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The Queen does not dare grow hopeful. “You could tell them the truth,” she says. “Tell them how you escaped. Tell them about the pool and theiskraif you must. But do not give them hope that the threat is gone. Do not give them hope that others on the Ledge can be liberated.”

“Because you fear them,” Dawsyn interjects. “Imagine what my people will do to you, when they learn you sold them like cattle.”

The Queen says nothing for a time. She has, in fact, imagined what they might do. She has imagined a great many things, more times than Dawsyn Sabar could fathom. She has thought of every choice before her and the consequences of their inception. She has mapped each course forward and divined the paths that will etch themselves in a thousand directions, spawning a constellation of different endings, and there are very few that leave the Queen any better than she was before this iniquitous girl fell off that ledge and stumbled into her kingdom. “You will be brought before the town at dawn and accused of treason,” the Queen tells Dawsyn now. “We will tell the people how life on the Ledge corrupted you, broke you. I will tell them you brought a Glacian inside the palace walls and the two of you tried to assassinate the Queens, and they will cheer as they watch you die.” This last word reverberates from the stone ceiling, and she senses a guard shifting uneasily behind her. “Or, you can live. You can shut your damned mouth and look to the future. You can help me build a stronger kingdom, one properly prepared for battle should the mixed-blooded Glacians swoop into our valley.”

Dawsyn collects the clothes from the floor, running a hand over the silken threads despite the muck caked upon them.

“Death,” she says, “is preferable.”

CHAPTERFIVE

Dawsyn is awake long before the guards come to collect her. The darkness of the dungeon does not allow for her to know the time; dawn seems to take an age to arrive.

Finally, the clanging of armour echoes down the stairwell and the iron gate rattles violently as it opens.

“Miss Sabar?”

The guards insist on calling her that. All seem reluctant to speak down to her, as one would expect of a captor to their captive. Even this, the simple rousing, is laced with hesitation.

Dawsyn looks her last at her dead-rat companion, its beady eyes long since dulled, and stands, legs aching. The chill of this cell does not come close to matching that of her home on the Ledge, yet it still feels cruel – that she should be born cold and die just the same.

She sighs and rubs her gritty hands against her gritty shirt.

The guards – four of them, Ruby included – stand before her cell. Their garb differs today. Ruby’s chest plate bears the Terrsaw emblem: a sword splitting a mountain in two. A farce. The other guards have red embossed on their helms.

“Well,” Dawsyn says. “You all look very shiny.”

Despite the deep lines of her furrow, the captain’s lips twitch. It quickly fades. Dawsyn watches Ruby swallow, a lump travelling the length of her throat. The spark of anger Dawsyn saw in her, admired her for, is now gone. It is a different strain that creases her forehead now. The captain holds her chin and shoulders like that of an admiral, but every other facet of her says something else entirely.

I am sorry,she mouths to Dawsyn, some unfathomable loyalty compelling her to do so, and Dawsyn suddenly feels responsible for whatever burden this woman carries for her fate. Of all the people that should shoulder the blame for her demise, Dawsyn is angered that this captain, a woman who has only carried out her duties and shown Dawsyn compassion, should be the one to feel its weight.

Ruby’s hands tremble as she unlocks the cell door and slides the grid open.

Dawsyn reaches out into the open space and grips Ruby’s fingers. The guards at the captain’s back hasten to action, their own hands gripping Dawsyn’s forearm, her shoulders. The sounds of their drawn swords fill the stale air.

But Dawsyn only squeezes Ruby’s hand, a woman who has little need to be concerned with a prisoner like her.

Ruby’s eyes, now afraid, meet Dawsyn’s.

“You were kind, when you needn’t have been,” Dawsyn tells her. “This is not your doing.” For a moment, their eyes simply linger on each other, intangible missives passing between them, and then Dawsyn’s hands are tugged away by the guards.

Ruby shivers as Dawsyn is pulled back. She squeezes her eyes shut a moment, but when they open once more, resolve shrouds her. “Bring the shackles,” she says clearly.

The guards work quickly to secure Dawsyn’s wrists and ankles, and then they are guiding her out of the cell, up the stairwell. For the first time in weeks, the light leaks down to her, growing brighter as they climb.At least there is this,Dawsyn thinks–golden light drenching her just once more before she dies, making her forget the cold.

The path is long and twisting. Each step brings the taste of fear on her tongue. It is useless to fear, she knows. Soon, every terror, every memory, every feeling will be snuffed, but looming death has a tenacity for dredging up every dark and terrible thought from the depths of the mind.

She hopes her neck snaps on impact. It is the most rational fear she can cling to.The idea of slowly choking makes her gag. The crowd watching her body rotate in a slow circle, her body twitching in vain, clawing for its next breath…

Perhaps Queen Alvira will sully her name with lies and the people of Terrsaw will stone her to death instead. Perhaps they will break through the guards and lunge straight for her throat. Anything seems preferable to suffocating by degrees.

Despairingly, not even these, the last desperate minutes of her life, are enough to rouse the dormant magic within her. As the guards lead her through the dark passages of the palace, she calls to it, over and over. And though she can find it, feel it curled into its corner, she senses how heavy it is, how tired. She cannot lift it.

The passage curves again, and at its end is a portcullis to a courtyard, dusty and bare but for the gallows that wait ahead and the jostling crowd before it. The guards stop before the portcullis, waiting as it rattles upward into its cavity above.

The courtyard falls silent.

Dawsyn’s breath hitches.