She’s a snake, just like her father.
She’s a traitor.
You can’t trust her.
She thought of Finn, how even he hadn’t come to her aid. He’d vanished when she needed him most.
A scream welled up in her, but she bit it back, grinding her teeth until she tasted blood.
Alina picked up pace, trying to outrun the pain slicing through her heart. She ran until her lungs burned, hurling herself through the maze of corridors with no heed for the startled faces she passed. When she finally reached the battered door to her cell, she shoved it shut behind her, twisting the latch with trembling hands.
The room was as she’d left it: the cot against the wall, a crate for her meagre belongings, the rough-hewn table with its single, splintered chair. The air was cold and tasted of dust and old sweat, but it was the only place in the world where she wasn’t being watched, where suspicion and judgement couldn’t reach her. For a minute she stood there, panting, trying to process, trying to understand. Suddenly, just like a room is plunged into darkness when a candle is blown out, all the tension left her body, and she collapsed onto the bed, limp as a rag.
The grief came in silent, suffocating waves. She pressed both hands to her face, biting her lip so hard she tasted iron. The tears began as hot, angry pricks, and then turned into furious, shuddering sobs that would not be refused. The sound of her own crying disgusted her, but she was helpless to stop it. She pulled her knees to her chest, curling into a ball so small she thought she might vanish entirely if she held herself tight enough.
She had no idea how long she wept, only that when she finally stopped, the usual daily noises of the Caves that drifted into her room had subsided and her body felt as if it had been wrung out and left to dry. The tears left salty tracks on her cheeks, and her head throbbed with the pressure of all she’d tried to contain. She uncurled slowly, every joint stiff, and brushed the wet strands of hair from her face.
A numbness followed: the dull certainty that she was, in fact, nobody. She belonged nowhere, to no one. Not to the palace, not to the rebels, not even to herself. Her parents had always said she’d disappoint them, and now she’d proven them right; she’d failed as a princess and failed as a friend. She was an impostor everywhere she went, neither enough nor wanted, a perpetual outsider. The weight of that knowledge pressed her into the mattress, flattening her as surely as any stone slab.
She stared at the ceiling, her fingers splayed across her ribs, and waited for some hint of strength to return.
None came.
She remembered the days when Marta would sneak her midnight pastries in the palace kitchen, when Finn would spin jokes until she couldn’t help but laugh, or even those brief, blinding moments when Kael’s hand found hers in the dark. Butall those bonds had dissolved, leaving her stranded on the other side of suspicion and accusation, a traitor by default.
She thought, with shame, that perhaps she deserved it. Maybe Seraphina had been right all along; maybe there was no way to scrub out the stain of her birth, the rot of royalty that ran so deep it ruined everything it touched.
She wanted to get up, to do something—anything—to prove that she wasn’t what they believed her to be. But the thought of facing another glare, another whispered curse, another day of walking through a world that already hated her… she simply couldn’t do it. Not yet.
So she stayed on her cot, knees drawn up and hands locked around her ankles, staring at the opposite wall. She stayed there until the chill numbed her toes and the sobs had dried into hiccupping silence. She stayed as the hours thickened and the shadows grew, knowing that if she left, the world outside would only be worse.
She was alone, and nobody would come for her. Not now. Not ever.
18
It's a Shame, Really
In the few small places where daylight infiltrated the perpetual gloom of the Caves, it came pale and watery, too weak to warm the moss-slick floor. The stronghold woke up in fits and starts, first with the distant rattle of cauldrons in the kitchen, then the shuffle of boots in the corridor, followed by the slow, muffled rising of voices, all too careful to avoid the bright edge of volume. Everything in the Caves was either stone or shadow. Alina had come to prefer the shadows, but even they offered no hiding place for her today.
She dressed quickly, barely glancing at her reflection in the chipped mirror. Her eyes were swollen, her nose raw, and her hair tangled from a night spent turning over the same impossible thoughts until she was sick of her own mind. The burn marks on her shoulder and arms had become intricate black lines, snaking down her arm like a tattoo.
The memory of yesterday—Seraphina’s accusations, Elara and Kael together, the wall of suspicion at every turn—had set up shop behind her ribs. Every breath stoked it back to flame.
She dreaded the mess hall but, unfortunately, she had to eat. Weary at heart, she entered, intending to hold her head high, to ignore the not-so-subtle whispers and barbs.
None came.
Absolute quiet met her as she crossed the threshold. Not a single word was spoken as she walked over to the cauldrons to retrieve her morning bowl of porridge. Dozens of pairs of eyes followed her every move as she went to a bench in the far corner and sat down. She felt them pelting her skin like stones thrown. Stiffly she took the spoon and mechanically took one mouthful of gruel. It tasted of nothing. Her stomach was made of stone. Her whole body flashed hot and cold. Sweat broke. Her eyes burned. Her throat closed up. She was going to vomit.
A bench scraped. Finn dropped into the seat across from her, all elbows and grinning cheekbones, as if he hadn’t noticed the energy of a lynching mob hanging in the air. His hair was its usual masterpiece of artful neglect, sticking up at odd angles, and the collar of his shirt was buttoned wrong. He wore the same crooked smile as always, but today it seemed more like armor than charm.
He looked openly around the hall, making eye contact with one after the other staring at them.
“What’s with all of you lot? I know I’m handsome. You can come pick up your autographs later.” He grinned like a fiend until the people finally stopped staring and resumed their breakfasts. Alina could imagine well enough what they were saying, but right now she would not dwell on that. Truly, she could kiss Finn for the kindness. Her stomach settled reluctantly.
“Rough morning, Your Highness?” he said, pitching his voice low enough to avoid the eavesdroppers but not so low she could ignore him.
Alina tried to smile, but it came out as a grimace. “You could say that.”
