The second that the lights go out overhead, more screaming comes.
The stone.
I reach to the familiar spot on the breast band and yank away the labradorite.
Lights flicker on long enough to see the spilling of more blood and carnage.
Rholker begins to bellow. I bring the stone to my collar and hum my mother’s melody that’s followed me for days. I feel the metal heat against my skin, but it doesn’t burn. It just becomes… pliable.
I tear at it until it slides away from my neck. My heart is racing.
Metal bending.
As soon as its duty has been completed, the stone in my hand crumbles to dust in my hand.
The flickering lights barely illuminate the way to the servant’s door, which is optimal since all the guards are now in the hall, and the lords and ladies are fleeing from the main entrance. I run as fast as I can in the dim light until I reach the familiar entrance to the throne room.
My gaze lands on the Enduar head mounted on the wall. The slippers on my feet are nearly as good as bare feet, and they serve me well as I rush past pews and the artwork of tyrants.
When I reach the wall, I use the textured column to the left to climb up. Being a tree climber has always served me well.
I shove at the head, and it falls to the ground. I retrieve the profane decoration and run toward one of the many statues of Khuohr’s courtesans and consorts that bear flames.
Taking a long breath, I place the remains inside. The flame begins to lick at the wood and skin, and I sing the few words I remember from the parting cave as the wood crackles and skin burns.
There’s a crashing sound at the door. I fall, scramble to my feet, and start to run. Never once do I stop praying for that poor Enduar boy who sacrificed himself.
As I dash out of the palace, I head to the whipping racks near the back of the castle, where the palace guard sleeps.
The snow bites into my skin, but the movement will keep me warm enough for now. When I dart through the arched hallways, I hear the pound of metal-armored feet running.
Chills pass down my spine watching more guards run to the feast hall. I press myself against the cold marble and wait.
As soon as the sound fades, I continue to run. The tall, carved trunks with beams that support dozens of bloody chains come into view two dozen footfalls later.
I slow, taking in whipping racks with bloody chains dangling from the tall wooden beams to hold slaves upright. I nearly vomit at the stench that clings to the spot after decades of use, but I hold my breath and search for Melisa.
I don’t see her anywhere.
“Melisa!” I half whisper, half shout, completely desperate.
My heart is pounding loud enough to give me away—if this damned, sparkling white outfit doesn’t do the deed first.
My friend emerges from behind one of the columns, and runs over to me. Relief floods my body. Her eyes are wide, and she is dressed in dark cloaks.
Her arm stretches out with a length of the black fabric. “Cover yourself, it will make it easier to remain unseen.”
I nod, and start to push past her.
“Estela, wait.”
Her voice is serious.
“What’s wrong?”
Melisa shakes her head, and I see the tears on her cheeks. “I’m so sorry. He’s not here.”
I freeze.
