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Yes, there you go.

The dinner drones on. Court members take turns appeasing Lord Rollo’s ego.

He holds up another piece of seared meat, the inside still practically raw. “Eat.”

Disgust coils in my gut so hard I can’t open my mouth. I literally… can’t.

“This is your final warning.”

I turn my head away. My body screaming this is wrong, wrong, wrong. I have to submit and play the role to survive. Yet I cannot do it. I cannot force myself to be fed by this monster. Sit on his lap like an object to be owned.

Even in the cruelest of moments, I cling to the flame in my core that tells me to resist. To fight. That goodness will prevail, despite the darkest surrounding it.

“You little bitch! If you aren’t going to eat, then you’ll go back to your cell.” Lord Rollo abruptly stands, throwing me to the ground.

My head hits the table as I fall, blissfully knocking me out.

3

Pulling Threads

By the third day in my cell, I am restless, sore, and constantly shivering. Each day has been the same. Wake up by way of the guards kicking me. Not so hard to crack a rib, but enough to form a cluster of deep purple bruises. Today, Ragnar was the one pulling me up from the dirty pile of hay. His grip on my arm is tightest of all. My head continues to pound, relentlessly drumming a chaotic beat that becomes the backdrop to the many songs I hum under my breath.

Then, I’m allowed one trip to the “restroom”—a barely functional toilet and a wet sponge—to “freshen up,” then escorted to the large circular chamber where I’m strapped to a table and forced to use my powers.

Which hurts like Hel from this far underground. I stretch my senses for the ninth time up into the chamber. Reaching and reaching and reaching for the whisper of energy that soars between the stars, connecting them like a spiderweb of stories and tales.

I chuckle to myself and ignore the grunts of disapproval from the guards in the corner. It makes sense, really. That I would have somehow been a Starwatcher. A Prentice Teller, earning her keep at a tavern, eager to learn any and all histories for her Tellings—only to have access to the largest anthology of stories that exists within the specks of brightness above. Every single one of those stars has existed for millennia. All seeing, all knowing.

Every. Single. Star.

And I’m supposed to find a cluster of memories related to this mystical star stone—the Cebalrai—known for containing pure Source energy.

A bead of sweat trickles down the side of my temple, landing uncomfortably in my ear. I would swipe it away, but I’m strapped to a fucking table.

Uggh! I give up, failing once more as my thin thread of power snaps back to me like a rubber band to the soul. It quite literally hurts to have the energy snap back in my direction after failing to connect with a star. What is it to them if I cannot find any information on the whereabouts of this stone? I sure as fuck am not going to tell them anything about it.

“Something wrong, sweetheart?” a guard taunts, leaning over me into my line of vision. Two more inches and his scraggly beard would be in my mouth.

I scowl. “I have been doing this for three days, and haven’t been able to make a single connection. I need to be closer to the Surface.” It’s a long shot, but I go for it anyway.

He presses a finger to my temple, wiping away a strand of sweaty hair. Disgust coils in my gut like a snake.

His hand trails to my throat. “How do I know you aren’t just lying to me, you filthy piece of—”

“Kurtog.” Ragnar appears in the doorway. “Shift’s over.”

Kurtog’s eyes trail from the place where his hand surrounds my throat down my body to the hem of the dirty red slip I’ve been wearing for the past three days. His Adam’s apple dips once before he releases me and walks away, mumbling to himself. “Good, I’m not some glorified babysitter of the human bitch.”

A seed of relief buds in my chest. I hate Ragnar. He betrayed me. He hit me in the maze. He sold me out and kidnapped me for the Jord Lord.

But Ragnar is human. His sister, Sabra, is also at the Watch. There has to be something, some type of thread I can pull to make him see reason.

Ragnar stands at the edge of the table, arms folded, Watch-cloak traded for something darker, trimmed with a red thread that catches the torchlight. He doesn’t look at me at first.

“Do you ever get tired of this?” I ask. My voice echoes more than I want it to. “Standing there while someone else bleeds for answers?”

He snorts. “You’re not bleeding. Don’t be dramatic.”