Once, Drayven asked me if being infertile would make me sad. Back then, I cared nothing about starting a family. I only wanted adventure, freedom, and the chance to see the world. I wanted a choice.
At this moment, I can’t help but feel how lonely my life will become without a companion to share it with. If the other Vespers are dead, if I lose, I could end up with a despicable hunter who only visits me to impregnate me. I shudder when the Baron comes to mind. He increasingly found ways to volunteer for my lessons over the decade I was in the Pen.
Even the Huntsman is preferable to the Baron.
Who knows what Kasaros will do with my blood—or me.
If I don’t secure my freedom, that’s my fate.
My intrepid fingers bring me to a message nearly erased by time,Your tears are a weapon to be wielded, not spilled.
A chill skates down my spine, and I brush away vines to read more carved words.
Rise, even when they drag you down.
You are not their prize. You are their reckoning.
No cage can hold a storm.
Survive. If not for yourself, then for the ones who come after you.
I exhale a shaky breath and touch my stomach. One day, it will swell with a child, a girl who could be fertile like me. What kind of world do I want her to grow up in?
My pulse is a steady drum against my ribs. These women—these brides—left behind more than fear. They left behind fire.
This isn’t a place of defeat. It’s a graveyard of defiance.
I press my dagger’s tip to the first message, scratching a line through it. Then, above it, I carve my own.
NEVER STOP FIGHTING.
A bitter smile tugs at my lips as I cross the courtyard to the altar, my boots squelching in the wet grass. I step over fractured stone and roots that claw through the ruins. The scent of damp earth and something metallic lingers in the air—blood, long since dried. It only solidifies my resolve. If they want me on my knees, they’ll have to break me first.
Until then, I fight.
I climb onto the altar, its cold surface slick beneath my palms. When I settle, I tilt my head back and stare at the heavens, hoping for another glimpse of the stars before sunrise.
I’m halfway through my rations of soggy crackers when a blade flashes against my throat.
“You’re hard to find. I’ll give you that.”
Chapter 8
Florienne
A rose that draws blood is still a rose.”
—KASAROS’S RIDDLES
“Oh well, you found me,” I sigh dramatically. “Guess my time as a free woman is up.”
“It is indeed,” replies the man with his blade at my throat.
He’s one of four surrounding the altar. Shit.
In my dreams of defiance, I never thought I’d have to deal with this many at once.
They aren’t the same as the other hunters. Their armor, their weapons, how they take a position and keep guard. They’re organized, and that’s dangerous.
