I will hang.
And Tayna will marry a monster.
I cannot tell how much time has passed, but my feet are sore from all the pacing, and my wrists are bleeding. The rusty lock clicks, and two guards in full armor march in.
“You’re coming with us,” the shorter one says in a tone not used to objections. My feet nearly give in when they roughly shove me forward.
The Governor’s Palace is an ancient, sad place. Tenebris hasn’t had a real governor for centuries, as the city is too small to be relevant for the Unseelie. Even mage Eloysse left the once grand halls and haunted stairwells and settled for a smaller, comfortable mansion near the Beacon.
Decay eats at the tapestries spun over the crumbling masonry, and mold covers the exquisitely carved marble statues, making them appear like decaying corpses. The waft of death lingers in the dark passageways, and dust muffles our footsteps. The palace is old, built by the Seelie long before the Elders’ Hex to rule over what was once a prosperous province. It’s occupied by the City Guard and the meagre city administration now. Yet when we climb up the wide staircase leading to better-maintained parts of the palace, the place is bustling with unusual activity. There are too many guards, their armors so polished they reflect the flicker of the many wax candles, their postures straight—as if they’re preparing to march into battle. Two of them stand before a tall, ornate door and push it open when we approach.
When I see the crowd in the audience hall, my fists ball so hard that my nails dig into my flesh. Seems like half of the city is here, but three figures at the center stand out. Surrounded by guards, there’s Myrtle, cradling her baby, and Tayna, still wearing her nightgown.
My stomach plummets when the guard shoves me roughly, and I stumble forward, nearly grabbing Magister Deepwell’s crimson robe to steady myself. He has materialized out of nowhere, raising his hands to quiet the murmur of the crowd. The people around us are nobles and rich citizens of Tenebris. No commoners. The way everyone glares at me doesn’t mean anything good. So, it will be a public execution then. What a befitting end for a daughter of traitors.
“Magister Deepwell,” my voice nearly betrays the panic making its way to the surface, “I am ready to face the consequences of my actions, but I ask you to free the innocents in this room—Tayna and Myrtle.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Obviously, everyone is outraged that a prisoner is speaking first.
“You confess without knowing what you are accused of?” Magister Deepwell raises a bushy white brow, and the wrinkles on his forehead deepen. The man has been famous for his gluttony but never for his cruelty, so this whole display is puzzling.
“I confess that I tried to rob a merchant, who arrived with the caravan—”
A murmur, “Liar, she tried to kill me,” confirms that the ambassador is here, too.
The wrinkles on Magister Deepwell’s face smoothen. “This is not why you are brought here, child. If that were your crime, you’d be whipped and sent to the fields for a year. You’ve been brought here before the good people of Tenebris to celebrate a unique opportunity.”
Maybe Seuta has finally, mercifully, decided to let me go mad. What in the name of Atos’s hell pits does this all mean?
Slowly, my tired brain starts bringing the pieces of the puzzle together.
The secret that my parents so carefully guarded has been revealed. I have magic, and everyone who has magic has no choice—
“Now, kneel before his Excellency and thank him for this opportunity.” Magister Deepwell’s tiny eyes glitter with delight. Swallowing hard, I look around to see who he means. I kneel on the cracked marble floor. The survival of my loved ones is more important than any remnants of pride I have. I’d crawl on my belly if this means Tayna and Myrtle are leaving this tomb free.
A tall, silver-haired man steps out of the shadows of the gallery. There’s something hauntingly familiar about the straight line of his wide shoulders, and the restrained smile on his lips, displaying the edges of needle-sharp fangs; about the way his hair falls over his richly decorated armor. Elders, only his breastplate must cost a fortune. The hall grows still when his heavy steps halt behind the lithe frame of Tayna, and his cold emerald gaze locks with mine.
No.
This cannot be.
“Thank Governor Aeidas for this opportunity, Talysse.”
A raging blizzard of emotions clouds my mind and snuffs out my common sense.
Was he wearing the same smile when he signed the death sentence of my parents? Were his eyes shimmering with sheer amusement when he had ordered the poor Seelie hiding in our barn tortured and killed? I struggle against my restraints, succumbing to pure, mindless lust for murder. For a brief moment, violent fantasies of me flaying this beautiful, cold smile from his face and clawing the light out of these iridescent eyes take the best of me.
Just like at the puppet show and in Wet Dog Alley, he is studying me with interest. I take deep, ragged breaths to control my trembling limbs. I might be impulsive, but not mad. Not yet. Terrifying as it is, we are all at his mercy.
Mercy and Unseelie are two words one cannot put together in a sentence. All cities of Satreyah ravaged by Shadowfeeders are witness to their wickedness.
They have been preying on us humans for millennia, and with the Seelie gone, they keep us around only because they need labor to produce the goods for their cities and the food for their tables. To them, we are nothing but cattle.
The hairs on my nape stand up, and my ears start ringing when the governor crosses the hall and looms over me, his smile still on his lips but his gaze cold and dark as a winter night.
“Remove her shackles,” he orders, and the guards rush to do his bidding. Finally free, the temptation to seek my magic out is too tempting, but the lithe frame of Tayna in the background makes me reconsider. He suddenly picks up my hand, the brush of his calloused fingers unexpectedly soft, and lifts it to his eyes.
“Interesting jewelry. Seelie made, if I am not mistaken.” His cold tone is in stark contrast with his warm touch. This is the voice of a skilled interrogator, laced with threats.
