The dead stilled.
They are not real. I reminded myself as I sung.
Yet the steam shivered at my voice, and one by one the figures unravelled, edges fraying into nothing as the song wrapped around them.
The chill broke. The haze went still.
I pressed my palm to the cool tile, swallowing hard as my song died in my throat.
Behind me, the other initiates had quieted. They always did when I sang, captivated by notes they didn’t understand. That was why Father forbade it. Why he called my voice a curse.
I cut the song off sharply. The silence seemed louder than the melody as I wrapped a towel around myself. I kept my eyes trained on the ground as I walked through the steam, the weight of their eyes pressing down on me.
Six
Swords and Tension
Rough blankets were torn off me, and the embrace of the early morning air enveloped my body. I tried to grab them and yank them back over me, but my fingers came up empty. I groaned, struggling to open my eyes against the haze of sleep.
“Rise and shine, initiates!”
My eyes snapped open to the dim torchlight.
Orin paced the length of the barracks, all sharp angles and severity, while the others laced boots and buckled themselves into grey uniforms.
His gaze softened when it landed on me, just for a breath, and it made my chest ache with the memory of before. But the warmth vanished as quickly as it came, his face shuttering into the cold mask of a sergeant. The mask of a stranger.
“Welcome to your first day in the Iron Guard. Get dressed, initiate.” I glared up at him, not used to hearing him speak to me with such bite in his voice.
“I can’t wait,” I said, voice seething with sarcasm andsnatching the folded uniform from my nightstand. Why would the Gods spare me from drowning forthis?
Kragthorne had said the Iron Guard was where fear is forged into obedience. I hated being told what to do.
I slid the stiff material of my pants on under my nightgown, stopping to frown at a band of material that sat on top of my tunic.
I was used to getting dressed by maids, shoved into corsets, silks, and jewels. Made to gleam for the court. Not whateverthiswas.
I cast a glance over my shoulder. Dreya was tying her boots on the bunk next to me, indifferent.
With one swift movement, I yanked the fabric over my head, hugging it to my chest.
The angry silver lines of punishments were laid bare beneath the dim torchlight.
I picked up the long piece of fabric and tried to wrap it around my breasts, fumbling with the material. I cursed under my breath as the material slipped.
“Here. Lift your arms.” Dreya’s voice came from behind me and I stilled. My eyes slammed shut against the panic. This close, she would be able to see every echo of pain etched into me.Please don’t ask about my scars.
Hesitantly, I lifted my arms. Her fingers moved with practiced ease, binding me in firm, even pulls. It wasn’t cruel like a corset. It felt purposeful. Strong.
She pulled harder and I gasped, adjusting to the way it squeezed air from my lungs. Dreya huffed a laugh.
“Lyra?”
The sound of my name spoken softly turned me rigid. Riven stood a few paces away, grey eyes churning like storm clouds as they traced the scars across my skin. He looked haunted.
Cold sweat prickled down my spine. My stomach knotted. I clutched the tunic to my chest as dizziness threatened to pull me under.No. No. No.
“What happened to you?”
