Chapter Fifty-Two Viola
Sylas, I love you.
I never told you.
I love you. I love you. I love you.
fifty-two | viola
TWO WEEKS LATER SATURDAY, DECEMBER 25, 1939
No matter how many times I flip the mattress, it feels like I’m lying on a bed of rocks.
So I slide down to the cold, white marble floor, where I’ve slept for most of the last two weeks.
The cell is depress-ingly white, down to the metal bars that lock me in.
I’m surprised they were merciful enough to hold me somewhere with a tiny window and an in-room sink and latrine.
Paltro was relentless, filing charge after charge, channeling the anger and pain of Sylas’s death through every new accusation he made that night.
Hours after I stepped into the Grand House, I walked out, my clothes still soaked in Sylas’s blood, straight into Riverview Prison for Highly Dangerous Individuals, where they handed me a blue jumpsuit that scratches against my skin like sandpaper.
They can’t execute me because of Raiek, so every mode of torture has become acceptable.
“Prisoner sixty-three,” my new guard calls, and I rise to my feet.
She stops in front of my cell, fiddles with one of the bars, and finally clicks open the lock.
She’s a manipulator Arkani who failed her Firstline assessment three times, I’ve learned since yesterday.
She has a beautiful name, Aria Lan. “You must be the most visited prisoner in the history of Riverview Prison. What are you in for?”
The familiarity of her tone gives me pause.
“Every offense in the rule book,” I deadpan as I walk out, following her.
She was assigned to me only two days ago, and she’s the only one who doesn’t handcuff my feet and hands while leading me to the visitor’s room.
She’s also the only one who talks to me; the other guards shove me around instead of using words.
“We have a couple of minutes,” she quips as we walk down the corridor between the full prison cells.
“One count of murder, one count of endangerment, three counts of theft, one count of stolen identity, and one count of existence, I suppose,” I muse. “And whatever else the chief of Firstline feels like adding at the next hearing.”
“Existence—” She chuckles.
“I was cursed to be born a crossmage.” I cut her off, and she leaves me be.
When we walk past Victor’s cell—four cells down from mine— I glance inside.
He straightens, less surprised now than when he was the first few times our eyes met when I walked by.
His mouth parts when he notices my new guard, then he nods at me and I nod back, a silent acknowledgment of our unfair predicaments while a mass murderer walks free, amassing an army of mages to take over Draterra.
I understand his anger now. Maybe that’s exactly what they deserve.
Officer Lan leads me down a flight of stairs, and we take a left turn, stopping at the third door on the right. Behind us, a cleaner dumps a bucket of soapy water on the floor and frantically gets to mopping. Riverview’s obsession with upkeeping their white floors and walls is outlandish.
“I’ll be out here when you’re done.” She unlocks the door, and I step in, taking a seat at the lone table in the middle of the room.
The other door opens, and Priya walks in, Gan in tow. Gan. My mother’s mother. My grandmother. They visit every day without fail, sometimes with my grandfather, eyes full of hope, smiles filled with warmth, and food that keeps me sane.
Gan sits, lifting her rattan-woven lunch basket to the table.
She pulls out a plate full of toast, freshly made jam, and clotted cream, then sets the basket on the floor.
Yesterday, she held my hand and told me she was proud of me.
I didn’t even say thank you. I don’t deserve their patience. I don’t deserve their love.
Priya takes the empty seat next to her and slides the plate toward me. “Eat.”
She doesn’t have to tell me twice; the moment my tongue tastes the sweetness of the jam, tears fill my eyes. This is much better than the soggy grains and burned bread the prison serves us once a day.
“Beau and Gryff testified yesterday, so the theft charges have been dropped,” Priya tells me.
If the charges have been dropped, they must have lied under a reader’s touch.
She lowers her head and adds, “Paltro is now accusing you of collusion with Grimm. Your hearing is at four in the afternoon tomorrow. He… he has poachers ready to testify against you, and you’ll be sent to solitary again, this time in the Farbon Desert.
It’s brutal out there, and I won’t be able to help. ”
The piece of toast slips through my fingers, and I gape at her.
Paltro will really stop at nothing until he tortures me by every means possible; first was solitary, which Priya got me out of; then it was no food for three days, which was ridiculous; and now, it’ll be whatever other horrible punishment they come up with.
Grimm’s words play in my mind like a broken symphony: They will never accept you for who you are.
But I cannot give up, not until I rip out Grimm’s heart with my bare hands so he can feel what he did to me when he killed Sylas.
“A whole world stretches between today and tomorrow, my dear.” Gan smiles sweetly, her statement oiling the cogwheels in my head with quiet hope. “Death magic and poison magic are your birthright. No one can take that away from you.”
She reaches for my free hand, Scar uncoiling around her forearm.
My aspier nuzzles her head against the back of my hand, and I sigh, grateful that she was returned to her family and that Railesza was allowed to go to Beau, instead of them both rotting in a vault, waiting for my sentencing.
It’s been two weeks, and we still haven’t found Raiku.
My skin pricks. Two beads of blood form at my wrist. I jerk my hand back, and in my haste, the plate clangs to the floor, shattering into pieces.
Priya doesn’t waste time, and she’s on the floor within seconds, picking up the broken porcelain. “Follow the voice,” she whispers, placing her hand on my knee as she stares at me.
At the same time, the doors open, and three guards storm in—the woman from earlier and two others who’ve done night rounds before. “Visiting hour is over. PGM, you of all people know not to have contact with the prisoner.”
“Take sixty-three back to her cell, Officer Lan,” one of the guards barks at her.
Officer Lan grips my arm, dragging me through the door Priya and Gan came through. She hurries her steps down a long corridor, and I recognize it from the time we visited Victor.
“Vi,” she says, looking over her shoulder. “I don’t know what Parrish told you, but if we don’t leave now, they’ll send you to the Farbon Desert Solitary Prison for five years.”
Parrish said to follow the voice. Did she mean… “Beau?” I ask, as he takes me through a second hallway. I knew something was off with the new guard’s overt friendliness. I should’ve known for certain when Victor lingered on us earlier; he only looks at Beau that way.
“Took you long enough,” he clips. “Don’t ask. Illusions, and yes, Officer Lan gave her consent.”
“Where are we going—”
“Out.” He pushes through a wooden door, and we come face-to-face with the floor warden.
Beau’s grip on me tightens, and he mutters a curse.
The man, at least six foot-five, looks down at us, his brows furrowed, his dark eyes dubious. “The cells are in the opposite direction,” he drawls. Even if we were to make a run for it, he’d catch us in two strides.
I stand still, looking straight ahead.
Lan—Beau—gestures behind us. “Ground floor is covered in suds. I’m taking her through the other wing.”
“Unshackled?” The warden’s eyes fall to my loose hands, and Beau immediately pulls handcuffs from his pockets. He steps in front of me, and I lift my wrists. As he fastens the handcuffs, he leans in, and ever so silently says, “Fourth bar.”
He pulls back and shoves me forward. “Warden, make yourself useful instead of standing here, questioning command. Take her back to her cell.”
The warden grabs the back of my collar, dragging me forward. When I hear the door close behind us, I realize that my only chance at an escape is gone.
The lights go off for the night, and I sit against the wall, contemplating the last couple of months. I run a hand over Raiek’s cool scales; only a few hours now until I walk to a fate worse than death.
The faint ray of moonlight trickles through the small window above the sink onto the bars of the cell. Something glimmers, and I press my eyes together. When I open them again, the glimmer is still there.
Pushing myself up, I tiptoe to the gate, softly running my hand along every bar until I reach the fourth one from the lock. My fingers catch on something cold. As I feel around, an open cuff slowly materializes.
My breath hitches.
I gingerly loop it free, walk backward, and slide down to the floor, my back facing the door in case a guard walks past. Turning the cuff over, I study the intricate details—roses, aspiers, a teacup, and honeyfig bread are hidden among the vines, and Scar’s scales wrap around the borders.
My throat thickens. Someone had this made for me. As I turn over the cuff, I notice a faint engraving on the inside. This life and the next, it says, and I gasp.
Sylas.
My tears are hot against my cheeks, the repressed grief of the past two weeks bubbling over.
I unzip my jumpsuit, tug the left sleeve to the side, and bring the relic to my bare arm. Gan is right. Death magic and poison magic are my birthright, and with this cuff, Sylas will be in every strand of magic I weave.
The moment the relic clips around my arm, I feel… alive. Like a missing part of me has come together at last.
Finally, a sharp musical voice whispers, and my heart stops. I look around, holding on to a broken string of hope that Ysenia has returned. But it’s not her. The voice chuckles. Let me show you the way to the Underworld.
THE END