They made me use my glamour to look like Auren. Made me practice and prance around. And then they brought me up there to that stage after that mockery of a performance.
Made mebow.
I swallow the bile that comes rushing up the back of my throat. What I did up there on the stage—it feels like a betrayal.
My eyes fill with tears.
What if everyone thinks I’m a traitor? For helping the crown make a mockery out of not just Auren, but all the Turleys, and the Vulmin cause too?
What if Auren hates me for what I did? Or Wick? What will the other Vulmin think?
My parents died for this cause, and I just helpedmockit.
A tear falls.
I just didn’t want them to keep hurting Auren. She’s been my first real friend. I hated watching Lord Cull break her bones while the king broke her mind.
They were threatening the Oreans too. I tried to call them on their bluff—but I lost. Watched one woman get tortured and killed because of it. I couldn’t bear to let anyone else die because of my refusal.
Maybe I should’ve fought harder. Or figured out a way to trick them.
But then they described my sister’s house in Lydia. Talked about her family, like they’d already been watching them. They threatened to hurt her and make me watch, and I couldn’t bear it. They found my breaking point.
So, I bowed.
My eyes lift, locking onto the king, and I feel my face knot up with hate. He doesn’t even spare me a glance.
As soon as I’m steady on my feet, he lets go of my arm and shoves me forward out of the fairy ring. I look over my shoulderat it, watching it already start to wither, knowing that traitor Brennur closed it up and blocked the way we came.
I’m stuck here.
Desperate unease makes my shoulders stiffen, and exhaustion suddenly pulls at me from all these weighing emotions and my magical use over the past few days.
I don’t know how Auren was able to show up, but thank the goddesses that she did. Because I just made everything worse.
When another tear drips down my face, the glamour starts dripping down too. It melts away, Auren’s coloring and features draining until my own appearance returns again.
I take in a shaky breath, looking down at my wrists and ankles still trapped in stone shackles, at the golden dress hanging more loosely on my body. Out of sight, there’s another half-circle of stone clamped around my back, the ends stopping just at my ribs. Another shackle to keep me compliant.
“Go,” the king commands with another shove.
Instead of listening, I dig in my slippered feet and glare at him. His unmalleable eyes narrow, and then he uses his magic to yank at my shackles to pull me forward.
He walks in front of me, not at all worried that I’m at his back, because he knows I can’t do anything.
Being shackled by his stone makes me furious. I stare daggers at his back as he drags me along, while his feet kick up ashy silt, giving me a face-full of dust.
My steps wobble, sweat starting to gather at my neck and forehead while the stone shackles keep tugging me forward.
As we walk, I soon see that there is some life in these deadlands after all. Or maybe it can be argued that it’s just more death—because ahead are a bunch of soldiers who look like they’re readying for battle.
This is anarmy camp.
There are Stone Swords everywhere. Some must’ve just arrived, because they’re still offloading supplies and marching in.
I’mreallyoutnumbered here.
My thickening fear and my threaded guilt are going to be just two more shackles that weigh me down. If I let them, these emotions will get me killed.
