Page 6

We stop with the last notes still hanging in the air. All around us the couples are retreating to the back of the hall, fanning their flushed faces, but Rev’s hand is still burning the small of my back. “Thank you for this dance, Princess Neylan of the House of Our Sun and Light. I would have never imagined one could be so graceful.”

I fight the urge to roll my eyes. We both know I was as graceful as a drunk governor on a Shattered Night. “If your proficiency with weapons is at least half as good as your way with words, my father has not to worry about his safety, Rev of The Jagged Stand.”

Loud laughter erupts from somewhere deep inside his chest. Governors and their wives turn their piercing gazes but don’t linger, feigning interest in a stain on a sparkling kaftan or a worn-down coat on a governor’s back.

Rev picks up my hand, brushing my knuckles with his lips. “Princess Neylan, you’re truly a gem of this empire.”

I bite my lip, hoping that the mask of powder and kohl is enough to hide my flustered cheeks. I open my mouth, but a loud bang echoes through the hall, and steals my breath away before I can answer.

I know the time has come. I know there is nothing left to do but await my fate. Yet I still clutch Rev’s hand in mine as I turn to the dais. As if he can shelter me from what’s coming.

Emperor Magnar’s boots echo through the hushed stillness of the crowded hall, and not even the most reckless general would break the silence with a sigh.

The spotless black attire couldn’t be simpler, but no one would confuse him for one of the guards, for gold and green corded seams run from his shoulders to encircle the cuffs of his shirt. Combed carefully back, his charcoal-black hair has a few strands of gray at his temples, but his face is yet to show a single wrinkle.

Our gazes meet, and I don’t dare to look away. Not from those eyes lined with anger and betrayal.

“Our Sun and Light,” I say loud enough for my voice to carry through the Throne Room.

Rev offers my father a respectful bow, but mine is so deep I could touch my toes. If there is one man in Usmad with whom I’m not ready to play games, it’s my father.

His eyes sweep the hall with an indifference only he can show for the privileged men of this empire before landing on me again with a full force of a sandstorm, as if he can peel away every part of me, until only truth remains.

4

Iknow my mother is glaring at me from somewhere deep in the hall. I can feel her gaze burrowing between my shoulder blades, but I don’t dare to turn away from the emperor.

“My dear guests, I thank you for this wonderful performance,” Magnar finally says, and a sparkle of amusement flares in those green eyes. “Neylan, daughter of mine, I have also prepared a surprise for everyone gathered here to celebrate your betrothal.”

Following a silent command, guards in armor of polished gold drag a half-naked man into the hall. No resistance is offered by the prisoner, who can’t even walk or stand on his own. His feet hit each slab of stone, and by the time they cross the hall, the newly-formed blisters spurt open, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

The soldiers stop mere feet away from the dais, where golden leaves creep higher up invisible branches to form a cushioned seat on which Our Sun and Light would sit on any ordinary day. My father doesn’t claim his throne though, not this time, but stays next to the prisoner, whose breaths come out in labored huffs as the guards force him to his knees.

“I’ve wanted to share this marvelous news with you for a while, my dear people of Usmad.”

The prisoner doesn’t even fight the soldiers’ grip. His black hair hangs in greasy clumps, his skin is swathed with bruises of different shades of yellow and green, and, when my father pulls his head up, dark circles of a man who hasn’t had a good night’s sleep in a very long time show under his half-closed eyes.

“I present to you the last leader of the rebellion,” my father says, contempt bringing his voice to a rasping murmur. “The rebels try to instill fear in our hearts. They try to shake our belief that all our hard work and the sacrifices we make are not worth it. They try to paint us as the oppressors of this desert.”

The hall ripples with whispers and curses as the guests take in the sight of a tortured man before them.

Rev presses my hand, but I force myself to look at the rebel. If I look at him, I fear I might crumble. I might turn into the senseless girl everyone thinks I am.

“I say, we’ve suffered enough.” Magnar’s voice hushes the crowd with the power his words carry.

He lets go of the rebel, and his head falls back down lifelessly. Under a patchy birthmark on his neck, the proof of his crime glares at us. A symbol I’ve seen before in books I’ve been sneaking from my father’s library. The one rebels leave blazing everywhere they go to undermine my father’s work. Etched into his skin is a tattoo of a rising sun.

As if hearing my thoughts, the man looks up, the fire in his brown eyes, long dead. His dried lips crack and bead with blood as he forces the words to leave his mouth. I have to strain my ears to catch what he says, but the way my father’s lips turn into a thin line, the way Rev’s jaw reveals a tick just below his ear, I know I’ve heard him right.

“For the King of Rebels. For the endless fight. For the next dawn.”

My father rolls his shoulders back and steps forward, regaining his composure in a blink of an eye. “Any man, no matter their rank or status, will suffer the consequences of their actions,” Magnar says, the whisper growing into a growl that echoes through every crevice of the Throne Room. “Not even Evanae will stop me from exerting revenge on those who stand between me and the prosperity of Usmad.”

A guard pulls out a whip and brings it down on the rebel’s back with a wet snap. It hits his skin again before even a drop of blood could form on the ragged wound. The prisoner’s wails of agony find no compassion or mercy as the whip lands again on his already broken skin. I force myself to watch the horror of the punishment amidst the cheers from the guests, counting the rises and falls of the knotted cord.

Four, and the blood splatters my kaftan and my face, bringing the taste of copper to my lips.

Five, and I take an unsteady breath.