The cuts were clean. A single identical slash across each throat. Even the blood leaking from the bodies ran in the same direction, thin trails sprouting in smooth branches down the sides of their necks. It ran into the cracks between the stones, the dry dirt soaking it up so only a sheen of a stain was left.
Her fingers still gripped the back of Mikaud’s neck, tips pressing into skin. Skin that wasn’t the soft, smooth plane she remembered. Gently, she lifted his head. In the dark, she could barely make out the lines of blood running over the skin at the back of his neck. The lines were precise in a way that drew her attention. If there was one thing she’d learned living in the Ditch, it was that wounds were not pretty. Even cuts from the sharpest blade were not as pristine as these were.
Light began to fill the sky, the sun peeking into the streets. Something small and shiny near Mikaud’s head caught Nes’s eye. She picked it up, rolling the coin between her fingers.
The coin was silver, not gold as gadots were, and while at first glance the etchings seemed identical, they, in fact, were not. When she looked closer, she saw the face of King Harkett looked to his right instead of the left. The same with Sir Kendrik—Harkett’s Crown advisor—on the flip side. She’d never seen such a coin before.
“You saw it, too.”
The voice was soft, confusion making the cadence high.
Nes startled, pocketing the strange coin. A young girl, no older than six, emerged from the shadows hugging the Walled Prison. Her cheeks were as smudged with dirt and grime as her bare feet, and between her hands she held an empty bucket—on her way to the nearest canal for water.
“Their necks,” the girl said. “They just opened. As if—as if…”
Nes stared at the slit across Mikaud’s throat—her own throat filling fast—and finished the sentence for the girl. “As if by magic.”
The girl took a hesitant step forward, her eyes never leaving the bodies. “Was that the Witch?”
The morning bells rang, crisp and clear across the city. Six chimes to wake the world, but none could bring Mikaud back to life. None would revive her last chance to free her father.
Nes thought of the hand she’d seen and the cuts the one motion had caused. She’d seen magical reactions, but this…
Her words were honest as she answered. “I don’t know what that was.”
3
Toran
Toran Roada hated silence.
It reminded him too much of the ocean. Too much of what it was like to be knocked under the waves. Reminded him too much of—
No, he wouldn’t think of that.
Toran reached inside his pocket but came up empty. “Where’s my flask?”
Beside him, Quint didn’t answer.
Toran whirled on his best friend. “Your captain asked you a question, Lieutenant Pram,” he bit out, anger at being woken in the middle of the night slipping loose. He’d been dragged from his bed and forced to follow Quint down the long castle halls. The headache pulsing behind his eyes wasn’t helping matters. “You’re expected to answer.”
Quint straightened so he stood a good half head taller than Toran. “Not if refusing is in your best interests.”
“I’ll decide what’s in my best interests.”
So he’d frequented the Guard’s Pub over the last couple months. There was no harm in having a few drinks every now and then.
Quint’s hand came down on his shoulder, heavy and secure in a way Toran no longer remembered how to be. “You’re not the only one who lost someone, you know.”
The words were like bile in Toran’s throat. He swallowed hard.
Quint was right. He was always right.
“Let’s go,” Quint said.
They walked side by side down the castle hall in silence, every step a reminder of the asshole Toran had become. He didn’t realize Quinthad stopped walking until he was several steps past him. He glanced up from his slippered feet and back toward his friend, noticing for the first time that they were in the North Wing.
“Why did you get me out of bed?” he asked.
