sat proudly on the right side of the port, its stone walls untouched except for the banners hanging from its battlements, a crescent moon turned and resting on its two points etched in silver, glinting against the deep navy fabric.
The mark of the Decachiré, the forbidden dark-affinity practice that had mortals reaching for godlike power, was now Kakos’s sigil.
Aya shifted against the thick rope around her wrists, the material chafing against already raw skin. She eyed the lip of the skiff.
It was too far for her to jump. Even if she could overpower Andras in her weakened state, she wouldn’t make it into the water before Evie had her back in her clutches.
So instead, she looked toward the battlements, where she could see a line of guards standing sentry, monitoring the harbor.
Please gods, let them kill us.
She pressed her thumb hard against the scar on the inside of her palm. Will would forgive her for this, she thought. He would understand that death was better than whatever else awaited them on shore.
Knowing it did nothing to lessen the ache in her heart.
Please gods, let them kill us.
She kept up that silent, steady prayer as they sailed into the port, their white flag a beacon against the darkening sky. She wasn’t sure why she bothered; she didn’t expect the gods to listen. Even still…it seemed especially cruel that for all of Kakos’s sins, ignoring a clear sign of surrender was not one of them. But even as their skiff docked in the port and twoguards rushed aboard, swords drawn, the Kakos soldiers did not strike.
“State your purpose here,” the first man grunted.
For a single breath, hope unfurled in Aya’s chest. Perhaps Andras had lied. Perhaps his own would not recognize him, and then—
That hoped curdled as the second warrior stepped forward, his pale face brightening as eyes landed on Andras. “Andras Kilonor? Is that you?” he asked, his blade lowering slightly.
“In the flesh, Jensen.”
“We heard you were dead,” the first warrior muttered.
“Disappointed, Lowar?” Andras quipped. He tightened his grip on Aya’s rope. “I have a gift for His Majesty.”
Aya cut a glance to Evie, but the saint remained passive beside her. Lowar’s brow furrowed, his gaze darting between the three of them. “Who are the prisoners?”
Evie laughed, the sound lilting and light. “I assure you, there is but one prisoner here.”
