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She tried to crawl, but her limbs were too weak, and they folded beneath her weight. She slipped, her face smacking against the floor.

Still, she tried.

Even as the tears blurred her vision and drowned her voice. Even as a sharp pain seared through her body, even as a burst of poisonous laughter echoed in the cell, Myra crawled.

She needed to touch him. She needed to make sure he was real. She needed proof that this wasn’t an illusion Domitius somehow concocted.

But the man on the ground didn’t look at her, his tired gaze fixed on the floor.

Still, Myra reached out to him. “Mynhos?” Myra whispered, the single word scratching her vocal cords. It was a name she hadn’t said aloud in over a decade, a name she called out for in her dreams.

Her brother was alive.

Alive and in front of her.

Butwhywas he here?

Her fingers brushed his shoulder, and he flinched.

Domitius stepped forward, blade in hand. “Perhaps you need to be reminded about what you aretrulyfighting for.”

The king snatched Mynhos’ hand, and her brother at last looked at her with anguish swimming in his hazel eyes. Domitius pressed Mynhos’ hand flat against the stone floor.

In his ear, Domitius whispered, “Don’t bleed on my floor.”

He struck.

And all Myra could hear was her brother’s screams echoing in the small, stone room as he bled. Mynhos hurried to bury the severed limb in his clothes as he rushed to fulfill Domitius’ command. Myra reached for him, but she was being dragged back by her braid.

She tried to fight it. She tried to wiggle out of Domitius’ hold but couldn’t.

She couldn’t fight him.

She couldn’t grab hold of anything.

The door shut behind them, the locks clicking into place. Mynhos’ screams rang in her mind on repeat as she was dragged down the hall with tears streaming down her face.

She couldn’t save Mynhos’ hand, just like she couldn’t save her parents all those years ago. Myra had barely even saved herself.

But saving herself had come with a price.