Page 31 of Daggermouth

Maximus paced the length of his office, stepping over the shattered glass without care. His mind raced with possibilities, calculating potential outcomes. The mask law had never been broken by someone of Greyson’s status—the solution would need to be both definitive and public.

“The Vow between Greyson and Moraine was not yet public, which means it never existed in the public’s eyes,” Elara started again. “If we were to broadcast a live ceremony for all of New Found Haven to witness her willfully taking the Vow, there would be no room to question its validity as nothing more than a political union.”

A slow smile spread across Maximus’s face, terrible in its calculation. “My clever wife. Always finding ways to turn disaster to advantage.”

Elara remained perfectly still, not acknowledging the rare praise. “Shall I make the arrangements?”

“Yes.” Maximus crossed to his desk, already formulating plans. “When Greyson wakes, I will speak with him. The Daggermouth will be kept alive until then.”

Elara nodded and moved toward the door, her steps as careful as a woman walking across thin ice as Lira followed behind her.

“Elara,” Maximus called after her.

She turned, mask catching the prism of colors from the shattered glass.

“If this fails,” he said softly, “it will be on your head.” Maximus didn’t look up as he said the words, only let them land where he had intended.

The door closed behind them with a whisper of finality as he moved to the window. In the reflection of the glass, Maximus’s lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. Greyson’s weakness might actually prove useful to him for once.

He stared out at the city, at the perfect concentric rings that divided the worthy from the worthless, all oblivious to the machinations unfolding in its highest tower.

For now, at least, the balance of power remained unchanged. And Maximus Serel intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost.

Chapter nine

Kill Me Instead

Shadera’sworldnarrowedtoa coffin made of iron and rot.

Time was something that happened on the outside; inside the cell, it pooled and curdled like stagnant water, collecting in her lungs, her muscles, her skull. Moisture wept down the metal walls and gathered around the cots’ legs, painting everything in filth. The other prisoners looked like they’d been born there—skin mottled and thin, eyes gone sallow from lack of sun and food.

She sat on her cot against the wall, knees drawn up, forearms dangling over them, trying to breathe slow enough that the tremors surfacing in her chest every time she drew in oxygen did not betray her.

She’d definitely broken at least two ribs, the stab wound in her side pulsed hot and her collarbone was fucked. She was also sure she’d torn some vital muscle in her back by the pain that radiated there every time she moved. But she didn’t flinch. Not a single muscle on Shadera’s face twitched as she sat in silence.

It was never dark. The lights above flickered with the rhythm of a failing heart, and she counted the seconds between beats to keep herself awake. First rule in any lockup: never sleep unless you trust the person next to you.

Shadera trusted no one.

She wasn’t alone in the cell, seven others—four women, three men—were crammed inside with her, huddled in various states of collapse. All of them wore the same red tunics, the numbers of their crimes stenciled in black on their sleeves. Shadera looked down at her left hand, at the new tattoo that sat across each of her knuckles. Four numbers, one for each finger. 9758. She’d woken with it when she finally came to in the cell.

Names didn’t matter in this hellhole, Shadera knew that. Knew that here, inside the system, she was prisoner 9758 crime number 00.

Double zero.The worst crime you can commit.

Murder of the Heart’s elite.

Those two numbers gave her comfort. At least if she were to die, she would die with one less Serel in the world. Would die knowing Maximus Serel had no more male heirs.

The woman next to her—prisoner 3421 according to her knuckles, crime 17 according to her sleeve—had been beaten so badly her left eye had swollen shut, the bruising spread down her collapsed cheek like spilled ink. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that suggested broken ribs, maybe worse. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, but the Heart’s cruelty had aged her into something haggard.

Across from them, an older man sat with his back pressed to the bars, arms wrapped around legs that ended in stumps below the knee. The cauterized flesh told Shadera everything she needed to know about Veyra interrogation techniques.

His crime: number 23—unlawful assembly.

They’d taken his legs for gathering with friends.

These people were starving.Actuallystarving. Their cheekbones cut sharp angles in faces that’d been stripped of everything soft, everything human. The Heart fed them just enough to keep them breathing until their execution date, and never enough to give them strength.Even here, in their own fucking prison, they made sure the outer rings suffered.