But that was a trick. A lie. There is no sanctuary. There’s no hope.
Once we were down below, the guards cut the bindings on my wrists. It should’ve been a relief after trudging through the snow, but it’s not, because they replaced the leather strap with ice-cold steel shackles. My ankles get the same. Then they cut every stitch of clothing away from my body, a true torture, since the dungeons are freezing. The decree against fire hasn’t been lifted, because it’s pitch-dark, too. Only a few dim shadows form in the moonlight that filters through the tiny barred windows.
They left me in a cell. No water, no food. Just frigid stone against my skin. I’ve curled into a ball, but it doesn’t help. My shaking breath clouds with every exhale. I might be alone now, but I won’t be for long. A man is sobbing somewhere nearby, but I don’t try to look to see what’s happening to him. Maybe he’s starving, maybe he’s being tortured, maybe a bored guard is taking advantage of him.
It’s never good to know.
At some point, the glow of a fire flickers along the walls, and I remember the king pulling a ball of flame into his palm. I have the bizarre momentary hope that Jory has convinced him to come for me. But that’s foolish, because Jory can’t help me—and the king of Incendar doesn’t care. All of his promises were a means to an end.
I am to ally with this country. I would know its faults as well as its promise.
I should have killed him. I should have taken her away.
Maybe I would have ended up here anyway.
I just have to survive. I’ve escaped the slavers before. I can do it again.
But this time, there will be nowhere to go. Jory will be gone.
When two guards return, I have no idea how much time has passed. The sky outside the windows is still inky black and I haven’t frozen to death, so I doubt it’s beentoolong. I go slack when they drag me through the doorway to the cell, but once we’re clear, I seize the only opportunity I have: I surge against their hold, getting in one strike with my shackled hands, swinging the chain at the other in an attempt to knock him out.
But there’s a third I don’t see waiting just outside the gate, and he knocks me in the jaw with the hilt of his dagger. I’m hungry and tired and stiff from so much time in the cold, and the blow brings me to the ground. Blood fills my mouth.
“What’s this one getting?” the guard asks, and his tone is bored. A prisoner fighting back is nothing new.
At first I don’t understand the question—but then I hear a strike of flint, and new shadows find the walls. They’re lighting the forge.
A sob threatens to form in my chest. I choke it back and force my mind to go blank.
Because I forgot about the brand. The marks on my cheek didn’t hurt terribly much, but I forgot the one on my shoulder—the one put there with fire-hot steel, like an animal. Prisoners destined for the slavers are branded with an X on their shoulder. I’ve seen men and women with multiple brands, people who’ve paid their debt only to be charged with another crime. Sometimes the scarring blends together, forming a horrific pattern across their skin.
So far, I only have one. Unlike the stripes on my face, I expected it to stay that way.
I watch the fire in the forge grow, the bar of steel beginning to glow orange. The guards are gossiping with each other, ignoring me. I can barely hear what they’re saying. My eyes only see the fire.
I should’ve killed him. I should have run.
When they grab me again, I fight, because I have to fight. But it’s futile. There are too many of them and only one of me. They press the brand into my shoulder, and I don’t want to scream, but I do. The pain is blinding, searing, stealing every thought from my head. It only takes a moment, but somehow it also takes forever.
When they did this the first time, I was sixteen. I vomited the contents of my stomach all over the boots of the men holding me. This time, my stomach is empty, but I dry-heave anyway, coughing spit at the floor. They haul me back to the cell, where I roll onto my back, hoping the cold stone will ease the burn, but it’sworse. I cry out again. I might be sobbing. I might be keening. Again, I have no idea how much time passes, but my thoughts won’t organize. My shoulder is nothing but agony. My mouth still tastes like blood. The king’s words won’t stop ringing in my ears.
I am offering him mercy.
No. He didn’t. No one ever does.
“You. King Theodore has sent a summons.”
I don’t realize the guard is talking to me until he repeats it, and even then I’m still trying to make sense of the words when he kicks me in the side. “Put these on,” he says, and a pile of fabric is dropped in front of my face.
When I don’t move, he kicks me again. “Put themon,” he snaps. “Or I’ll find a hot poker and see if that doesn’t help you move.”
I move. Every shift of my arm is agony. The guard unchains one limb at a time so I can pull my hands and feet through the loose trousers and tunic. The rough muslin brushes against the fresh brand, and it nearly sets me dry heaving again.
I can’t believe that I woke up in the princess’s bed this morning, and now I’m all but vomiting in the straw of the dungeon tonight.
What’s more shocking is that I ever thought this could end another way.
When the guard orders me to get up and walk, I do it.
