Between Smoke and Shadow

7. Harrick

SEVEN

HARRICK

It’s her.

Even without seeing those blue eyes, I know. I can’t explain how I know. Her brown hair is shorter than the girl’s from my memory. Her limbs are thinner. Her cheeks are sunken, and the wounds on her face distract from almost everything else. Still, I know her.

All those cycles ago, I’d seen her on her worst day. Something about that moment marked my soul, bruising me from the inside out. I spent far too long wondering what became of her, until eventually, I convinced myself things got better. The same cowardly lie I always tell myself. Because things don’t get better, not for people like her in places like this.

I tilt my chin to look at my reflection in the ceiling, fighting waves of nausea. The woman, Rune , is crying. Soft sobs and sniffles that never run out. It’s better than silence though. At least I know she’s still breathing.

Who knows what else they’ve done to her.

Other than Tora, I’ve never really helped anyone before. There are always Committee members or guards lurking over my shoulder, advising me on what I can and can’t, should and shouldn’t, do.

But this morning, I was alone. I’d been headed for the arena after my disastrous loss, needing to sit and sulk and maybe break a weapon or two. I couldn’t go during the day, when the trainers would be there to lecture or give theories as to what went wrong. I already know what went wrong. I’ve always known.

It wasn’t that I was too slow. It wasn’t that protecting Tora stole my focus, not really. I failed because I’m not the Architect’s most powerful descendant. My eyes may be darker, my magic may run thicker, but my abilities have a limit. And Malek bests them every time.

As I stand here, I wonder what it’s like to be Rune. I’ve never seen someone as defenseless as she was in that hallway. I could have killed her, and we both knew it. I’m still thinking about it, that unspoken horror that hangs between us, when the bathroom door cracks open.

Rune hesitates. She’s still wearing the mask, my folded red handkerchief, but it looks like she washed her face. The smeared blood is gone, leaving only the wounds themselves. A deep gash on her chin and a long scrape on her cheek. She’s trembling again, mouth bobbing softly, like she can’t decide whether to speak.

“I’m here,” I say. I want her shoulders to relax, for her to smile, even if barely. Instead, she flinches, like she was hoping I’d be gone. She braces herself against the door as if it’s a shield. After wetting her lips, she speaks in a rush of words I almost don’t catch.

“If you are going to kill me, please do it quickly.” She raises her chin as she speaks, and I know she’s trying to sound brave. Unaffected, like she couldn’t care less. But her words vibrate like they’re about to shatter all over this corridor.

I don’t respond. There’s no good way to respond to a request like that.

“Please,” she says again, lowering to a whisper. “I have suffered greatly, and as much as I don’t matter…” She trails off then, sucking in a quiet sob. “I’m still a person, and?—”

She says something else, but it’s impossible to make sense of it. She’s crying too hard, and my insides are burning and I don’t know how to describe this horrible, rotten feeling she’s pushing into my bones. It’s more painful than injured magic. More horrific than any cut I’ve suffered in the arena.

I do the only thing I can think of, what I’d do if this was Tora crying. I wipe the tears from her face.

But she doesn’t react like my sister. She doesn’t shove me away to wipe her own tears. She doesn’t get control of her breathing and make an off-color joke. Instead she tenses. She jerks away like I’ve struck her, and she trips in the process. As she crashes to the ground, something—I think her elbow—strikes the tile. She freezes, collapsed on the floor, breath erratic. She looks like an animal, trapped with no escape.

I catch the door before it closes and slip into the bathroom, standing over her. I wish she wore a servant’s veil instead of my dark handkerchief. If she could see me, she would know I’m terrified too.

I weigh my options:

I can leave, but she’ll never find her quarters like this.

I can drag her, but she’ll panic and think the worst.

We can sit here all night, but that will only lead to more problems for both of us.

“Rune,” I say finally. She flinches but otherwise doesn’t move. Even though she can’t see me, I move slowly, lowering to the floor until I’m knelt before her. “Rune, I’m going to take off the mask. I’m going to take it off, and you are going to look at me. And I am not going to harm you. You have my word.”

I’ve given her my word several times now, but it’s clear that doesn’t mean anything to her. She’s still crying as I untie the blindfold, tears falling from her closed eyes. I press the blindfold into her hand, and then, I wait.

After several minutes, her breathing slows. Her eyes are still closed, and she hasn’t said a word, but I think we’re getting somewhere. I’m trying to think of something, anything, to make her trust me.

And then, her eyes open. Vibrant blue and wide like an Old World deer. Depthless, innocent.

A strange breath releases from my lips. I can’t explain the blend of emotions that crash against my chest. The Architect claims eye contact is common in the Old World, but here, it’s rare. Beyond my family, I’ve barely seen anyone’s eyes. Whether it’s a woman I’m sleeping with or my closest friends, they tend to keep their masks.

Out of respect, they tell me.

Out of fear, I know.

I don’t blame them. But Wyhel, looking at Rune now, I wish this wasn’t rare at all. I almost feel like, if I just look hard enough, I might see into her mind. Like every thought she’s ever had, good and bad, is hidden within that endless blue.

I wish she would actually look at me. Instead, her gaze is fixed on my nose and her shoulders are tight.

“I will not harm you,” I repeat. “If I was going to hurt you, it would already be done.”

Rune still doesn’t meet my eyes, but she nods. It’s a stilted gesture, like she doesn’t believe me.

“I’m going to take you back to your quarters. It won’t be safe for you to return alone, especially without a mask.”

Her eyebrows scrunch, creating a crease between them. I inexplicably want to smooth the wrinkle, but I don’t try. Instead, I let my eyes roam her face. Everything about her is pale and sickly: her limp brown hair, her translucent skin, her cracked lips and unsteady breaths. Even so, she’s fucking beautiful—so much more beautiful than I remembered. It’s not just her eyes, either. It’s all of her: high cheekbones, full lips, delicate nose.

I want to touch her, to wipe her drying tears, to cradle her against my chest. I can’t explain the feeling that tugs beneath my ribcage, unlike anything I’ve felt before. It’s an uncomfortable mixture of protective instincts and blatant attraction, like I want to hide her where no one will ever hurt her again—and then ravish her body any way she’ll allow.

I swallow. Force my attention to the handkerchief in her grasp. I can’t help Rune. I know all too well what happens when I try…and the thought of the Architect doing to her what he did to Quil is enough to squash my urges.

“Put the mask on,” I tell her, trying to memorize the colors in her eyes, one last time.

She does as I say and then stands, legs shaking from fear or maybe pure exhaustion. She turns toward me, wordlessly, unmoving. I press my hand to her shoulder, pretending I don’t notice the way she flinches.

“I’m in 51 CC,” she says, voice soft. She tilts her palm toward me to show her thumbprint. I shouldn’t be surprised at the lingering blister on her skin. She’s too malnourished to be a long-time elite servant.

“You’re newly-promoted,” I say as we leave the bathroom.

“Yes, my prince.” She doesn’t offer anything more, and I force myself not to ask.

Instead, I lead her down the corridor, distracted by the tightness of her shoulders and the trembling of her hands. She’s radiating fear in everything, from her clenched body to her soft but unsteady breathing. When we reach a corner, her foot slides, nearly sending her to the floor. I wrap an arm around her, steadying her by the elbow. She jerks out of my hold immediately.

“Sorry, my prince,” she says. As if she’d leaned into me, and not the other way around.

Don’t be , I want to say. Instead, I look at her feet. “Your shoes are wet.”

She doesn’t respond, but her mouth bobs again. Somehow, that's all the answer I need. Viana and Saskia are somehow behind it, and she’s going to lie for them. Because she’s scared to tell the truth? Because she thinks I won’t believe her?

“I will send for new ones,” I say, sparing her from having to answer.

“They will dry, my prince,” she says. Her voice is hurried, ashamed.

“Yes,” I agree. Then, “The new pair will arrive tomorrow.”

She thanks me, tacking the same my prince onto the end. I want to tell her to call me Harrick, but I don’t. We’ll likely never see each other again anyway. I ignore the way my stomach sours at that thought, and as we stop in front of 51 CC, I find my gaze devouring her. As if committing her to memory, as if I’m afraid to forget her.

You did, once , I think. Not her , exactly, but the details. Her eyes are bluer. She’s prettier. Her voice is rougher. She’s just…more, and I don’t want to forget this time.

I don’t want to lie and convince myself her life gets better once I’m gone.

“My prince?” Rune asks.

I startle, realizing we’ve stopped and I haven’t explained why.

“Apologies,” I say. The word brings a rush of pretty blush to her cheeks. I wonder if she’s ever been apologized to, and I know, without a doubt, she hasn’t. Especially not from someone of my rank. “We’ve arrived at your quarters, Rune.”

She blindly steps forward, patting at her door until she finds the keypad. A spark of magic zaps between her thumb and the pad, and Rune flinches. Her door clicks open, and she releases a heavy breath. I wonder, if until this moment, Rune doubted I was bringing her where I promised.

“Thank you, my prince,” she says. Her breath is heavy, unstable. She faces me, keeping her foot against her opened door. “Truly.”

“It was my pleasure,” I tell her, wishing she knew how much of an understatement that was.

She unties my handkerchief from behind her head, and a rush of disappointment swells my chest. Her eyes are closed, the blue hidden from me. I resist the urge of asking her to look at me, if only because I know she would. She would, not because she felt the same thrill when our eyes met, but because of what might happen if she disobeys the crown.

“You can keep it,” I hear myself telling her. It’s insane, absolutely deranged, but I want her to have it. I want her to want to have it.

Rune doesn’t respond. She keeps her hand stretched toward me, the handkerchief dangling from her shaking fingers. Her mouth opens, and I realize she does this a lot. Thinks about speaking, only to keep the words inside.

I take the mask from her. She doesn’t want it—that much is clear. And I know, logically, it’s for the best. She could end up with lashings if anyone discovered her with it. They wouldn’t even waste time learning the truth. She’d be bloodied and bruised, and it would be my fault.

Again .

“Am I to be punished?” she asks me.

I almost ask what for, but then decide it doesn’t matter.

“No Rune, you will not.” I make my voice as firm and gentle as I can, and I hope she can hear the honesty in my words. She will not be punished, certainly not by me, and not by anyone else if I can help it.

Once I’ve had the thought, it solidifies in my mind. I can’t protect Rune, not in the blatant way I once tried to protect Quil, but I can help. And I will.

She nods and retreats into her room, keeping her face toward me as she slips past the door.

“Your shoes will be here in the morning,” I tell her, if only to prolong this moment for another second.

I’m surprised when Rune hesitates. She holds the door, using it as a shield, as she did in the bathroom. Her eyes remain closed.

“My mask is gone,” she says. She’s stuttering as she speaks, and her hand noticeably trembles. “I don’t need shoes…but my mask is gone. I don’t know how to retrieve another without…”

She trails off. Without walking the halls maskless? Without risking punishment for losing it?

“I will take care of it,” I assure her.

Again, she doesn’t smile or look relieved. She’s tense and vibrating and waiting to realize this has all been a nasty trick.

“Goodnight, Rune Ealde,” I say. And then, because I can’t help myself, I add,“It’s good to see you again.”

The wrinkle between her eyebrows appears, and I wonder distantly if she remembers seeing me that day. Probably not. I study her face one last time, and it stays with me, long after she’s shut the door.

It’s late in the evening, over half a day since I left Rune Ealde at 51 CC. I stand in the Tower’s underground bunker with my mother and siblings. We haven’t spoken since our exhibition, but right now, I couldn’t care less. After the mess of this morning and all the tedious routine that followed, I’m just trying to stay awake.

“Well, Mother? Did he say it’s enough?” Tora asks. She stands to my left, once again fidgeting with her crown.

Mother tilts her head as she looks over the space. There are endless rows of bottled magic, stretching into the room’s deepest shadows. She sighs, finally turning toward us.

“We are close,” she says. Her hair, dark like Tora’s but streaked with gray, is twisted around her own crown. A combination of rocks and gemstones, hers represents the Pit. “He doesn’t want to act until he’s certain. If we attempt too soon, and we don’t have enough, it will have been for nothing. We will have to start over.”

I scan the room as she speaks, trading my red handkerchief between my fingers.

“How long?” Tora demands. “Look at this room. We’ve got thousands of bottles here. It’s enough magic for Savoa to thrive our entire lives. And what, we’re supposed to let it collect dust until he’s certain? Our grandchildren will have grandchildren before he’s satisfied. And in the meantime, our kingdom is going to suffer until it inevitably collapses.”

She’s not wrong, on multiple accounts. This bunker holds enough magic to save Savoa’s dying crops and protect its crumbling buildings, to cure the commoners’ sick and heal their wounded animals. Our land wouldn’t be suffering as it is, if the Architect hadn’t been hoarding for so long. I feel nauseated, looking at aisle after aisle of black bottles, each containing magic, all kept for an escape mission that never seems to come.

If the commoners found out about this place, it’d be ravaged before nightfall. They’d steal every bottle, even if they died doing it. Luckily for the Architect, only those in the Royal Committee and a few hand-selected high guards know this bunker exists. Fewer still know how to access it.

“How long?” Tora repeats. “How much longer does he need? How many more bottles until it’s enough ?”

“The Architect estimates two more cycles,” Mother says finally. Despite Tora’s pitching voice, our mother’s remains steady. She takes a bottle from the nearest shelf and holds it to the light. Faint red is visible within the black. “Two more cycles, children, and we can finally go home.”

“Two cycles?” Malek repeats with a scoff. His crown is all bone and teeth, jagged fragments of slaughtered Wilds’ animals. “I believe you said that two cycles ago. And four. And six. The lie is getting thin, Mother.”

He plucks the bottle from her outstretched hand and tosses it carelessly between his fingers.

“We don’t need two cycles.” He glances between me and Tora. “If he wants extra magic, we’ll take every drop of it this Lightning Season. We’ll bottle it all, spare nothing. It should be enough to open the portal. Might not hold for long, but it’ll get us and the Architect through.”

“You suggest we leave our people?” Tora snaps. “And, worse, use all of our magic to do it. The entire kingdom would collapse. Everyone would die, Malek. Does that not bother you?”

“Our only people are the descendants, and there’d most likely be enough magic to get them through.” He rolls his eyes before returning the bottle to its shelf. “Do you honestly think we’re going to get everyone out? We’re not, Tora. And if you think for a second we’re wasting magic on mortals, you’re delusional.”

I switch the handkerchief to my other hand. We meet in this bunker at the end of every Earthquake Season, and it always goes like this. Mother says the Architect needs more time. Tora fights with Malek about right versus wrong. And I sulk in the background until I feel forced to intervene.

I’ve always tried to keep the peace, but right now, I don’t know why I bother. The Architect’s never going to open a portal to the Old World. He’s been here over two hundred cycles, kept alive by engorging himself on raw magic, and he hasn’t managed it. Even if he could, I don’t know why he would. He’s got it in his head he’ll be welcomed back, if only he can get there. As if their god didn’t personally banish him.

“We’re going to save as many people as we can,” Mother says, staring pointedly at me, as if offended I didn’t offer the solution myself. “Until the Architect decides we’re ready, there’s no point in arguing.”

Her eyes flicker to my crown. It’s molded to represent all of Savoa with components for each sector. Roots for the Reaping Grounds, teeth for the Wilds, glass for the City of Mirrors, rocks for the Pit, all twisted together with strands of magic. It’s fit for an heir, and by the look on Mother’s face, she doesn’t think it fits me.

“Fine,” Tora says.

Malek doesn’t respond.

“Now, let’s go,” Mother says. “We’re expected to make an appearance.”

Malek’s jaw ticks, and one of his darker scars hitches. I’ve heard elite women whispering about him, theorizing the marks on his face and body. They tend to assume the wounds are from training or scandalous nights with his so-called concubines. I know better. Malek only ends up with new cuts after a late night in the City of Mirrors, and there’s nothing admirable about them.

We walk through the bunker and back toward the main hub of the Tower. Malek and Tora start arguing again. I lag a few paces behind them and Mother, hands tucked into my pockets. I’ve never understood their desperation to flee our world for one only the Architect has seen. As if his judgment should be trusted, when he’s the reason we’re not there. Or the fact that the Old World was his home, never ours.

I’d prefer to stay here. If we used this hoarded magic, Savoa might not be so bad. We could repair this land rather than abandon it, but I’ve only ever been mocked for that idea. Even Tora wants to leave, though I think that’s more about escaping her title than Savoa itself.

The four of us gather into a darkened lift, one hidden and unknown to most in the Tower. Malek and Tora are still arguing as I press the keypad, and my sister is about to break into tears. She always lets Malek get to her, even when she knows he’s a liar, an entitled child who only thinks of himself.

“Enough,” I snap as the lift stops. “Let’s just make it through the night.”

Fifteen minutes later, we stand on the 199th floor, just outside the event center. Mother pauses at the metal door, sounds of the rehearsal party filtering around us.

“No less than twenty minutes,” she says, eyes shifting between us. She looks only to Malek as she adds, “And behave. There is no need for theatrics tonight.”

“Very well,” Malek says with an exaggerated sigh. He flashes the mischievous grin everyone but Mother hates. “I’ll save it for the Celebration.”

Before she can respond, Malek is through the door and into the bustling party. Mother and Tora go next, and I enter last, letting the door settle behind me. The muffled quiet of the hallway is gone, replaced with a cacophony of last-minute preparations. The center is filled with elites and royals, along with their servants, and lowly shop owners. Trinkets spill over tables as the sellers compete for their place at the Celebration. Low and high guards line the wall, bodies tensed and motionless. As I lean against the door frame, a high guard appears in my peripheral vision, hovering.

I ignore him.

Malek thrives in this type of environment. He loves the chaos, the endless possibilities. There are pretty women to seduce and tipsy men to fight when he’s bored. Three elites surround him now, one hanging on his arm as he grins at her. I never asked Tora who will be betrothed to Malek, but I pity the woman, whoever she is.

I scan the room until I find Viana. She’s stunning, wearing a juniper gown and a mask of braided gold and green. Her cheeks are flushed, her hair in an intricate knot on her head. Several men gawk at her, glancing between her red-painted lips and her low-cut top. My stomach twists unpleasantly, and I scan the area around her. As expected, Saskia is at a nearby table, and behind her: Rune Ealde.

Saskia approaches Viana, and the two ladies compare raindrop necklaces. The pendants are white stone, and if they’re the same as last cycle, they’ll turn red when wet.

Rune remains in the background with Viana’s servant. Their heads are low, hands clasped, mouths closed. Rune wears the dark yellow veil and shoes I sent to her room this morning, and there don’t seem to be any additional scars on her face or neck. I’d sent something to Viana and Saskia’s rooms, too. Not accessories but a letter, warning them of the laws and the consequences of abuse against servants, authorized by Queen Elaria herself.

It’s not true, of course. There are no laws against abusing servants, and Mother has never sent an authorized letter over something like this. She’d find it trivial. I’m just hoping Saskia and Viana don’t figure that out.

“It’s horrible, isn’t it?” Tora asks, startling me.

“What?” I ask. I shift my attention to a nearby statue. One of the vendors has crafted a life-size model of the Architect, made entirely of that ivory stone.

“What they do to their servants,” she says. Her voice is low as she steps closer, nodding toward Rune. “See that one’s face? All cut up. I’d bet you her master did that.”

I don’t respond, but I allow myself to look back at Rune. She’s in the exact same place, same position. I wonder if she notices me staring.

“It hurts, you know?” Tora whispers. “That we let that happen.”

“ We don’t let that happen,” I say, turning toward her. “ We tried to help. We tried to introduce laws. It is the Committee who refused to pass them.”

Tora is silent for a long moment before letting out a humorless laugh. “It’s so silly. For all the power they believe we have, we are just as helpless.”

I move my attention back to Rune. She still hasn’t moved, and I’m beginning to think she’s too scared. Maybe my letters to Saskia and Viana didn’t help at all, maybe they’ve only made things worse.

“Things will be different when I’m king,” I say. The words are empty, and we both know it. Tora nods though, even smiles, as if she believes the lie.

Thirty minutes after we arrive, Tora returns to my side, shadowed by two guards.

“Leaving so soon?” I ask, glancing at the men behind her. She doesn’t often travel without at least one.

“Aren’t you?” she asks, lips quirking. “I’m surprised you’re still here, actually. You’re usually gone the second Mother allows it.”

I shrug. I’ve moved to the other side of the room, so that I’m less than ten feet from Rune. I’m desperate to catch an interaction between her and Saskia or Viana. There’s no reason for my lurking. Like Tora said, we can’t actually do anything. It’s not like I can hurl an elite across the room for bullying her servant. And yet, here I am.

“You can just talk to her,” Tora says, nudging me. My stomach drops, because I didn’t realize I was being that obvious. Tora sighs. “She’s going to be your wife, Harrick. You may as well find out if she’s as bad as they say.”

Viana. She thinks I’m watching Viana .

“Well, I’m going to go,” she says when I don’t respond. She glances back at her waiting guards before playfully knocking her elbow against me. “You really should talk to her. I’ll expect a full report in the morning.”

Not long after Tora leaves, Viana notices me lurking. Her eyes light up, mouth curving in what I think is meant to be seduction. Gods. I should have known better than to get this close, but I’m desperate for any sign that my intervention helped Rune.

Viana steps toward me, brushing her red-haired servant to the side. She’s almost in front of me when Malek lets out one of his ear-carving whistles. The room falls silent, and for once, I’m actually relieved at his interruption. Anything to save me from Viana Llroy’s attention.

If I’m lucky, whatever stunt Malek’s going to pull will bring the night to an early close.

“There is a thief in our midst!” he shouts. Several people flinch away from his wild gaze. His eyes move lazily over the crowd, and as if satisfied by the fear he finds, he smiles.

He jumps onto a wooden table of gift bags, causing it to stutter beneath him. He strolls from one side to the other, his smile growing wider with each step. The crowd stares, both terrified and mesmerized.

Malek kicks gift bags as he walks, sending them to the floor. Something shatters, and the seller steps forward, only to think better of it. She slinks against the nearest wall, face crumbling.

“Did you see her?” Malek demands. He faces a pair of guards, who have come deeper into the room. They’re tensed, ready to apprehend Malek’s non-existent thief. They should know better by now. When the guards don’t respond, Malek scoffs. “She’s stolen right from under you!”

The crowd shifts as people look at each other, accusations heavy in their expressions. Malek moves again, striding to the edge of the table. His chin lifts almost up to the ceiling, and he looks down at his subjects with amused eyes.

There are nearly two hundred people here. Elites from the adjoining rooms creep into the spectacle. They look hungry, like they’ve waited too long for one of these elaborate stunts. I survey the crowd, wishing to find Mother, but knowing I won’t. Malek has always been strategic with his timing.

“Brother!” he shouts.

I look up to Malek’s sadistic grin. He typically prefers all the attention for himself, but right now, his eyes are on me. I keep my face emotionless. If I don’t, he’ll latch onto anything I offer.

“Surely you saw her too, Harrick!” he calls. He gives me a look I haven’t seen in awhile, the one that begs me to join his twisted game. “We must?—”

“Stop this, Malek. There is no thief,” I say. My voice is low but sharp, sounding more confident than I am. “However, I have heard there’s cake. Is it ready to serve?”

My question hangs in the air, and I’ve got my hand half-stretched toward Malek. As if I honestly expect him to hop off the table and share a slice of dessert. Still, it isn’t until he scrunches his nose that I realize I’ve made an error. It’s been his tell since we were two cycles old. He’s a spider, and I’ve just fallen into his web.

“No thief?” he says, voice pitching. He kicks another gift bag off the table before leaping to the floor. “No thief, my brother says! No thief, your future king says! I wonder, Harrick, are you protecting this criminal or are you truly so oblivious?”

I don’t respond, don’t move a single inch of my body. Malek may have me in his web, but I’m not going to squirm for his amusement. I keep my eyes locked on him as he strides across the room.

The crowd parts for him, servants and elites bumping against each other without their usual caution. Despite sharing a womb with Malek, I never know his next move. Is he going to claim the thief escaped? Has he forced one of his servants into the act, ready to fake an elaborate capture?

A guard winds through the crowd to my left, stopping just behind Malek. And then I’m shoving my way through the crowd, almost aggressively. They’ve stopped in front of her . As if she hasn’t suffered enough in the past twenty-four hours. Rune takes a tiny step backward, only to be pushed forward again by Saskia.

The entire room holds its breath.

“Hand it over,” Malek says. “Resist and you will be punished.”

I’m on the other side of Malek now, hand landing heavy on his shoulder.

“Stop this,” I hiss into his ear. “Right now, Malek. It’s too far.”

“It will stop. As soon as this wench surrenders what it’s stolen.”

“I haven’t stolen anything , my prince,” the woman says. Only it’s not Rune. It’s Viana’s handmaiden, a red-haired woman with a chipped front tooth. She raises her chin, as if in defiance, but her fingers are shaking. She’s terrified, and Malek can sense fear better than anyone. He leers at the redhead like she’s his newest toy.

“You’ve taken the capsule,” he says. “And if you want to live, I suggest you return it. Now.”

“This should be handled in the interrogation room,” I say. My words are so snarled they don’t sound like mine. “Let the people return to their party.”

The guard doesn’t glance at me, but Malek does, his mouth twitching with a smirk.

“I don’t know of any capsule, my prince,” the woman says. She spits each word and straightens her shoulder as she leans toward the guard. She doesn’t have pockets, but she’s carrying a small basket of blue-toned tulle. “Search if you must. You won’t find anything.”

My stomach clenches. She has to realize her basket is the perfect place to hide something. Or, in this case, for Malek to plant it. This wench must be as new as Rune—she’s certainly skinny enough to be from the basement. She doesn’t know the rules here…or the lack of them.

The redhead extends her basket, and the guard snatches it. He digs through the ribbons of fabric, hand moving like a hungry animal off its chain. The crowd leans toward him, and I’m ashamed that I do too. I’m desperate for him to find nothing, for Malek to look like a fool.

I know better than that. Malek is many things, but he is not stupid. He wouldn’t put on this performance unless…

The guard pauses. He drops the woman’s basket, spilling her collection of tulle across the marble. Everyone leans close, staring at the clear vial in the guard’s hand. Within it, a thin spool of red magic swirls, glowing bright against the guard’s dark glove.

“A capsule,” he says. His voice is quiet, almost like he’s speaking to himself. But then he shoves his fist into the air, holding the vial for all to see. “The wench has stolen magic!”

“No!” she shrieks. She cranes her neck to see the bottle in his hand. “That is not mine. I am not a?—”

“A thief?” interrupts Malek. His voice is barely a whisper, but he may as well have screamed for the way the crowd gasps. “Unfortunately, creature, the evidence suggests otherwise.”

“Give me your hands,” the guard demands. The woman shakes her head and steps backward.

“I did not steal that,” she says. “I did not . My prince, you can’t?—”

The guard lunges, grabbing the woman with his magicked gloves. All low military wear them, each pair holding enough magic to incapacitate several criminals—or to kill one. The woman writhes against the man’s touch, screaming as his magic, borrowed from our bunker, crawls up her arms. Nearly a minute of blistering red, until finally, she loses consciousness.

As she falls, Rune steps forward. I can see it on her face, her trembling lips. She’s going to try to help. It’s too late for the redhead though. If Rune tries anything, she’s going to get herself killed too. And this time, I won’t be able to save her.

I move through the crowd, twisting to block her with my back. I remain there, shifting every time she does, until the guard has taken the redhead away. In a few hours, she will wake in a prison cell, and she will cry her innocence. She will beg them not to kill her.

But she will lose.

The servants always lose.