King of Always: A Fae Romance (Black Blood Fae Book 2)

Isla

On the night of the dark moon, the Merit court has gathered for a wild and decadent feast. On either side of the glistening channels of the Blood Sun altar, long tables covered in curling ivy, flowers the color of aging bruises, and a mess of left-over banquet food line the Great Hall, a host of gruesomely beautiful Unseelie fae seated at each.

Yesterday I learned the name of the water feature that’s carved into the floor, and the combination of the words blood and altar sent a cold chill down my spine, filling me with dread about what might happen at tonight’s Grian Fola ceremony.

Right now, I’m at a table positioned on the floor to the right of the dais, sitting with Elas and his innovators. I’ve only picked at the main dishes—eggs in blood-red shells, tiny bats floating in a thick crimson sauce, wriggly, gooey tripe—and instead nibbled the over-ripe figs and persimmons that were bursting from their skins all over my plate. Out of everything on offer, they looked the most likely to stay down.

If I can help it, I’d prefer not to vomit all over my lovely vermilion gown.

In the light cast by the numerous braziers and torches set throughout the hall, everything gleams red—the crystal goblets, marble floor, the black columns and fluttering palm trees, even the giant metallic beams of silver and gold behind El Fannon’s throne. Red. Red. Red. Everywhere I look. Feeling queasy, I push my plate away.

Lidwinia glides down the steps from the dais, then weaves through the tables to lean between Elas and me, her purple-patterned hand squeezing his shoulder. “How was dinner?” she inquires with a knowing grin. “Isla, it appears that your favorite was the bog troll pudding stuffed in over-ripe fruit casings.”

Ugh, bog troll. Really? My stomach churns again, but I hide my nausea by smiling brightly at her. “Yeah, it was delicious.” If you enjoy the taste of dead butt. “Thanks for asking.”

She nods serenely. “And now, Isla, the evening begins in earnest. Prepare yourself. No matter what happens, you must do your best not to react. Your focus must be to find a way to meet with Riven as soon as possible. Do not lose sight of your goal.”

She sounds like my old basketball coach.

My gaze shoots to the fae seated at El Fannon’s right—Riven—the Merits’ mysterious heir. Since the moment he took his place at the high table, it’s been difficult not to look at him. He’s so compelling.

A pale warrior with an ethereally beautiful but serious face. A wavy curtain of snow-white hair. The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, glowing as though lit from within. His clothes are black, his spiked crown too.

Perched on the back of his ornate chair is a rather large owl, its face and body divided vertically by two colors—one side white, the other black, wide eyes studying everyone in the room with an unnerving intensity.

Lidwinia flicks her tongue out, grabbing my attention with a quick lick of my cheek.

“Eww. Stop that.”

Laughter tinkles. “Of course, he won’t agree to a private meeting with you, but if you watch him closely over the next few days, it will be apparent where he spends most of his time and you can easily apprehend him.”

I roll my eyes. “You know, it would be a whole lot easier if you’d just tell me where to go.”

“If I disclose this location myself, then when questioned, I would have to admit I gave you this information. And that would not be wise. Also, Meerade is the one you must impress. Riven respects her opinion.”

“Oh? And who’s this Meerade?” I ask, searching for a stunning fae creature hovering somewhere close to the prince. “His girlfriend?”

Lidwinia and Elas laugh. “No,” she says, gesturing at the owl. “It is his bonded creature.”

I hide my shocked expression with a yawn. I wonder if it sleeps in his chambers? The owl is a magnificent looking critter, but I wouldn’t want those knowing eyes staring at me while I slept each night. No thanks. I’d rather snuggle up with jolly Balor or mischievous Spark. Or the fire prince with the delicious lips.

Inwardly, I smack my forehead. Why did I let my thoughts travel back to that dark cell? His warm body. And the softest, sweetest kisses a girl could ever imagine. Remember—he may be a great kisser, but he’s a supernatural pain in the butt who thinks I’m his fated mate. Weirdo, right?

“Isla, are you well?” asks Elas, his wing wrapping protectively behind my chair.

“Oh, absolutely. Don’t worry about me. Just realized I forgot to put my croissant dough in the cooler before I left. Never mind. I’m fine—”

“Hush,” says Lidwinia. “Look who comes.” She waves goodbye and steps quickly up the red and black staircase to take her seat next to Temnen, who looks horrid dressed from head-to-toe in a nauseating, pale-green shade that perfectly matches his hair.

Flute music plays, a haunting tune drifting through the air. Perhaps there’ll be dancing. A previously hidden silver door near the stairs stands open, and the leathery-skinned guard with the curling tusks from the Black Tower strides through it pushing a half-naked Raff before him onto the dais.

Panic closes the muscles of my throat, my hands rising to cover my mouth. Elas removes his wing from around my shoulder, replacing it with a gentle hand. “Be calm,” he whispers.

Temnen goes straight for Raff, dragging him by a metal neck cuff to the center of the dais, then shoving him down the stairs head first. I can’t contain my moan of horror as I watch him tumble down in a mess of clanging chains to land on the marble floor.

“Behold,” shouts Temnen. “I give you Prince Rafael Leon Fionbharr, the fourteenth Black Blood heir to the Throne of Five. A guest in our land. Come and take a closer look. What think you of him, fellow Merits?”

Cheers and howls swell through the room as the fae crowd around, clambering for position, even hanging from rafters and columns, some peering between vines like shy children.

I shoot out of my chair and the restraint of Elas’s arm and push my way to the front of the throng.

The sight of the Prince of Talamh Cúig so badly abused cleaves my heart in two.

Legs crossed and his back a steel rod, Raff sits on the floor, his bare chest heaving, hands braced on his leather-clad thighs, and his golden gaze burning a hole through one side of Temnen’s smirking face to the other. Most likely murdering him over and over in his mind.

Still seated at the table, El Fannon smiles proudly while Lidwinia and Riven fix blank stares over the top of their brother’s head, clearly unimpressed by his cruelty.

“Damn you to the hellfire realms, Temnen Prince of Merits. You are nothing but a coward,” says Raff, spitting the words between gritted teeth. “Soon you will pay for every misdeed, every foul action. Do not dare think you won’t.”

“But how will you punish me? You are too weak, and besides I have your human. Would you like me to punish her for your impudence?” Temnen digs his fingers through Raff’s neck cuff, shaking him roughly as he addresses the court. “Tonight, we are fortunate to have royal fae blood with which to mark the beginning of the beloved Blood Sun ceremony.”

The courtiers cheer, Temnen’s pendant blipping and flashing with their approval.

“Let us delay not a moment longer.” He drags Raff back up the steps to the stone circle carved into the floor immediately in front of the throne, the beginning of the Blood Sun altar.

Draírdon materializes from nowhere, gray robes swishing, a ceremonial knife held glinting in his fist.

“No.” I step forward. Elas appears beside me, pulling me back by linking our arms together, then holding me in place.

Outside a violent storm rages, the wind’s howl audible above the music and the excited noise of the courtiers. Temnen raises a hand toward the ceiling. Silence drops like a guillotine, the wind outside stilling.

“Praise be to the favors of the Merits. The Blood Sun is all seeing, all knowing, and flows with vitality and strength through all who respect the ways of our kingdom. Blood is power. Let it run.”

Draírdon’s knife slashes, blood welling then flowing from Raff’s chest. The fire prince hisses, the demon tattoo on his throat emitting a weak, throbbing pulse of light. As Temnen pushes Raff close to the altar, his blood drips freely, and the flutes begin to pipe again, their tempo frantic, nauseating.

“The fire prince’s blood is thick and rich!” Temnen tugs Raff’s wrist high, effectively dangling him from it like a puppet. “Cursed Seelie blood will make a superior sacrifice. Let us take a little more.”

Raff kicks his bare foot out, tripping the Merit prince. Temnen laughs, quickly regaining his balance. “Yes, bleed the Seelie prince, High Mage. Then take a little more. No need to be gentle.”

Rip, slash goes the mage’s terrible blade as it crisscrosses Raff’s skin—the soft side of his forearm, muscled back, then returning to his chest. Before long, he’s covered in blood, tawny hair a wet tangle over his face and shoulders.

I gaze around the court, shocked at the gleeful faces on the dais, the stench of blood lust permeating the air. The king smiling a strange close-mouthed grin. Lidwinia still as a statue. Riven too.

Acid tears sting, dripping down my face as wild thoughts run riot inside my head, terrible, futile ideas of how I might put a stop to this horror. What I finally settle on is a question: When should I start screaming?

“What a handsome prince you make decorated in your own blood,” Temnen crows. “I think our work has much improved him, Draírdon. Although, perhaps your cuts could be a little deeper and more precisely placed.” He runs his claw slowly around Raff’s throat. “Yes, I think you’d look wonderful, Rafael, with a long gash right here.”

A burst of noise explodes near the throne—massive black and white wings spreading wide as they beat the air. The owl swoops over Temnen’s head, talons knocking his circlet of emerald stones to the floor before it lands in front of Raff. Chest puffed, the bird’s eerie eyes fix on Temnen.

“Brother,” says a low gravelly voice. The silver prince now stands in front of his carved-black chair, his face calm and strange, night-deep shadows coalescing and moving around his body. “You have upset Meerade. She does not approve of your treatment of the Court of Five heir. It is beyond—”

“I do not care what your owl thinks, Riven. She is ever the killjoy whose only desire is to spoil my fun.”

The king yawns and raises his hand limply. “Nonetheless, Temnen, Meerade and Riven are correct. You know you cannot kill the Elemental prince, and if you toy with him much longer, you surely will. War with the Elementals will commence when I say it is time and not a moment before. Release your plaything at once.”

Temnen bows. “As you wish, Father.” He lifts Raff by the chains and throws him down the stairs for the second time this evening, following and kicking him until he lands right at my jeweled slippers.

“There.” Temnen grins and pushes me onto my knees beside Raff. “Now you may take a seat next to your brother-in-law, Change-Bringer, and watch the rest of the proceedings.”

“Lara isn’t my sister, you jerk, she’s my cousin.”

The king laughs. Elas hisses a warning. But I can hear each one of Raff’s ragged, death-rattle breaths, and they make me not care what the Merits might do to me.

“Cousin. Sister. Details, human, they bore me immensely.” Temnen prances off, rabbiting on in his nasally voice about Blood Sun this, sacrificial honor that. I couldn’t care less about his stupid ceremony. I just want to find a way to help Raff before he bleeds out on the pretty marble floor.

“Are you okay?” I whisper, my fingers itching to smooth his cheek, to comfort him.

He grunts, then winces. “I shall live.”

The noise of the court rises around us. It sounds like they’re engaged in a bidding war, an auction, and it provides a convenient cover under which to speak to Raff.

“I think the silver-haired dude, Riven, wants to keep you alive. That’s at least one positive thing, right?”

“What is a dude?”

I shrug. “It just means a guy. A man who…” I let my words trail off as Raff’s brow twists in confusion. “Oh, forget about it.”

He snorts a laugh, his palm pressing against the nasty gash bisecting his ribcage. “Riven just saved my life. Surely he deserves a more respectful title than dude.”

“Actually, I think his owl saved you. Riven looks about my age. How can he be older than Temnen who looks like a sour, old wrinkled prune?”

“Riven is three years older than Lidwinia and she has two years over Temnen. As is typical for the youngest brat in a royal line, Temnen always seeks attention and is willing to behave despicably in order to receive it. Before my brother Rain died, I was the youngest of three siblings. I understand Temnen’s desires all too well.”

“If I didn’t know Riven was the heir, I’d easily pick him as the baby of the family. He reminds me of the beautiful music majors I see skulking around the school campus picking up girls with nothing but the power of their tragic stares.”

Raff scowls at the word beautiful, then cocks his head. “I do not know the word campus, but if girls can be picked up by the powers of music mages, does that mean humans have magic, too?”

“Majors, not mages. They’re students—” I shake my head, bringing my focus back to the Merits. “Don’t worry about it, I’ll explain later. Why does Riven look so young?”

“Since the moment he turned one and twenty, he has not aged a day. A dark spell suspends him in time. It is said when he meets his match, he will begin to age at the normal rate of a fae male. And in Temnen’s case, there is no magic that ages him beyond his twenty fae years, only his foul nature.”

“So Riven is cursed?”

“No, quite the opposite. The spell was bestowed as a blessing. At Riven’s birth, the court’s High Mage foretold that he must wait many years for his mate to be born and come of age. Riven is not one to share his secrets, but according to Lidwinia, her brother despises this meddling with his life’s natural processes. This dubious blessing has made him the reclusive creature you see before you.”

“I thought Merits adored unnatural things.”

“Riven is different. El Fannon longs to make Temnen his heir because they are so similar, but Merit laws forbid it. Riven will rule, and my people sincerely hope he will indeed live to ascend the throne. The silver prince represents the greatest chance for peace between our kingdoms in several hundred years.”

“You seem to know a lot about the Merit royal family.”

“We fae like to be well acquainted with our enemies.”

A loud cheer rises above the general ruckus, and Temnen pushes a young man past us toward the dais, stripping the fae’s clothes from his wiry body along the way. The Merit prince backhands the boy’s head, making him stumble, before tearing translucent wings from his shoulders with a jubilant roar.

Silence drops like a machete blade cutting off the crowd’s laughter. I let my arm sneak around Raff’s shoulders, squeezing him tightly, for both of our comfort.

Grinning like a madman, the Unseelie prince turns to address the court, his orange gaze falling on me and Raff.

“Father, look!” He pushes the trembling boy aside. “Do you see how your change-bringer protects the Elemental, fawning there at his side? What use is she to us when her loyalty so clearly lies elsewhere? Methinks we should pass over this woodland elf and instead make the Blood Sun a truly outstanding gift—a human sacrifice!”

The king considers me, hunched as I am beside Raff, his thin lips pursed and brow pinched. He leaves his throne, joining us on the floor in front of the dais, circling us with his fingers steepled under his pointy chin, black jewels glinting like knobby knuckles. “Perhaps you are correct, my son—”

“Your Majesty,” calls Elas, stepping toward the king and waving a scroll through the air. “Before we move forward with the ceremony, I have a special surprise for you and the court, if you will allow it.”

“Oh? A surprise for me, Elas? How thrilling.” El Fannon’s curls bounce as he gestures his technomancer closer, forgetting that Raff and I exist. “Of course. Come quickly. You must reveal your surprise at once. The court is eager for new amusements.”

Elas bows low, and as he straightens, he flings the scroll into the air. Wrapped in a diaphanous bubble of silver it tumbles slowly into the giggling king’s outstretched hands.

Clearing his throat, Elas flares his black wings, the metal feathers jangling musically. “King El Fannon, with the express blessing of Lady Isla, our esteemed change-bringer, I bring you her vision for our city.”

The courtiers gasp and hiss, squeal and growl.

The king unravels the scroll, his beady eyes scanning the contents. A jagged black gash grows across his face, his version of a delighted smile. “Praise the Merits! It is called El Fannon’s Royal Celestial Skyway, and if I am not mistaken, it is a complete transportation system, yes?”

“Your Majesty is correct, and it is our change-bringer’s design,” says Elas, flourishing his palm in my direction.

A lie. But, like all fae, Elas is a master of stretching the truth.

“How wonderful!” the king holds up the plans. “I see there is a point to disembark above the throne room. Courtiers will have the pleasure of witnessing my private audiences.” He beams at Elas. “Yes, this is a genius idea. Temnen, come quickly. Pass the plans around the court so that everyone may be filled with delight.”

Scowling, the prince strides over, his antennae quivering and coat tails flapping. He rips the plans from his father’s fingers, his pinched gaze devouring them, clicking his tongue and sighing as his frown deepens. Finally, his head turns my way, his orange eyes now black.

“She did this?” he asks Elas, pointing a claw at me. “That one there? The human?”

“Yes. The Celestial Skyway is Lady Isla’s invention. Without her, the project couldn’t have been conceived.”

I smile sweetly at Temnen.

I curtsy as though I’m a brilliant innovator whose every single braincell is awash with technological genius.

I puff my chest out, tilt him a challenge with the jut of my hip.

Something wild burns at my core—triumph, rage, the stupid overconfidence of a fleeting victory—perhaps all three? I feel Raff shuddering beside me, see the flash of Draírdon’s blade across his skin. I’m on the brink of madness, about to explode any second. And when I do, it’s going to be ugly.

Temnen gawks. I stare back, silently cursing him.

That’s right, you nasty green-haired Merit, check me out. My bones might be frailer than yours, but the marrow inside hides my special talent. You can find it in my smile. Hear it in my words. If you kneel at my feet and lick my tears, you’ll taste it in my sweat and sorrow.

Because I am something that you can never ever be, not even in your wildest dreams—I’m a freaking awesome liar!

His slimy antennae vibrate, and I grin so widely it hurts. I hate him—he’s nothing but a bully, and at their core, bullies are always, always, always weak, sniveling cowards. Do you really want to mess with me, you jealous, worm-headed sook?

A lake of fiery lava rolls through my body.

I’ve never been so mad before. So ready to punch someone in the face.

Heat sizzles from my brain to my chest, building and building until it explodes outward in a flash that blinds me momentarily. A pulse tingles over my palms, scorching my fingertips, and blue flames dance around my knuckles.

What. The. Ever. Loving. Hell.

I squeeze my eyes shut. When I open them, the flames are still there.

I’ve made fire!

Oh, shit! This is new.

I thrust my hands behind my back, blowing out a slow, cooling breath. I quickly scan the courtiers, checking who might have seen the unbidden magic bursting from my hands.

My blood begins to cool. My limbs grow steadier. Thank God no one noticed! Not even Raff.

At the moment, he’s too busy rearranging his battered limbs, inch by painful inch. And the way he’s staring at the Merit prince, I suspect he’s getting ready to pounce on him like I am. But I hope Raff saves his strength. In his current condition, he couldn’t tackle a kitten.

The skyway plans circulate around the courtiers, and my pendant takes on a life of its own, incoming data lighting the screen in bright pulses. Tilting my pendant toward my face, I see my approval rating is soaring like crazy! Unfortunately, Temnen notices, and his squirmy feelers straighten in my direction, pointing at me with interest. Ugh. It’s a truly disgusting sight. No doubt he’s burning with jealousy. Consumed by fury.

Rolling back his shoulders, he smiles right at me. Not a wicked smile. Not a creepy smile or even a particularly cunning one. It’s just…eager and hungry, like a child plotting how to steal his best friend’s special toy right out from under their eyes. And I have a horrible, gut-sinking suspicion that I’m the shiny new toy he wants to get his claws on, which is an incredibly disturbing thought. But…wait. Hmmm…

Even as bile rises in my throat and fear weakens my legs, I flash him a forced smile, a terrible idea sparking in my obviously demented brain, a really, really bad plan forming.

I keep the fake smile plastered on as Temnen angles his body my way. Oh, crap. He’s thinking about coming over. I quickly shuffle through opening lines—something cheeky, but friendly. Yikes! Am I really doing this?

Yep.

Yeah, I am.

Merits go crazy for what others cherish and admire. And, thanks to Elas, I seem to be pretty popular. This is the perfect chance to earn Temnen’s trust before the whole court discovers what a faker I am.

Whether he likes it or not, the frog prince is going to blab information that will help me hatch an escape plan. Then Raff and I can get out of this place forever. And soon, too. It’s a good plan, mainly because it’s better than no plan.

The hardest part? Having to pretend to like Temnen.

As I take my first step toward the Merit, trumpets blare from each corner of the hall, a fanfare of sorts, silencing the chatter and drawing attention back to the king, who’s standing in front of his throne, arms raised high like a pompous ringmaster.

“Gather around, dear courtiers,” he commands. “The moment you have been waiting for has finally arrived. The Blood Sun ceremony commences!”

The poor, naked faery that Temnen de-winged is pushed forward. His eyes go to an older woman standing at the front of the crowd. Her features are similar to his, so I’m guessing she’s the boy’s mother. She wrings her hands, but doesn’t cry out or reach for him, her only protest the silent tears streaming down her cheeks. Whatever is about to happen to her son, it seems she’s already accepted it. Or knows there’s no point in appealing to the Merit king.

Drums pound. Faeries chant. Draírdon drags the young man to the altar carved into the floor of the dais. When the fae’s throat is slashed, his blood will flow along the channels, down the stairs, and become part of the hall’s glistening water feature.

Water feature, now that’s a joke! Filled with horror and death and misery, it’s nothing but a monument to terror.

Eyes filled with blood lust, the king raises his head. “Change-Bringer, come!”

What? Me?

Temnen offers me his arm and guides me up the stairs. As we climb upward, my head spins, and I try not to lean too heavily on him. At the top, he positions me between his father and Draírdon. El Fannon places an obsidian knife in my hand, my fingers closing reflexively around the bejeweled handle.

It’s heavy, is the first thing I think.

Then: what am I supposed to do with this flipping piece of shit?

The High Mage warbles on in an ancient language, the words Merits and blessings and blood being the only ones that make sense to me. The court is working itself into a frenzy, leaping, howling, spitting, and some writhing disgustingly together like this is a spring festival. I’m no prude, but a ritualized killing would have to be the farthest thing from sexy-times that I could possibly imagine.

The king silences the court with a flourish of his hand. His gaze burns through me. “Tonight, our change-bringer has the honor of making the Blood Sun sacrifice. Praise be to the Merits and the beings who have brought her to us.” He nods at me. “Now, girl. Use the blade.”

Temnen’s face is a horror-mask—his gruesome smile taunting and cruel. He lives for moments like this.

Seizing the boy’s hair, the mage jerks him around, revealing the soft flesh of his throat, the terror-stricken whites of his lovely violet eyes.

As I open my mouth to say no, no way, a strong hand covers mine and slashes it over the boy’s neck. Blood splashes rich and red, the fae’s body thrashing its wild, final protest.

Swallowing vomit, I step back into Elas’s chest. “Smile like you mean it,” he whispers over the din of the roaring crowd.

Drums and flutes begin playing with renewed vigor. The knife still entwined in our hands, Elas lifts it high, blood dripping from the blade down the sleeve of my dress. With a smile frozen on my face, I silently beg the tears threatening to spill down my cheeks to hurry up and reabsorb into my trembling body before they expose me as a fraud.

What the hell just happened?

What have I done?

The fae scream and howl, loving every sick and violent moment.

I don’t turn and thank Elas for saving my life, even though that’s exactly what he’s done. If he hadn’t moved my hand, I would never have killed the fae myself, and I’m sure the king would have dealt with me swiftly. And, now, thanks to Elas’s intervention, I’m an accomplice, not a fully-fledged murderer, which is great, and we can both go to hell together.

I refuse to look down and watch the river of red pulse along the stone channels. I won’t look at the king or the mage or Temnen or the poor boy’s mother.

And I definitely won’t look at the courtiers dipping fingers into the warm liquid and smearing it over each other’s lips and chests. Instead, my gaze flits around the room like a startled butterfly, finally settling on the warm amber eyes of the Court of Five prince and it stays there, stuck on his kneeling form as if my life depends on it.

Perhaps it does.

Raff’s fists clench and unclench. His chest pumps, his expression unhinged as if he’s about to do something extreme, something very, very stupid.

“It’s okay,” I mouth, even though it’s a lie. Nothing will ever be okay again.

“I’ll kill him,” his lips shape back, and I wonder who he means. Temnen? El Fannon? Elas?

Temnen peels the knife from my fingers, then lifts the blade to his mouth, licking it clean.

“Very well done, Change-Bringer,” says the king. “Your actions have secured your position for another moon’s turn. Yes, well done indeed.”

Right. So that means I have roughly four weeks to make progress on Temnen and get the hell out of here before the next Blood Sun ceremony, because there is no way I’m doing that again.

Ever.

“Yes, you surprised me, little human,” says Temnen. “But tell me, Elas, why did you help her? Did you wish to share in the Blood Sun glory?”

Elas bows. “No, my prince. I wished her first cut to be magnificent and for the blood not to be wasted. But do not fear. By the time of the next ceremony, with my assistance, her skill with the blade will be much improved.”

“Yes, indeed. That was very wise of you. You may take courtiers of your choosing to practice on. And, at this time of year, the woodlands are teeming with nymphs, perhaps you can cull their population. It would be a service to your king.”

El Fannon takes a dish of blood from a platter and gulps it down, waving a hand at me. “You may take her away, Elas, before she falls asleep on her feet. A mortal’s first Blood Sun is a taxing one.”

Temnen captures my arm. “I will escort her, Father.”

“No, no. Elas will do it. She requires rest, and I do not believe the likes of your attention will be particularly restorative. You can take the Elemental fae back to the tower instead. And, yes you may play, Temnen, but please do not kill him. He’s far too valuable alive.”

“Perhaps I could visit you tomorrow, Temnen,” I force myself to say, still sick to my stomach. “If you will allow it, of course.”

Those wriggly antenna quiver, and he does his best impression of a charming smile. “I would be delighted. The aviary at noon would suit me well.”

I curtsy. Elas bows. And then we hold our heads high and walk slowly down the stairs. I count each step—a red one, then a black—on and on until we reach the marble floor.

As we push through the crowded hall, a hand reaches out and squeezes mine tightly. I look up into Lidwinia’s kind face, every word she dare not utter clear in her eyes.

At the doors, Elas says, “To the White Tower, My Lady?”

“Yes, please. But no shifting. A long walk in the fresh air will do us both good.”

Then we leave the hall and hurry through the empty streets of the Merit city—a city that runs on pain and blood and terror.