She was trembling as she grabbed her father’s arm and tugged, pulling his sobbing figure away from the door so she could slam it shut.
Later that night, as Will clutched a pillow to his chest and let the hurt of the day seep through him, his tears wetting the silk beneath his cheek, he realized he hadn’t felt a whisper of Aya’s persuasion affinity when she ordered them to go.
It was masterful control for someone so young. Maybe her tremors hadn’t been those of anger, or fear, or even sadness, after all.
Maybe they’d been restraint.
10
The light was blinding. It was the first thing Aya noticed when they ripped the burlap sack from her head, her eyes searing as she struggled to adjust to seeing something other than the tan fabric for the first time in…
Days? She wasn’t sure.
They’d shackled her wrists behind her back in Sitya before throwing her into the back of a prisoner wagon. A guard with a leering smile had shoved the bag over her head before slamming the door, and Aya had been left alone with nothing but her thoughts and the muted sounds of their journey for company.
And yet that vise grip on her power had remained, closer and more suffocating than before. She wasn’t sure how Evie managed it—how she was able to smother Aya’s power without being confined in the wagon with her. She’d tried to leverage the distance, had scraped and clawed and thrashed against that inner barrier until she felt dizzy with exhaustion.
It hadn’t made any difference.
So she’d turned her focus instead to trying to sort through the noises outside the wagon. Were those rocks they were traversing? Did she imagine the bellow of an ox? How many guards’ voices could she make out?
But the darkness of the hood was suffocating, and her fear was mounting, and her grief…
Her grief was going to kill her yet.
Perhaps it was no surprise that she eventually succumbed to the numbness begging for her surrender.
By the time they’d arrived wherever it was they were, she couldn’t bring herself to take any particular note of it except that it seemed to be at the base of a steep decline, if the way Aya had slammed against the front wall of the wagon was any indication. She’d cracked her head hard enough that the guards had heard it. Their laughter had broken through the buzzing in her mind, but wasn’t enough to spur anything more.
They’d laughed again at the state of her when they’d yanked her from the wagon a few short moments ago and steered her roughly inside, where they’d finally removed her hood.
She blinked hard, her shoulders aching from the position of her arms, and forced herself to take in her surroundings.
She stood in the center of a large cavernous room, its stone walls stretching stories above her head. Evie and Andras were beside her, their necks craning so they could take in the gray light that filtered into the room from thin, rectangular windows that lined the left wall.
They were far too high for Aya to make out what stood beyond them.
Aya fought against the wave of cold that swept over her as her gaze scanned the space once more. The room reminded her of the worship area in the Synastysi, except instead of a pulpit, there was a dais, each of its three steps marked with towering iron candelabras that cast the stone throne at the top in a tangle of shadows and light.
A man stood before the throne, and though he wore no sign of royalty, no sigil or crown atop his golden hair, the guards strategically placed around him told Aya exactly who he was.
Someone cleared their throat, and it took Aya a moment to realize General Dav stood at the base of the dais. He must have escorted them personally, then.
“You stand in the presence of King Gregor, ruler of Kakos and liberator from the tyranny of the gods,” Dav remarked, motioning to the man standing before the throne.
Andras dropped to a knee, his body hunched in deference. But Evie remained standing, the only respect she paid the king a simple dip of her chin. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Your Majesty,” she greeted. “I am—”
“Saint Evie, if the missives are to be believed,” Gregor interrupted. His voice was deep and smooth, the smile on his face as curious as it was amused as he took in the saint. “The messengers who rode ahead had plenty to report regarding your…abilities.” He paused, his gaze flicking to Andras. “Rise, Kiloner.”
The Diaforaté staggered to his feet.
“I hear we have you to thank for bringing Evie to our forces,” the king observed. It was impossible to parse through his measured tone, to tell if it was gratitude or something far more dangerous for Andras that lay there. But Andras dipped his head in admission all the same.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” he murmured.
Gregor’s gaze roved over Evie once more. His eyes held a strange gleam to them, one that tugged at the edges of Aya’s memory for a reason she couldn’t place. She was too distracted by trying to understand what that look meant: the firm set of his stubble-covered jaw, the slight arch of his scarred blond brow.
The silence in the room felt thick and tense, but Evie broke it gently as she said, “I am all too happy to prove I am who I say I am if you have concerns, Your Majesty.”
