I am never alone.
The jailers do not leave. Always two, always watching, always keeping what I am silent and suppressed. They don’t need anything more than a locked door to make me a prisoner. Not that I can even get close to the door without being manhandled back to the center of my bedchamber. They’re stronger than I am, and forever vigilant. My only escape from their eyes is the small bathroom, a chamber of white tile and golden fixings, with a forbidding line of Silent Stone along the floor. There are enough of the pearly gray slabs to make my head pound and my throat constrict. I have to be quick in there, and make use of every strangling second. The sensation reminds me of Cameron and her ability. She can kill someone with the strength of her silence. As much as I hate my guards’ constant vigil, I will not risk suffocating on a bathroom floor for a few extra minutes of peace.
Funny, I used to think my greatest fear was being left alone. Now I am anything but, and I’ve never been more terrified.
I have not felt my lightning in four days.
Five.
Six.
Seventeen.
Thirty-one.
I notch each day in the baseboard next to the bed, using a fork to dig the passing time. It feels good to leave my mark, to inflict my own small injury on the prison of Whitefire Palace. The Arvens don’t mind. They ignore me for the most part, focused only on total and absolute silence. They keep to their places by the door, seated like statues with living eyes.
This is not the same room I slept in the last time I was at Whitefire. Obviously it wouldn’t be proper to house a royal prisoner in the same place as a royal bride. But I’m not in a cell either. My cage is comfortable and well furnished, with a plush bed, a bookshelf stocked with boring tomes, a few chairs, a table to eat at, even fine curtains, all in neutral shades of gray, brown, and white. Leached of color, as the Arvens leach power from me.
I slowly get used to sleeping alone, but nightmares plague me without Cal to keep them away. Without someone who cares for me. Every time I wake up, I touch the earrings dotting my ear, naming each stone. Bree, Tramy, Shade, Kilorn. Brothers in blood and bond. Three living, one a ghost. I wish I had an earring to match the one I gave Gisa, so I could have a piece of her too. I dream of her sometimes. Nothing concrete, but flashes of her face, her hair red and dark as spilled blood. Her words haunt me like nothing else. One day people are going to come and take everything you have. She was right.
There are no mirrors, not even in the bathroom. But I know what this place is doing to me. Despite the hearty meals and the lack of exercise, my face feels thinner. My bones cut beneath skin, sharper than ever as I waste. There isn’t much more to do than sleep or read one of the volumes on Nortan tax code, but still, exhaustion set in days ago. Bruises blossom from every touch. And the collar feels hot even though I spend my days cold, shivering. It could be a fever. I could be dying.
Not that I have anyone to tell. I barely even speak through the days. The door opens for food and water, for the change in my jailers, and nothing more. I never see a Red maid or servant, though they must exist. Instead, the Arvens retrieve meals, linens, and clothes deposited outside, bringing them in for me to use. They clean up as well, grimacing as they perform such a lowly task. I suppose letting a Red in my room is too dangerous. The thought makes me smile. So the Scarlet Guard is still a threat, enough to warrant such rigid protocol that even servants aren’t allowed near me.
But then, it seems no one else is either. No one comes to gawk or gloat over the lightning girl. Not even Maven.
The Arvens do not talk to me. They don’t tell me their names. So I give them some of my own. Kitten, the older woman smaller than me, with a tiny face and keen, sharp eyes. Egg, his head round, white, and bald like the rest of his guardian kin. Trio has three lines tattooed down his neck, like the dragging of perfect claws. And green-eyed Clover, a girl near my age, unwavering in her duties. She is the only one who dares look me in the eye.
When I first realized Maven wanted me back, I expected pain, or darkness, or both. Most of all I expected to see him and endure my torment under his blazing eyes. But I receive nothing. Not since the day I arrived and was forced to kneel. He told me then he would put my body on display. But no executioners have come. Neither have the whispers, men like Samson Merandus and the dead queen, to pry my head open and unspool my thoughts. If this is my punishment, it is a boring one. Maven has no imagination.
There are still the voices in my head, and so many, too many memories. They cut with a blade’s edge. I try to dull the pain with even duller books, but the words swim before my eyes, letters rearranging until all I see are the names of the people I left behind. The living and the dead. And always, everywhere, Shade.
Ptolemus might have killed my brother, but I was the one to put Shade in his path. Because I was selfish, thinking myself some kind of savior. Because, once again, I put my trust in someone I shouldn’t have and traded lives as a gambler does playing cards. But you liberated a prison. You freed so many people—and you saved Julian.
A weak thought, an even weaker consolation. I know now what the cost of Corros Prison was. And every day I come to terms with the fact that, if given the choice, I would not pay it again. Not for Julian, not for a hundred living newbloods. I wouldn’t save any of them with Shade’s life.
And it was all the same in the end. Maven had asked me to return for months, begging with every bloodstained note. He had hoped to buy me with corpses, with the bodies of the dead. But I’d thought there was no trade I would make, not even for a thousand innocent lives. Now I wish I’d done as he asked long ago. Before he thought to come for the ones I truly care for, knowing I would save them. Knowing that Cal, Kilorn, my family—they were the only bargain I was willing to make. For their lives, I gave everything.
I guess he knows better than to torture me. Even with the sounder, a machine made to use my lightning against me, to split me apart, nerve by nerve.
My agony is useless to him. His mother taught him well. My only comfort is knowing that the young king is without his vicious puppeteer. While I am kept here, watched day and night, he is alone at the head of a kingdom, without Elara Merandus to guide his hand and protect his back.
It’s been a month since I’ve tasted fresh air, and almost as long since I saw anything but the inside of my room and the narrow view my single window affords.
The window looks out over a courtyard garden, well past dead at the end of autumn. Its grove of trees is twisted by greenwarden hands. In leaf, they must look marvelous: a verdant crown of blossoms with spiraling, impossible branches. But bare, the gnarled oaks, elms, and beeches curl into talons; their dry, dead fingers scraping against one another like bones. The courtyard is abandoned, forgotten. Just like me.
No, I growl to myself.
The others will come for me.
I dare to hope. My stomach lurches every time the door opens. For a moment, I expect to see Cal or Kilorn or Farley, perhaps Nanny wearing another person’s face. The Colonel, even. Now I would weep to see his scarlet eye. But no one comes for me. No one is coming for me.
It’s cruel to give hope where none should be.
And Maven knows it.
As the sun sets on the thirty-first day, I understand what he means to do.
He wants me to rot. To fade. To be forgotten.
Outside in the courtyard of bones, early snow drifts in flurries born of an iron-gray sky. The glass is cold to the touch, but it refuses to freeze.
So will I.
The snow outside is perfect in the morning light, a crust of white gilding barer trees. It’ll melt by afternoon. By my count, it’s December 11. A cold, gray, dead time in the echo between autumn and winter. The true snows won’t set in until next month.
Back home we used to jump off the porch into snowdrifts, even after Bree broke his leg when he landed on a buried pile of firewood. Cost Gisa a month’s wages to get him fixed up, and I had to steal most of the supplies our so-called doctor needed. That was the winter before Bree was conscripted, the last time our entire family was together. The last time. Forever. We’ll never be whole again.
Mom and Dad are with the Guard. Gisa and my living brothers too. They’re safe. They’re safe. They’re safe. I repeat the words as I do every morning. They are a comfort, even if they might not be true.
Slowly, I push away my plate of breakfast. The now-familiar spread of sugary oatmeal, fruit, and toast holds no comfort for me.
“Finished,” I say out of habit, knowing no one will reply.
Kitten is already at my side, sneering at the half-eaten food. She picks up the plate as one would a bug, holding it at arm’s length to carry it to the door. I raise my eyes quickly, hoping for a single glimpse of the antechamber outside my room. Like always, it’s empty, and my heart sinks. She drops the plate on the floor with a clatter, maybe breaking it, but that’s not her concern. Some servant will clean it up. The door shuts behind her, and Kitten returns to her seat. Trio occupies the other chair, his arms crossed, eyes unblinking as he stares at my torso. I can feel his ability and hers. They feel like a blanket wrapped too tight, keeping my lightning pinned and hidden, far away in a place where I cannot even begin to go. It makes me want to tear my skin off.
I hate it. I hate it.
I. Hate. It.
Smash.
I throw my water glass against the opposite wall, letting it splatter and splinter against horrible gray paint. Neither of my guards flinches. I do this a lot.
And it helps. For a minute. Maybe.
I follow the usual schedule, the one I’ve developed over the last month of captivity. Wake up. Immediately regret it. Receive breakfast. Lose appetite. Have food taken away. Immediately regret it. Throw water. Immediately regret it. Strip bed linens. Maybe rip up the sheets, sometimes while shouting. Immediately regret it. Attempt to read a book. Stare out window. Stare out window. Stare out window. Receive lunch. Repeat.
I’m a very busy girl.
Or I guess I should say woman.
Eighteen is the arbitrary divide between child and adult. And I turned eighteen weeks ago. November 17. Not that anyone knew or noticed. I doubt the Arvens care that their charge is another year older. Only one person in this prison palace would. And he did not visit, to my relief. It’s the single blessing to my captivity. While I am held here, surrounded by the worst people I’ll ever know, I don’t have to suffer his presence.
Until today.
The utter silence around me shatters, not with an explosion, but with a click. The familiar turn of the door lock. Off schedule, without warrant. My head snaps to the sound, as do the Arvens’, their concentration breaking in surprise. Adrenaline bleeds into my veins, driven by my suddenly thrumming heart. In the split second, I dare to hope again. I dream of who could be on the other side of the door.
My brothers. Farley. Kilorn.
Cal.
I want it to be Cal. I want his fire to consume this place and all these people whole.
But the man standing on the other side is no one I recognize. Only his clothes are familiar—black uniform, silver detailing. A Security officer, nameless and unimportant. He steps into my prison, holding the door open with his back. More of his like gather outside the doorway, darkening the antechamber with their presence.
The Arvens jump to their feet, just as surprised as I am.
“What are you doing?” Trio sneers. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard his voice.
Kitten does as she is trained to do, stepping between me and the officer. Another burst of silence knocks into me, fed by her fear and confusion. It crashes like a wave, eating at the little bits of strength I still have left. I stay rooted in my chair, loath to fall down in front of other people.
The Security officer says nothing, staring at the floor. Waiting.
She enters in reply, in a gown made of needles. Her silver hair has been combed and braided with gems in the fashion of the crown she hungers to wear. I shudder at the sight of her, perfect and cold and sharp, a queen in bearing if not yet title. Because she’s still not a queen. I can tell.
“Evangeline,” I murmur, trying to hide the tremors in my voice, both from fear and disuse. Her black eyes pass over me with all the tenderness of a cracking whip. Head to toe and back again, noting every imperfection, every weakness. I know there are many. Finally her gaze lands on my collar, taking in the pointed metal edges. Her lip curls in disgust, and also hunger. How easy it would be for her to squeeze, to drive the points of the collar into my throat and bleed me bone-dry.
“Lady Samos, you are not permitted to be here,” Kitten says, still standing between us. I’m surprised by her boldness.
Evangeline’s eyes flicker to my guard, her sneer spreading. “You think I would disobey the king, my betrothed?” She forces a cold laugh. “I am here on his orders. He commands the presence of the prisoner at court. Now.”
Each word stings. A month of imprisonment suddenly seems far too short. Part of me wants to grab on to the table and force Evangeline to drag me out of my cage. But even isolation has not broken my pride. Not yet.
Not ever, I remind myself. So I stand on weak limbs, joints aching, hands quivering. A month ago I attacked Evangeline’s brother with little more than my teeth. I try to summon as much of that fire as I can, if only to stand up straight.
Kitten keeps her ground, unmoving. Her head tips to Trio, locking eyes with her cousin. “We had no word. This is not protocol.”
Again Evangeline laughs, showing white, gleaming teeth. Her smile is beautiful and violent as a blade. “Are you refusing me, Guard Arven?” As she speaks, her hands wander to her dress, running perfect white skin through the forest of needles. Bits of it stick to her like a magnet, and she comes away with a handful of spikes. She palms the clinging slivers of metal, patient, waiting, one eyebrow raised. The Arvens know better than to extend their crushing silence to a Samos daughter, let alone the future queen.
The pair of them exchange wordless glances, clearly coming down on either side of Evangeline’s question. Trio furrows his brow, glaring, and finally Kitten sighs aloud. She steps away. She backs down.
“A choice I’ll not forget,” Evangeline murmurs.
I feel exposed before her, alone in front of her piercing eyes despite the other guards and officers looking on. Evangeline knows me, knows what I am, what I can do. I almost killed her in the Bowl of Bones, but she ran, afraid of me and my lightning. She is certainly not afraid now.
Deliberate, I take a step forward. Toward her. Toward the blissful emptiness that surrounds her, allowing her ability. Another step. Into the free air, into electricity. Will I feel it immediately? Will it come rushing back? It must. It has to.
But her sneer bleeds into a smile. She matches my pace, moving back, and I almost snarl. “Not so fast, Barrow.”
It’s the first time she’s ever said my real name.
She snaps her fingers, pointing at Kitten. “Bring her along.”
They drag me like they did the first day I arrived, chained at the collar, my leash tightly grasped in Kitten’s fist. Her silence and Trio’s continue, beating like a drum in my skull. The long walk through Whitefire feels like sprinting miles, though we move at an easy pace. As before, I am not blindfolded. They don’t bother to try to confuse me.
I recognize more and more as we get closer to our destination, cutting down passages and galleries I explored freely a lifetime ago. Back then I didn’t feel the need to sort them. Now I do my best to map the palace in my head. I’ll certainly need to know its layout if I ever plan to get out of here alive. My bedchamber faces east, and it is on the fifth floor; that much I know from counting windows. I remember Whitefire is shaped like interlocking squares, with each wing surrounding a courtyard like the one my room looks out on. The view out the tall, arched windows changes with every new passageway. A courtyard garden, Caesar’s Square, the long stretches of the training yard where Cal drilled with his soldiers, the distant walls and the rebuilt Bridge of Archeon beyond. Thankfully we never pass through the residences where I found Julian’s journal, where I watched Cal rage and Maven quietly scheme. I’m surprised by how many memories the rest of the palace holds, despite my short time here.
We pass a block of windows on a landing, looking west across the barracks to the Capital River and the other half of the city beyond it. The Bowl of Bones nestles among the buildings, its hulking form too familiar. I know this view. I stood in front of these windows with Cal. I lied to him, knowing an attack would come that night. But I didn’t know what it would do to either of us. Cal whispered then that he wished things were different. I share the lament.
Cameras must follow our progress, though I can no longer feel them. Evangeline says nothing as we descend to the main floor of the palace with her officers in tow, a flocking troop of blackbirds around a metal swan. Music echoes from somewhere. It pulses like a swollen and heavy heart. I’ve never heard such music before, not even at the ball I attended or during Cal’s dancing lessons. It has a life of its own, something dark and twisting and oddly inviting. Ahead of me, Evangeline’s shoulders stiffen at the sound.
The court level is oddly empty, with only a few guards posted along the passages. Guards, not Sentinels, who will be with Maven. Evangeline doesn’t turn right, as I expect, to enter the throne room through the grand, arching doors. Instead, she surges forward, all of us in tow, pushing into another room I know all too well.
The council chamber. A perfect circle of marble and polished, gleaming wood. Seats ring the walls, and the seal of Norta, the Burning Crown, dominates the ornate floor. Red and black and royal silver, with points of bursting flame. I almost stumble at the sight of it, and I have to shut my eyes. Kitten will pull me through the room, I have no doubt of that. I’ll gladly let her drag me if it means I don’t have to see any more of this place. Walsh died here, I remember. Her face flashes behind my eyelids. She was hunted down like a rabbit. And it was wolves that caught her—Evangeline, Ptolemus, Cal. They captured her in the tunnels beneath Archeon, following her orders from the Scarlet Guard. They found her, dragged her here, and presented her to Queen Elara for interrogation. It never got that far. Because Walsh killed herself. She swallowed a murderous pill in front of us all, to protect the secrets of the Scarlet Guard. To protect me.
When the music triples in volume, I open my eyes again.
The council chamber is gone, but the sight before me is somehow worse.
