It makes me feel vulnerable. As if everyone’s eyes are onme. Leering atme. The rot through my puddling gold pulses as if sensing my emotions.
Around Emonie’s wrists and ankles are stone bands, and though they seem to be mere jewelry, I can’t help but think that she’s wearing them for a more sinister reason. Can’t help but wonder if they’re shackles instead.
My gaze darts to the so-called Stone King. He watches her with victory cleaving through his expression, and anger heats my face.
“Here is this Lyäri that the Vulmin have claimed. The one they say leads you. She does not! She is no rightful heir. Auren Turley will bow to the true king with you all here to witness!”
With her chin up, eyes straight ahead at King Carrick, Emonie does exactly as he said. The crowd shouts wildly as she bends one knee, and then the other, until her legs are curled beneath her. Then she lowers even further, until her arms are outstretched, palms and forehead kissing the ground.
More magic spurts from my palms, landing in aggressive splatters at my feet.
The volume of the spectators is so loud it thrashes my ears. I glance around, skipping over those who cheer, instead focusing on the ones who don’t celebrate.
I take in the ones who look on with visible anger. Or confusion. Or misery that they can’t seem to hide. One female fae has tears slipping down her cheeks. The sunlight glares on a single button sewn into her shirtsleeve, and I notice the broken-winged bird sigil melded right into it.
Seeing that button sends me another flash of memory.
People surrounding me, crying, smiling, celebrating and believing—believing in a movement that was bigger than myself.
But then I hear those cruel words again‚ except this time, Iseeit too. See King Carrick glaring down at me. Hear that other voice speak.
Don’t give them a martyr. Give them a mockery.
That other person’s face slowly comes into focus. One eye, strong jaw, a sneering mouth. In my mind’s eye, I stare at him as if he’s standing in front of me, the vision taking over everything.
I hear screaming. Feel power rippling. My hands pour out gold, and the ground quakes with massive roots of rot. There’s a woman standing beside the male, and I feel such suffering fear from her that it cripples me. Steals away my breath.
The vision is abruptly yanked away, like a rope tugged out of my hands. I lose my grip on the flashback, nearly losing my footing where I stand too. Beneath my armor, my ribbons ripple, my spine slicking with gold.
I just barely catch the end of the announcer’s words. “…with her aid. Because of Auren Turley’s loyalty to the crown, we have these traitors to present before you. She has led the rebels to their penance!”
The Vulmin in the crowd—because that must be who they are—they look tormented. The rest of the audience roars with a fervor.
My own fervor is an inward intensity that’s ready to boil over.
I watch as soldiers drag people out from behind the stage. People who are gagged and bound. They’re forced to stand in a line behind Emonie, and she sits up from her prostrate position, eyes widening when she sees them. She says something, but I’m too far away to hear. Too focused on the fae male just beside her.
It’sWick.
I remember his name, his face, a flash. It’s enough to fill me with dread for him and Emonie both.
“Good fae of Lydia, you will stand witness! These Vulmin traitors will be whipped and hanged for their crimes against the crown!”
Frenzied cheers blare in my ears, while my fury takes flight.
They absolutely willnot.
“Listen to me!” Wick shouts, his voice cutting through the arena. “The Vulmin aren’t traitors! We believe in treating our fellow fae and Oreans with respect! We believe in a leadership that doesn’t drain us dry with taxes and punish us for differing views! We can do better than this! We can demand an Annwyn of peace! A land that doesn’t rule by greed and cruelty! We can dobetter!”
His voice is loud and holds the unmistakable edge of both determination and desperation. But most of the people just continue to shout and curse, fists raised in the air, calling for blood. The sound crescendos just as I let my ribbons unwind, falling loose and free from beneath my cloak.
A hooded fae walks on the stage with a long, spiked whip in his grip.
More gold collects in my hands like lumps of clay, and I roll them between my palms. Then I reach forward with my ribbons and shove apart the spectators around me like curtains.
I step forward and glare at the stage below while fae stagger beside me, questions and gasps forming on their lips, gold splashing beneath their feet.
I barely pay them any mind.
