Nothing.
Nothing at all.
A tear slipped free, and she let it drip down her cheek and into the dirt.
“I do not think I can hold out any longer,” Lorna rasped, her broken confession shattering the silence, quiet though it was. She took a shuddering breath, the rattle of it aching across the space.
Aya pressed her fingers deeper into the dirt.
It had been easier, when she’d been in her own cell. When the darkness was the only thing she had to face.
It was better to be alone.
“I’m sorry,” Lorna whispered.
Aya blinked away the burning in her eyes.
“As am I.”
31
This time, when they led Aya into the throne room, they had the decency to give her a robe. The material felt heavy on her shoulders, the thick sleeves draping over her wrists and hiding her shackles. Even the thick chain between her irons was lost to the folds, the dark gray of it blending in with the navy of the fabric.
Aya had no misconceptions about why they were bringing her here. Lorna had given her a long look when the guards had fetched her this morning.
And yet the Saj hadn’t said goodbye. She’d merely pressed her lips together in a thin line and allowed the guards to tug her toward agony.
It had taken less than an hour for Lorna to break. Less than an hour for the guards to return for Aya, and force her into a robe, and drag her into the throne room, its gray walls lit with the soft rays of the sun streaming through the high windows.
Lorna stood bathed in one of those rays, and perhaps it was the natural light, but she looked far worse than Aya had been able to make out in the cell.
Her face was gaunt, the gray in her black hair moreprominent than it had been in the low torchlight in their cell had illuminated. There were bruises dotted across her neck, her usually tanned skin pale and lined.
Gregor and Evie waited just before the dais, a contingent of the Vaguer at their backs.
Aya’s gaze flicked to the thrones. It was a wonder Evie hadn’t demanded something more ornate.
A wooden chair for a demigod. It was almost laughable.
Gregor cleared his throat as Aya stopped before their congregation, his narrowed gaze belying his impatience as he addressed Lorna.
“Now that the Second Saint has joined us,” he began, disdain dripping from his voice, “perhaps you will share your theories?”
So it hadn’t been Evie who had sent for her.
Aya tucked that away as Lorna bowed her head. “Yes, Your Majesty.”
Gregor gave a wave of his hand. “Get on with it then.”
Lorna’s shoulders rose as she forced a deep breath. Her spine straightened, her chin lifting as she began. “As we know, the veil was created by the gods using their own power. It is said they did so to prevent their own interference in this realm, as tearing into the veil is like tearing into a part of themselves.”
Aya suppressed a shudder at the memory of her own pain when she’d opened the veil for Evie. That is exactly how it had felt—like ripping herself apart from the inside out.
“We do not need a history lesson,” Gregor bit out.
Aya could tell his irritation was unusually close to the surface. What had rankled him so?
“My apologies, Your Majesty,” Lorna murmured with a bow of her head. “I simply wish to ensure no part of my theory is…misunderstood.” She paused, her throat bobbing as she swallowed, before she looked to Evie.
