I know it worked this time, but I had the element of surprise on my side, and only a single opponent. But me against a prepared Marked army? No chance. I may have won this little battle, but I’m far from winning the war.
“Lean forward, please, miss—I need to get to your back,” Tura says, and I brace for her reaction, but I lean forward without resistance.
They all suck in a breath at the sight. Hands clap over mouths, and glances are exchanged.
I don’t know what it looks like, but I know what it felt like—it can’t be pretty. Correk’s reaction already told me everything I need to know: the brand is nothing compared to the rest of it. A jagged, patchwork of skin and scars.
“Wh— What have they done to you?” Hilda whispers from behind me, floored. She skims her fingertips lightly over the brand, and slowly traces the scars inflicted by the blade of nightmares. They’ve seen my scars—on my thighs, my arms, my chest, but they’re sparse. Child’s play. My back is Vessira’s masterpiece.
For a brief moment, I let the maid trace my scars; a tenderness I allow myself to receive, for I have no idea how long it will be until I’m afforded another. I close my eyes, leaning into her touch.Her kindness. And for a moment, I pretend her hands are those of my mother.I’ll take care of you, Little Star. I imagine her speaking the words, and I’m transported to our home in Virellin, a fire crackling in the hearth. We didn’t have much, but we had each other.We had love. I claw at the memories that become more and more distant, begging them to stay—to sharpen.
Hilda sniffles behind me, breaking me from my memories. I notice the faint tremble of her hands as she roams my body, searching for understanding in the scars themselves, as if they hold stories that will make sense of this madness. But I’ve searched, and there’s only more madness to be found in scars left by people I’ve never wronged.
I turn to her, knowing that this is my chance—my only opportunity. I look to them all, my gaze moving between them,“I know your true king—he is working to free you all.” I have to believe he is. I have to believe Maldrak is deceiving me for his own gain, and that Kael is good in all this.Isn’t he?
Or, at the very least, I’ll say what I must to get out of here.
“Maldrak took the throne when Aurius was killed by Prince Kael. Heisthe true king,” Tura says, though her voice lacks conviction. It’s meek and mild—a regurgitation of court chatter.
“No. You’ve been lied to. I know the truth,” I say through gritted teeth, and my throat constricts as I fight off tears. Because I need them to believe me. I need to escape. But I need their help to do it.
My mind flashes to Starlit Grove and the Obsidian Crown. The visions of Maldrak killing Aurius, his brother, in cold blood.
The maids look surprised; lips pursed, brows raised. But there’s no disdain on their features, no outright rejection of my words, so I press on.
“Maldrak killed Aurius. He framed Kael. Kael is the true king,” I plead, my voice a desperate croak.
“No,” one of the maids breathes, refusing to accept my words, but I can see her mind battling with a deeper knowing.
“I am trying to bring the realms back into harmony. I mean you no harm. Will you help me get back to Kael? To help him complete his mission and restore the throne?”
Tura swallows thickly, her fear palpable. “Those who stray from King Maldrak’s rule do not make it past the castle gates, miss. Have you not seen the heads that line the causeway on spikes? We cannot.” I hear her words, but I feel her heart beneath it—shewantsto help me.
She shakes her head with vehemence, but I can see the truth: she’s scared.
“He’ll never know you helped me,” I implore. “I just need to know exits, patrol shifts, anything that can help. A weapon,perhaps?” I try to keep the desperation out of my tone, but I fail. It comes out like a plea. I’m not beneath it—I’ll beg.
“I’m sorry,” she breathes, and stands up, smoothing her skirts anxiously.
“Surely you cannot want this life,” I beg, clinging to the conversation like it’s a life raft in a storm. “Surely you do not believe living in a rotted kingdom with a tyrant on the throne is right? Thatthisis how it’s meant to be?” The words come out in a swift, anguished jumble.
The maids say nothing. Either too afraid to speak… or becausethey’re listening.So I push further.
“You can’t believe a king who claims to love his people would line their streets with heads for daring to question him, can you? Tyrants always call it protection when what they mean is control.”
“He says it’s to keep us safe from The Decay,” Hilda whispers weakly.
The water ripples with the force of my breath. I fucking snap.
“Do youfeelsafe? Do youfeelprotected? Open your eyes! Power always rewrites its own crimes as safety,” I bite, teeth bared.
They trade loaded looks I can’t interpret. But they don’t reject me. They don’t stop me. So, I keep going, just like I always do; enduring.
“Zerynthia still lives,” I say, voice broken and raw.
Fern lifts her eyes from the floor, curiosity blooming. But she doesn’t speak.
“Beyond The Decay, Zerynthia exists. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. The Riverian Jungle, Thornewood, Starlit Grove! They exist, and they’rebeautiful. Thriving, alive, vibrant. This,” I throw my arms around wildly, gesturing to the gloom and darkness of the decaying Wastes, “is not how it should be. There’s so much more, and I need to fix it.”
