6. Rune
SIX
RUNE
“I can’t believe Harrick lost,” Saskia says less than an hour later. With her arm looped through Viana’s, she exits the waiting room.
“He didn’t lose,” Viana snaps. She scowls at her friend, shoving out of her hold. “Malek cheated. When they release the official results, they’ll take that into consideration. Harrick would have won if he’d broken the rules.”
I want to point out that, technically, Harrick did break the rules. Sure, Malek broke them first and more often, but Harrick still attacked his brother. If they asked me, I’d point out that Tora was the only one who didn’t cheat. But of course, they don’t.
“You’re right,” Saskia says. When it comes to Viana, this tends to be her response for everything.
I stay two steps behind them, my shoulder brushing with Caleah’s as we walk. The two elite women whisper back and forth, quickly moving from the exhibition results to lighter conversation. Viana talks about what she’ll wear to the upcoming celebration and then describes in great detail what she imagines Harrick will look like naked.
It’s easy for me to ignore them now. After leaving the chaos of the viewing room, my brain is too spent to pay much attention to anything. My shoulders ease as the glass lifts come into view. Saskia and Viana will take them to their respective rooms, and Caleah and I will go down to the elite kitchens to fetch their lunch. And then, finally, she and I will talk about what we’ve just seen.
We’re halfway down the corridor when Viana slams to a halt. I barely stop in time to avoid colliding with Saskia, my wet shoes squelching against the marble.
I look up.
Right now, I don’t care who or what made Viana stop, so long as it’s not me. Even if it’s Caleah. It’s cowardly and pathetic, but I’ve suffered enough torture for one day. For a whole lifetime, it feels.
Viana glares at me.
She’s wearing an ornate green mask with sharp points at either brow, and it’s almost impossible to see her eyes through the center black tulle. Still, I can feel her watching me, assessing me.
“Ugh,” she says finally. She scrunches her nose before whipping toward her friend. “Your servant is fucking revolting. Look at it. People are going to talk, Saskia.”
An unintentional gasp sucks through my lips. I don’t mean to react. But… it ? It’s been cycles since I’ve heard that, since someone has implied I’m not even human.
I drop my eyes, praying Viana didn’t notice. It’s too late. She strikes my face so hard I lose my balance. I manage to stay upright, but my shoes slip across the floor, streaking water over the reflective marble.
“Not another sound from you,” she snaps. “You have embarrassed Saskia quite enough. She ought to have you fired, removed from service entirely. Send you out on the streets. See how you like it there.”
My eyes are on the floor again, and I hate it. I hate myself. I press my fingernails into my palms, even as I start to break skin.
“Viana—”
“No, Saskia. If you don’t get control of this thing, it’s going to destroy your reputation. Trust me, it makes them all too giddy to ruin what isn’t theirs.”
Breath in through my nose. Out from my mouth. Nails cutting into flesh.
“It’s bloodied and its feet are smearing dirty water everywhere we go.” Viana steps closer, her breath hot against my face. “It is taking away from your status. What will people think of you, Saskia, if this is what Sorace assigned you? You’ve got to manage these things. Remind them of their place.”
And there it is again, these people with their assumption that I—or any other servant—am confused about how insignificant I am.
“Apologize,” Viana demands.
I look up at her. She’s grinning like a fiend, like she loves that I gave her the excuse to belittle me. Behind her, Saskia’s face is pale. She’s cruel, as all elites are, but even she doesn’t seem to be enjoying this.
“Forgive me, Lady Saskia,” I say, voice cracking.
Saskia doesn’t respond. Viana grabs the back of my neck and jerks me sideways, until my face slams against the reflective wall. There’s blood on my chin and my cheek, and now, on the glass.
“You will stand here and you will look at yourself. You will think about your duty to Saskia and to the crown.” Her fingers pinch hard against my throat. “And you will not move until I send someone to release you.”
She pushes against my neck, pressing my face into the glass until I can barely breathe.
“Let’s go, Saskia.”
She releases me and steps back, only to press forward again. Her hand curls over the strap of my mask. I tense, and Viana’s blurred reflection smiles.
“Do as you are told, wench,” she taunts. “If you look away, it might be the last thing you do.”
I suck in a breath, locking the sobs in my throat. With a harsh grunt, Viana tears the mask from my face, taking pieces of hair with it. My ratted veil, the one I’ve had for several cycles, disappears in her clenched fist. Cold air presses against my exposed skin and I stare at my bloodied reflection. I keep my eyes open, even as my instincts beg them to close.
Caleah’s feet appear in my peripheral, showing her silent support again. But that feels empty now, worthless. Viana is going to leave me here, maybe to die. And Caleah isn’t going to stop her.
She can’t , I remind myself.
“Let’s go, Saskia,” Viana repeats. She finally steps back, and I catch the last glimpse of my mask being tucked into her expensive clutch. She starts down the hall with Saskia at her side. To Caleah, she calls “Hurry up, wench! Fetch our lunches, and be quick about it. I’m starving.”
Once their footsteps fade, I shut my eyes. A harsh sob bursts from my throat, and I work to keep any more from escaping. With my head leaned against the wall, I remain still for over an hour. Then two. Then a few more until I lose track of the time. I keep my eyes closed and pretend it’s enough to protect me from attackers. The dark is nice, too—far better than my bloodied reflection.
Every so often, someone passes me. It’s usually a guard on patrol, but sometimes it’s royals or elites. After a while, I can identify the different classes by sound alone. The guards with their heavy boots and rhythmic steps. The elites with their clanging jewelry and clicking dress shoes. The royals with their near-silent walk. I only recognize them by the swish of their extravagant clothing.
None of them speak to me.
I shift on my feet, body growing stiff as the halls quiet. Night falls, and other than the patrolling guard, who has yet to acknowledge me, it’s empty here. My legs tremble, my throat feels like sandpaper, and I’ve needed to pee for an hour. I don’t allow myself to move.
I do open my eyes though, out of boredom more than anything. I’ve memorized every streak of blood on my face, from the shallow wound on my chin to the long scratch on my cheek. I’ve decided Viana was wearing a ring when she struck me.
A pair of boots sounds down the corridor, startling me. It’s too soon for the guard’s round, and this person is coming from the wrong direction anyway. The footsteps don’t match any of the others I’ve heard. They’re too light for a guard, too soft for an elite, too loud for a royal.
I keep my eyes open, but I don’t dare turn my head.
The man is halfway down the corridor when he stops at the edge of my vision. He’s several feet away, but the bright lighting makes him easy to see. Tall and lean and wearing the blood red of the Architect. He’s dressed in it from neck to toe, a lavish suit and leather shoes. He’s maskless though, his face fully exposed. Not the Architect, then, but one of the princes.
My legs buckle without permission. I press both hands to the glass in front of me, trying but failing to stabilize myself. I’m always a vulnerable target—a descendant could rip off my mask and kill me whenever he wanted. But Viana has made it too easy. She’s primed me for slaughter, forced me maskless and alone in an empty corridor. Most people are sleeping by now. They won’t get to me in time, even if I scream.
They wouldn’t save me anyway, especially not from him .
The man starts toward me again. I hold my breath, begging Wyhel to show mercy, if only this once. Let the man walk past me, let him ignore me as everyone else has. Let him spare my life, even though he could take it without anyone ever knowing.
His footsteps stop, no more than an arm’s length from me. I squeeze my eyes shut as my legs buckle again. This time, there’s no steadying them. They shake harder, until I can barely stay upright. For the first time, I realize how truly scared I am of death. Not just the fact that it will hurt—of course it will hurt. But the fact that I won’t exist after this.
A strangled sound cuts from my lips. I don’t want to cry in front of him. I want to be brave and fierce, if only in death. But there are already tears on my face, and those buried sobs claw their way up my throat.
“I am not going to hurt you,” he says, voice deep but quiet. “I am going to move your hair, okay?”
I don’t respond except for a choked sob.
The prince pulls my hair over my shoulders, and I try to focus my thoughts. If I’m going to die, I have to at least do something. He’s going to spin me around, force my eyes open, and drain whatever magic he finds there. I am going to die, but I can at least leave a bruise or a scar or some other mark so Caleah knows what happened. I hope she realizes I never stood a chance in this hallway, and that I chose to fight anyway.
I’ll strike his throat. Run as fast as I can. Pray that I’ve got a secret power in my bones, magic that will reveal itself when I need it the most.
Strike. Run. Pray.
Strike. Run. Pray.
Strike. Run–
Something soft presses over my eyes. The man’s hands rest against the back of my head, tying the fabric over my hair. I’m still facing the wall, but there’s a heavy darkness over my closed eyes. Hesitantly, I open one eye, then the other. It’s complete blackness.
He’s tied some sort of a blindfold.
I blink against the fabric, struggling to understand. How is he going to kill me if I’m wearing a blindfold? Maybe this is some sort of new, sick challenge. Or maybe, he prefers torture over magic.
“Face me,” he says, taking a step back.
I turn slowly, because I don’t know what else to do. If his aim is to confuse me, it’s working. I bend my arms to my chest in a pathetic attempt to shield myself.
“What is your name?” he asks. His voice is too soft, too gentle. This is a trap—I just don’t know how.
My mind is still whirring when he speaks again.
“Mine is Harrick,” he says. “On the honor of my crown, I am not going to harm you.”
“Rune Ealde,” I say finally, because it doesn’t feel like there’s another choice. My words are rasped and painful. “I am Rune Ealde, my prince. Indebted servant. Handmaiden to Lady Saskia.”
Prince Harrick doesn’t respond. He’s quiet long enough that I foolishly hope he’s left.
“And she did this to you?” he asks, making me flinch. “How long have you been here?”
“I do not know, my prince,” I say. I lick my lips, but it does nothing. Even my tongue is dry.
He lets out a harsh breath, like he’s angry. I squeeze my elbows against my ribs, trying to disappear into myself. I wish I could.
“What do you need?” he asks. “Water? Food?”
“I am not to leave this wall,” I say, voice shaking. “I am to wait for Lady Viana’s messenger.”
He doesn’t respond for a long moment. I realize Viana is his girlfriend. Did she tell him I’m here? Is he here to finish her work?
Harrick touches my shoulder, and my entire body clenches. His touch is soft, but I don’t trust it. I wait for his strike or cruel words, feeling unsettled when neither happens.
“Come,” he says. It’s not a question, so I stumble at his side as he leads me back the way he came. I clasp my hands together, picking at my thumbnail until I think it’s bleeding.
We turn this way and that, and I’m trying to memorize every corner. It’s hopeless though. We could be anywhere. The prison, maybe, or if I’m really lucky, the service stairwell.
“Here,” Prince Harrick says. His hand remains on my shoulder as he stops us. “The female washroom.”
I curl my nails into my palm, pressing as hard as I can.
“I am not allowed,” I say finally. My voice is shaking and soft, so much that I doubt he’s heard me. But this is a trap, and if I enter a guards’ restroom, it’ll be his excuse to kill me.
“I am not asking, Rune,” he says. He guides me forward, pushing through a set of doors. There’s a pause. “You are alone here. Wash your face. Drink water. I will wait for you.”
I don’t say anything. My body trembles, rattled by a nausea that only worsens. Prince Harrick drops his hand, and a moment later, the bathroom door opens and closes.