My heavy eyes drag up to stare at the man with the blade. He’s staring back at me, his eyes hard as stone. Both in appearance and demeanor. The crown he wears is like a boulder ready to topple and crush me with its weight.
“A mockery…” he repeats.
“Yes, Majesty. Flaunt her. With your memory fae’s magic, make this Turley a spectacle. A laughing stock of this so-called symbol for rebellion. Make her kneel to you and show them all what a traitor she is, and you’ll make their insurgence fail. Without her, the Vulmin will have nothing to fight for. You’ll cut this uprising off at the knees. Don’t waste her.Use her, and you will be that much more powerful.”
Use her.
Those words echo down the hollowed-out pits in my head, not just in his voice, but in many. So many saying that very same thing.
use her use her use her use her use her use her
The sharp blade peels away from my throat. In its place, there’s a hand at my ear. A cold, slick something digging into the canal.
I sway, head drooping. Can’t hold it up.
The crowned man—King Carrick—stares down at me, and now, there’s a twisted smile curving along his taupe face. His skin looks hard enough to crack. Beneath his feet, lined gold is hardening into stiff puddles. I can see the reflection of the one-eyed man within the gleam.
“She’s much more valuable to you alive. Look at this magic alone.”
They both look down at the gold spilling off my hands and pooling on the ground.
My own reflection looks distorted. I can’t quite see me.
“She’smalleable, Your Majesty. So make her into whatever you like.”
Something wet peels from the corner of my eye. Splashes upon my shirt. I don’t know why.
The pain in my body, the hollows in my head, they win against the adrenaline and confusion.
And I?
I slump. Plunge.
Because this is what it feels like to fall into the pitted, overwhelming dark.
And yet…somewhere in these shadows, there are veins of black that don’t succumb, but thatspread.
CHAPTER 5
I blink.
Stare.
Hands curled in my lap. Bare feet against the cold stone floor. The wall feels rough against my arm where I lean against it, and I stare at the single window of green stained glass. It’s the only pretty thing here, but it’s covered with bars.
A woman’s voice speaks. “Did you hear me?”
My head lifts.
Heavy.
Did you hear me?
The question echoes—not in the room, but in my ears.
“Yes.”
The woman in the room with me—Una—cocks her head. She has hair that grows in blocks. The sections are perfectly symmetrical squares, making her scalp look like a chessboard. Her tan skin is speckled with freckles of blue. Eyebrows are two flat lines and brown—the same color as her blocky hair.
