I kick the service door openwith all my power, flimsy lock shattering, and it slams on its hinges into the wall. Maxian leans an arm on the mantel, staring into the darkened firebox, his back to me. Lila pours water from a pitcher, unharmed. For a moment, I want to sink to my knees in relief, cry, and hold her as I never could hold Jeremee that one last time.
Yet the muscles in her neck strain. She is fighting Reign magic; the king is controlling her. Her arm shakes. Water overflows the cup, spilling onto the floor. How many hours has she held this position? How long has he been torturing her? And where have I been? Soaking in a bath.
“Your Magnificence,” I grit out.
My mouth clamps shut against my will. The shuttering magic tumbles through my jaw, piles stones behind my teeth; I can taste the minerals. As his genius pushes inward, it forms rocky walls around mine, a moth trapped in a well once more.
The door behind me slams shut.
We are trapped, the three of us now, in this. But if that’s where I need to be to have Lila’s back, then I will stay until we can both leave.
The king turns, something clasped in his large hands.
A small red boot.
My stomach plummets, my legs almost giving out. When Idrag my eyes up his heaving chest, to his distorted, beautiful face, I find red-rimmed eyes. Red and violet and sorrowful and wild.
“Why?” he croaks.
Pebbles grind down my throat. A fire crackles to life in the hearth. The ground rumbles, and water splatters to the carpet.
“Why would you dig up my brother like this?”
My heart twists. Shame burns me as tears pour down Maxian’s face. He lowers his head, presses the boot to his chest, as if clutching an exposed heart and willing the organ back inside him.
But he has said nothing of his heritage.
Movement catches my eye. Lila trembles, an endless stream of water cascading from the pitcher into the overflowing cup in her purpling hand. He must be lacing the water from another source, for it keeps flowing. Pain etches across her features as her raw hand shrivels, rivulets soaking the carpet at her feet.
He hands back my voice.
“Please,” I manage, throat tight.
“Please what?” he spits.
A low whimper escapes my friend. Her hand has cracked, bleeding, the water tinged pink, her skin leaching color. Wherever he laces the water from, it must be an icy stream in the north.
He is killing her hand. He is killing her.
“Please spare her,” I rasp. “She does not deserve this.”
Something punches my stomach. Stars blot my vision. I grapple on the carpet, wheezing for breath that doesn’t come. My vision wavers and I cough blood.
“I decide what she deserves,” the king says, approaching.
“Please.” I cough again.
The king crouches before me, gripping my chin, a painful, twisted echo of another time.
“Look at me when I’m speaking.”
Oh, how I believed myself a thing with claws just because my thoughts had teeth. But they mean nothing now, as my friend moans in pain and the king holds my face in his killing hands.
Still, I say, “What can I do to—”
“Tell me,” he snarls. “Tell me what you know.”
But my mind spins, my stomach throbbing with pain. I do not care, at this moment, what the greater game is. I only care that my friend lets out a closed-mouth cry.
