When Jesenia returned to the square, the food was nearly gone, laughter rising from voices that had forgotten it for too long. Children clutched pieces of bread in both hands, the old sat cross-legged on the stones, murmuring blessings Jesenia hadn’t heard since Lunareth fell.
But when she glanced back to the edge of the square, Val-Theris was already leaving, his guards falling into step around him, crimson capes dissolving into the gilded glow of the upper district, ready to forget about her and her people once more.
EIGHT
The rain had turnedthe lower courtyard into a pit of mud and puddles. Refugees lined up by the dozens, shivering beneath thin cloaks, their breath misting in the cold from the turn of the seasons. The smell of wet cloth and the constant low rumble of hungry bellies clung to the air.
At the front of the line, theHastatidistributed rations—half-filled ladles of thin, cold soup and stale bread. One by one, as orderly as could be, the Lunarethians shuffled forward for their share. Though the guards upturned their noses at their dirty clothes and accented vowels, the Lunarethians still murmured soft thanks.
Jesenia was last in the line, ensuring all the children and elderly had managed to get their rations first. By the time Jesenia reached the front, the guards had grown tired and irritable. The ladle scraped against the large pot, nearly empty. She waited patiently for them to scrape out whatever broth was left, and held out her bowl for her share. She was soaked to the bone and her hair clung to her cheeks, her hands trembling from the cold.
The guard in charge of the bread—a broad man with a scar running through his brow—looked at her with open, obviousdisdain. “Hmph,” he scoffed. “If it isn’t His Majesty’s savior.” He gave her a nasty look. “I think you’re due a feast.”
Jesenia, foolishly not knowing any better, softened her gaze on him as if she expected him to be kind. When he lifted the ladle to tip it into her bowl, he poured it just short of the dish, spilling the broth all over her bare feet.
Jesenia and the Lunarethians stared at the ground, but no one spoke.
“Clumsy me!” the guard said, his tone mocking sympathy. Then, he reached into the bread basket. He tore a large bite from it for himself, chewing slowly. He swallowed, then smiled. “Had to make sure it wasn’t poisoned, right?”
Then, he tossed the mangled hunk of bread into a puddle at her feet.
For a moment, Jesenia just looked at it, then, without a word, she knelt. Her hands shook as she lifted the bread from the ground, wiping away what dirt and water she could before tucking it under her arm. No tears. No anger. She would not give their cruelty the satisfaction of seeing her cry.
The guards laughed and turned away, packing away the ration cart and wheeling it away, boasting about their own hot meals waiting for them at the barracks as if nothing had happened.
But from the shadows, where no one could see, the Angelicus Prime watched.
He had come on the king’s orders, to continue his surveillance of Lady Jesenia of Lunareth, but as he watched her take a seat under the bulwark to shield her from the rain and eat her dirty bread with tears streaking down her cheeks, Rohannes felt his stomach twist.
He had fought wars, seen men gutted and burned, but somehow that small, deliberate cruelty from the men he commanded unsettled him more than anything he had seenbefore. Rohannes turned away from the scene with his jaw clenched. On his way back to the palace, he made a side stop at a bakery.
When Jesenia returned to her makeshift tent of linens crudely strung together that night, she found a full loaf of fresh bread atop a note:
Returned by order of decency.
It was unsigned.
When Rohannes returnedto the throne room, there were only a few braziers still lit. Their flames were low and did little to warm the ache in his heart for what he had witnessed in the refugee quarter.
Val-Theris was pacing at the foot of the dais, his wings twitching—a sign that he was deep in thought. He did not look up as Rohannes approached.
“I sense your tension. What troubles you?” the king asked quietly.
Rohannes hesitated, rain still dripping from his cloak. “Forgive me sir, but I fear you would not believe me if I told you.”
That gave Val-Theris pause. “Tell me anyway,” he said, still pacing.
So Rohannes did; he spoke plainly of what he saw, trying his best to leave the emotions he was feeling out of it, for it was not his job to feel. He told his king about the cruelty of the guardsand how Lady Jesenia hadn’t let them break her there, only to cry into her bread when they left.
When he finished his report, the silence between them was nearly suffocating. Val-Theris clasped his hands behind his back and stood straighter, his chin tilted upward with authority. “And no one stopped it?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even you?”
“No, sir.”
For a moment, it was quiet, but Val-Theris finally spoke, his piercing eyes burning with a quiet fury—at his men, at Rohannes, at himself.
