11. Rune
ELEVEN
RUNE
I sit on the floor of my bedroom, submerged in darkness. The automatic light shut off hours ago, and I don’t trust myself to stay awake in bed. Luckily the elite servant quarters are nicer than the low ones. Rather than stains on the tile and bad smells in the air, my new bedroom is clean and all my own. Since coming to the Tower, this is the first thing that’s ever been mine .
I stretch my legs in front of me. I’ve been wearing the shoes Harrick sent me, but I took them off. They’re too new, the soles too thick and noisy. Viana burned the last pair in a fit of rage, just hours before her date with Harrick. The beautiful gown he gifted her was too small, and I had no idea how to fix it.
Viana felt badly afterward, once a mender had adjusted the dress to perfection. She even came close to apologizing, I think. I’ve since decided her temper is a beast within her, a vicious creature she doesn’t know how to control.
I’m still thinking about her—and that explosive hatred—when a dull buzzer sounds, marking the hour. I move to my feet, blinking any exhaustion from my eyes. It’s two in the morning, late enough that most in the Tower will be asleep. I tighten my mask over my eyes and fumble through the darkness until I reach the door. I lean on it, the metal cold against my ear as I listen.
After a few silent beats, I ease my door open and sneak into the corridor. Then I’m off: bare feet tapping across the marble floor, breaths shaky but silent. The lights are dimmed, providing just enough visibility to navigate turns.
The Royal Training Arena is only one level below mine. I’ve dreamt of returning since I first saw that unlocked office, and now that I’ve snuck Viana’s access code, I finally have the chance to do something . A way to redeem myself for failing Caleah, and to hopefully make it right. Even if I can’t find a map to the prisons, I’ll be happy with just about anything. The next time I meet with Vale, I’d rather not show up empty-handed.
So, despite the pathetic odds of finding something truly useful, I’m creeping down the service stairwell. I stop on the fiftieth floor and crack the door, listening, watching. I can hear my own heart, the way it slams against my ribcage. With each beat, there’s an echo of don’t get caught, don’t get caught, don’t get caught.
I repeat Viana’s access code, my lips moving silently, as I take off again. I don’t know what happens if I enter it wrong. Maybe a blaring alarm or a poisoned arrow or a swarm of guards with magicked gloves. I’d rather not find out.
The panic stews in my gut as I run, working its way up my throat and into my head. The endless stretch of mirrors makes me nauseated, and without Viana here to lead the way, I keep getting confused. I have to backtrack three times before I finally see the silver doors to Hall D.
I don’t pause before entering the access code, terrified I’ll back out if I hesitate. At the last number, I suck in a thick breath and hold it. My lungs relax when a high-pitched ping radiates from the doorknob. No blaring alarm or poisoned arrow or flock of guards…not yet, anyway.
I slip into the room, trembling against the door once it closes. The center lights whir to life, revealing the viewing room and the training arena beyond it. The door to the arena hangs open, but the adjacent office is closed. I move slowly through the room, eyes jetting from one corner to the next.
When I finally reach the door, the tension in my chest loosens. There’s no keypad, no place for a thumb print. I’ll be able to slip inside, search for anything useful and get out within a few minutes. I lift my hand to the doorknob, only to pause.
I can’t explain why, but I find myself staring at the arena’s gaping entryway. The heavy black mats, the cold gray walls, the rows upon rows of weapons. Sharp-edged swords and heavy rods and daggers and rings. The most powerful weapons in all of Savoa, left carelessly under-protected in this room.
I move away from the office and creep into the doorway of the arena. I don’t step into the room, but it lights up anyway. There are shoe marks on the mats and blood stains along the walls. From where I stand, I can see the tiles one guard used to fight the siblings. They’re smaller than the palm of my hand, tiny enough that I could hide a stack of them in my coveralls. I might do it, if they weren’t streaked with red.
What a difference our fight would be, if we had even a fraction of this magic.
I walk into the room, pausing again. Still no alarms, arrows, or guards. I keep my hands clasped in front of me as I walk, surveying the options. I’m almost back to the viewing room when I see a long sword propped against the wall. It’s not hung like the other weapons, and it appears to be made of solid metal. Not even the softest shade of red touches it.
I glance over my shoulder, triple checking I’m not being watched. Then, I step closer, only stopping when my feet frame the sword’s handle. I stare at it, trying to imagine its weight, whether I’d feel powerful or foolish holding it.
I lunge without thinking, clenching my breath as I pull the sword into my hands. There’s no burn, no sign it’s touched by magic. It is heavier than it looks though, and I have to use both hands to balance it. The handle, rough and bulky, feels like power for the taking. I suddenly hold a million revenge fantasies in my hands, and I raise the sword higher, struggling with the lopsided weight. The tip of the sword stretches two feet from me, bobbing at even the slightest movement.
I could hurt someone with this. I could kill them. The thought should scare me, but it’s delicious instead.
I carry the sword into the center of the arena, arms trembling, and pretend Viana stands before me. I imagine her beautiful dark hair, her delicate mask, her elaborate green gown, streaked with red. And that angry, violent expression she gets, right before she hits me.
With a sharp grunt, I swing as hard as I can. The blade slices through the air—and through imaginary Viana’s throat—but there’s no time to celebrate. The weight of the sword throws me more than I expect, and it flings from my grasp. It skitters across the mat, and I’m a second behind it, landing on my stomach.
After taking an unsteady breath, I curl toward the mat. Any feeling of power is gone, replaced with a fresh wave of humiliation.
What was I thinking, that I’d pick up a sword and transform from feeble servant to heroic warrior? As if anything in my life had ever gone so smoothly.
I clench my teeth and force myself to my knees. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Not only wasting time but also damaging weapons. If there’s even a scratch on that blade, someone will know. I crawl toward it, and then freeze.
Red boots and slacks stand beside the handle. And I realize I am far worse than pathetic—I’m about to be dead.
I move my eyes up slowly, not sure who I’m hoping for. The Architect will kill me swiftly, I think. Prince Malek slowly, for the pure enjoyment of it. And Prince Harrick…I imagine he’ll use me as an example. He’ll show some form of mercy in front of a crowd, something that looks like a gentle sentencing that will actually be worse than death.
I swallow when my eyes meet Prince Harrick’s. He’s not wearing his crown, but he looks no less terrifying. Jaw set, lips turned down. There’s even a red tinge to his face, like he’s about to lose control like Viana so often does.
Vale will be disgusted if he ever learns how I failed. He won’t understand why I got distracted from the mission, why I risked so much to play pretend.
I don’t understand it myself.
My lips part, but I can’t force myself to speak. If they’re going to kill Caleah for stealing a vial of magic, I can’t imagine how I’ll suffer for this .
“Rune Ealde,” he says. His voice is smooth and deep, but his tone is eerily flat. “What are you doing here?”
Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I’m surprised he remembers my name. But my mouth still isn’t working, and it really doesn’t matter whether he thinks my name is Luna or Rain or Rune. A heavy tremor shakes through my body, harder than any earthquake I’ve ever felt. I’m going to pass out. I can feel the blackness pinching my eyes, the fogginess swarming my skull.
“Take a breath,” he says. He looks away from me to grab the sword, plucking it from the ground as if it’s weightless. “I’ve already vowed not to harm you.”
I nod, even though I don’t believe him. Vows, words, mean nothing at all—especially when that person is armed.
“You were holding it wrong,” he says, stepping toward me.
I scramble to my feet, moving backward as he comes forward. He stops then, eyebrows scrunching as he frowns at me. Still holding the sword in one hand, Harrick digs through his coat pocket and removes his red handkerchief. The same one he’d lent me for a mask.
“I understand that you fear me, Rune, but it’s not necessary,” he says. As he speaks, he lowers the sword, propping it against his side. He twists the blindfold over his eyes, tying it tightly around his head. When I suck in an audible breath, his lips tick, just slightly. It almost looks like he’s smirking.
“What are you doing?” I ask. These are the first words I manage, and they’re so quiet, even I barely hear them.
“Showing that I have no interest in hurting you,” he says simply. With the handkerchief over his eyes, he brings the sword back to his hand. “I have questions of you, Rune. Some suspicions too. I think that’s fair. But if you’re going to do something as wild and forbidden as brandishing a weapon, you should at least know how to hold it. It’d be a shame for you to cut yourself in half without anyone to stop the bleeding.”
“Why is that?” I ask. I don’t know why I’m talking or what I’m saying. I’m trembling and there’s still a good chance I’ll faint.
Harrick doesn’t respond. He only steps backward, slowly, the sword tip pointed at an upward angle.
“Step back,” he says. “Even more unfortunate than you stabbing yourself would be me stabbing you. Go to the wall across from me. Knock on it so I know you’re there.”
I hurry away from the prince and press my back against the wall. I knock twice before inching silently to the side, just in case he’s planning to use me for blind target practice.
Harrick widens his stance and shifts one leg forward, tilting the sword as he moves. He looks like a masterpiece, so beautiful this moment should be painted and hung upon a wall. I’m mesmerized by the sharp cut his sword makes through the air, until I’m not thinking of the million ways he could kill me. Eventually he stops, relaxing his practiced stance.
He’s not going to hurt me.
The thought comes without permission, but I think it might be true. The fact that he could have killed me a million ways—and hasn’t—might be proof that he won’t. Maybe there was something more about Caleah’s capture, something I haven’t figured out. Or maybe he’s deranged, ruining some and sparing others.
Harrick lowers the sword and steps toward me. He’s about halfway across the mat when he lowers the sword to the ground. Then he moves to the wall opposite me and blindly gestures toward the abandoned weapon.
“Try it,” he says, voice soft. “Don’t swing it yet. You need to get a feel for the weight first. Just try to copy my movements. Pick a dominant foot?—”
“You don’t have to do this,” I say. I blush, realizing I’ve just interrupted the crown prince. “I only mean—I believe you. I take your word that you will not harm me. Please forgive me for my horrible actions. If you let me, I will return to my room and I will never inconvenience you or defy your laws again. I will repay your mercy with anything you ask of me.”
I don’t know if I’m telling the truth or not. All I know is that, once again, the sour taste of death is in my mouth.
“Pick your dominant foot,” he repeats, words level, void of emotion. “Take the sword and bend your elbows as I did. I’m going to remove the mask to watch you. Okay?”
“Yes, my prince,” I say. I collect the sword and put my left foot forward. I’ve no idea what he means by dominant foot, but it doesn’t matter. If I survive the night, I will never get myself into this foolish of a situation again.
“Call me Harrick,” he says as he unties the handkerchief. He folds it back into his pocket, dark eyes studying me. “Now, shift your stance, move the sword, get a feel for it. Widen your feet a bit. You’re going to fall if you swing it like that.”
I force myself not to think about anything other than Harrick’s commands. He says one critique after another, until I’m too exhausted to hold the sword at all. I finally lower its tip to the floor, panting as Harrick explains the importance of my hips while sword fighting. My face is damp with sweat, and I can already feel a soreness spreading through my shoulders.
“It will get easier,” he says. He pushes from the wall, taking slow, tentative steps toward me. I force myself to stay put, even as my legs beg me to run. “And next time, we will pick a better weapon for you. The sword is too heavy. You’d do better with a dagger or maybe darts. Unfortunately, you won’t be able to use anything magicked. It’d kill you long before it protected you.”
I tilt the handle of the sword toward Harrick, unable to think of a response. I can’t decide if he’s being sincere, if he’s honestly offering to help me illegally train for a second time. It’d be dangerous and reckless, not just for me, but for him too. His punishment would be nothing like the death I’d face, but teaching a servant to fight couldn’t fare well for him either.
Is this how they tricked Caleah?
“You’re going to be sore tomorrow,” he continues, taking the sword from my outstretched hand. He moves across the room, hanging it on an empty holder. “You’ll want to rest, but that will only hurt worse in the long run. We’ll meet here tomorrow night, same time.”
I’m not sure what to say, so I watch him in silence. He removes his gloves, revealing long fingers and slightly calloused palms. He walks back toward me, doing the buttons of his coat as he stops a foot away.
And Wyhel, this man is unjustly attractive. He is tall and broad and muscular—and I have to remind myself that some servants would be built like him too, if they weren’t starving. No amount of food would make them this stunning though. Harrick’s jaw is square and his cheekbones are high. His lips are full, and his nose is strong. If I dared to look into his eyes, I am sure they are beautiful too.
I look back to the ground.
“I don’t understand,” I say after a heavy pause. My words tremble as I push through them. “I’ve done something terrible, and it seems you should punish me for it.”
I don’t know why I keep opening my mouth, why I’m reminding him that I should be killed for my actions. There’s nothing good that will come of it, but my body is a mass of tightly-wound anxiety, making it impossible to think straight.
“You want me to punish you?” he asks. He’s staring at me intensely, looking from my eyes to my nose to my chin and up again. There’s a heavy crease between his eyes.
“I just…I don’t understand,” I repeat. I fidget under his hard stare, further explanation drying in my throat.
“I am not going to punish you,” he says, frowning. “But if you would like to repay my mercy , as you call it, I will accept.”
“Anything, my prince,” I say, and it comes out as a rushed breath. The thought of him holding this much over me is nauseating, and I’d rather pay my debt sooner than later.
“First, I want to look into your eyes,” Harrick says. I shift as he watches me, crossing my arms over my stomach. “Second, call me Harrick, not your prince. And third, I want you to train with me. Here, tomorrow night.”
I force myself to nod, mind churning with his requests. It’s not like I could possibly refuse, but now my insides twitch with unease. All I can think about are the probable consequences, most of which will lead to my death.
“Good,” he says. He steps a fraction closer, dipping his head slightly. I force myself to be still as he continues. “I would also like you to hear my apology.”
“Your apology?” I repeat, stammering.
“Yes,” he says. “I am sorry for how I’ve hurt you.”
“You’ve never hurt me, Prince Harrick.” My entire being vibrates with reckless energy, waiting for the moment he finally drops this act and kills me.
“Not on purpose, no,” he says softly. “But you suffer because of my family, because of my betrothed. I am disgusted at how they treat you, and even more at how little I do to stop it.”
“I am a servant, Prince Harrick,” I say. His name tastes strange in my mouth, leaving a buzzing sensation on my lips. “You owe me nothing.”
He doesn’t respond. His eyes continue to roam my face, a strange sadness falling over his own. I never expected to see pity on an elite’s face, let alone the prince’s.
“Now, the repayment,” I say. I push back the thought of training here again, of the likelihood this is an elaborate trap. “You want to see my eyes. Am I allowed to ask why?”
“With me, you are allowed to ask anything,” he says. “I may not be able to answer, but I promise you won’t be punished for asking.”
“You make a lot of promises,” I say.
“Only ones I can keep,” he returns. His lips quirk upward. I’ve seen him smile in public and while dancing with Viana, but this is different. This is a small, not-quite smile, and it’s directed at no one but me. He goes on, “I want to see your eyes because people tend to hide them. Especially from people like me. I haven’t seen many, but I’ve seen yours, and they were nice. I’d like to see them again.”
It’s hard to imagine any elites hiding their eyes from him. I know Viana would crumble from happiness if Harrick asked her to remove her mask. But perhaps that’s too vulnerable for her. Perhaps he’s afraid he won’t resist the urge, and he’ll accidentally kill his queen.
With a hard swallow, I untie my mask. I hold it between both hands, keeping it close to my chest. I tell myself I’ll throw it back on if he starts draining my magic, but I don’t think that’s even possible.
Like last time, I don’t look Harrick in the eyes. I study his lips and his nose and his hairline as he watches me. His lips are set in a hard line, and his nose is perfectly straight. There’s a freckle near his left temple, and another one on his right jaw, barely visible through his scruff.
“Rune,” he whispers, so quietly I almost miss it. And yet, the hum of his voice shoots electricity through my blood and across my cheeks. So beautiful and gentle it’s almost cruel. He takes my chin between his thumb and forefinger, pressing gently against my skin. “Will you look at me?”
He can force me if I say no, but that’s not why I do it.
I look at him, and I wish I could say it’s because I’m afraid. That’s part of it, of course. I know he can force me if I resist, but that fear isn’t the full truth. I meet Harrick’s gaze, not because I’m terrified beyond logic, but because I want to believe he won’t hurt me. I’m so desperate for his kindness, I might just die for it.
Harrick stares down at me, jaw tight and brows furrowed. I’m trembling against his touch, studying the infinite colors in his eyes. Without anything between us, I can see all the different shades of violet. They aren’t nearly as dark as I thought. There are flecks of lavender and plum, of lilac and nightwater.
I was right, of course. They are beautiful.
Harrick’s thumb grazes over my skin, partway up my jawline. Without permission, a sharp gasp breaks from my lips. So shameful. So pathetically needy.
Harrick freezes at the sound. For a split moment, his eyes are more black than violet, and his hand tightens against my jaw. And then, he’s stepping away, leaving a foot of cold air between us.
I think he wanted to kill me , I realize.
At the very least, he was horrified that I enjoyed his touch. I should explain that I’m simply not used to softness. Not from a man, not from anyone. It’s been cycles since I’ve known anything other than brutality and cruelty. I was startled by his affection, that’s all, and I couldn’t help but react.
Instead of explaining, I remain silent, face boiling from the inside out.
Finally, he clears his throat. “I’ll walk you back to your quarters. Don’t forget to meet me tomorrow.”
“I won’t,” I say. My gaze remains on the floor.
As we walk, my entire body vibrates with humiliation and self-hatred. His family destroys people like me for sport. Caleah is already paying that price, and if our escape plan fails, our entire faction will too. In that split second, my loneliness made me like something I should hate. I was leaning into Harrick’s touch, craving his gentleness, forgetting that he was—and only ever will be—the enemy.