Page 85 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)
Chapter Forty-Seven
Samuel
T he central square of Dameral glittered all around Samuel, the shards of early morning sunlight reflecting off the pristine snow an assault to his already overloaded senses.
The ride over in the carriage had been terrible, Samuel feeling each and every bump in the cobblestones, the sounds of common life in the streets like a dagger to the brain, digging into all the soft and bruised parts of his mind.
A foul morning on top of a foul night, shoved into a spare bedroom in the King’s grand palace, a luxurious cell that was, despite all its fineries and comforts, still a cell.
Tired and hurting, Samuel had been stuck stewing in his own suffering, impotent in his uselessness.
In one of his better moments, he had even torn his own flesh with his blunt nails, tearing apart the ill-healed wounds chasing the Blood Working he had never wanted.
But there was no power left in him, just the slick taste of salt on his tongue.
Just this vast, empty crevice in his chest where his power—his magic —used to live.
His body trembled, aching like his bones had been scrubbed clean with steel wool, his head stuffed with cotton as his skull throbbed.
It lingered in him, ebbing and flowing, but the momentary relief wasn’t enough to counteract the depths of the suffering as the pain always returned.
And now he stood, swaying, on display before what felt like the entire world. But it was only a squadron of Guards, pulled from their patrols to form a protective barrier around the central square, a quickly and shoddily erected fence pressing up against a crowd of eager and confused citizens.
Blood Workers, most of them, with their glinting claws and thick coats.
But further out, past the leeches that sucked them dry, was an entire flock of Unblooded, huddled together in the frigid winter morning.
From this distance, Samuel couldn’t make out their faces or expressions, but there was something comforting about it.
Even if they never knew how he had fought for them, never understood the full role that he played in this, if Samuel was going bleed this day, he would do it for those he had been trying so hard to save.
A hand landed hard between his shoulder blades, shoving him forward, the kiss of steel claws a threat against the thin layer of his shirt.
He was underdressed for the season, a deliberate choice, he was sure, his torn shirt and thin trousers yet another insult to add to the many, many injuries.
Perhaps it was to make him suffer a little more, perhaps it was meant to make a spectacle of just how far he had fallen.
It didn’t matter in the end.
Samuel didn’t turn his face back towards the Guard, not caring which soul was spurring him on to the conclusion of this grand farce.
Not when there was someone else there, waiting for him on the small ramshackle stage that they had managed to erect, a mere shadow of the normal pomp and circumstance when the King came out to parade his annual sacrifice before the masses.
The King didn’t even bother to attend this morning, having delegated this task to the only one he could—Lady Shan LeClaire, the Royal Blood Worker.
She stood facing him, her back to the crowd as the breeze caught her hair, the chill bringing a fetching flush to her cheek.
A thick cloak wrapped around her shoulders, the same deep red as her robes of office, spilling down her body like a slick of wet blood, clinging to the curves that he had memorized with his hands and his lips.
Flurries swirled around her, soft and ethereal, painting her as pretty and picturesque as a work of art.
Her expression was serene, no trace of hurt or sorrow in her features, except for the brief shine in her eyes. Tears? Or just the natural response to the wintry chill around them?
Samuel would never know, but fool that he was, he took that brief flicker of hope and held it close. If he did not make it through this, he would die clinging to the love that had saved him and destroyed him in equal measure.
Shan turned as he came up to her side, leaving him to stare at the elegant line of her profile as she took a deep breath, summoning the attention of all watching to her.
“Greetings, my fellow citizens,” she called, her voice as clear as a bell, ringing across the square. She could have been a diva on the stage, a debutante seducing the ball, a Queen before a throne. She was so achingly beautiful, and Samuel thanked the King for giving him this last gift.
“I am sorry for the sudden notice,” Shan continued, not so much as glancing his way. “And for the uncooperative weather, but I am sure many of you have heard of the tragic events yesterday at the Blood Treasury.”
Murmurs broke out, trickles of worry rippling back through the crowd, shifting to anger. But Shan just held up one hand, and the whispering stopped.
“I know there are questions about what this means for us,” Shan continued, and how easy it would have been for her to break here.
To beg and plead for understanding. But she stood tall and strong, just as unflinching as ever.
“How it will affect all the aspects of our lives, from the Academy all the way down to our daily requisitions.
The Eternal King and I are working on a new program, and I beg your indulgence in this matter.
New guidance will be forthcoming. But today, we are here for justice.
“It is with a heavy heart that I stand before you today,” she said, at last casting him a glance, only sidelong. Yearning and shame, loss and anger, flickering across her expression as her mask broke, if only for a moment.
If he had known her a little less, he might have believed it.
But all this was carefully calculated, and Samuel could feel the energy swell, not the brush of Blood Working or his own lost Gift, but something simpler than that.
A woman plucking on the strings of her audience, whipping them up slowly, building their fury and frenzy.
Conducting this orchestra like a master, layering tense strings of wrath, harsh and shrill and grating, over the steady percussion of fear.
Letting them eat out of the palm of her hand.
If things were different, Samuel would have been so proud of her.
If he was being honest, he was still so proud of her, even though it was his own fate that hung in the balance.
She had grown so much in the past year, finally allowed to step out of the shadows, tossing aside the rules that had ruled her entire life.
And in doing so, she had become glorious.
Why had she settled for being the King’s lackey, when she could break the world under her boot, if she only dared to?
But he didn’t have the chance to dwell on that, to chase his flight of fancy down paths of what could have been. Not with the eyes of what felt like half the capital on him, not with the icy grip of winter biting into bare skin.
Not as he focused back on the words that Shan was saying.
“—and for his part in the attack on the Blood Treasury, for his part in the destabilization of everything we hold dear, for committing high treason against the crown, Samuel Aberforth…” her voice cracked, not losing any volume of clarity, but shaking nonetheless “… has been stripped of his position as the Councillor of Law. He has been stripped of his title and fortune. He will be executed in a way that is befitting his crimes, and you, my fellow citizens, shall bear witness to it.”
A pair of Guards stepped up behind him, their actions coordinated as they both struck him in the back of the knee with heavy batons, the sudden crack of pain enough to send him tumbling down.
They grabbed his arms, hoisting him to his knees, arms pulled back and head tilted towards the sky.
There was no fighting their grip, not as their claws curled around his forearms, ready to slip into his flesh and tear it asunder.
There was no escaping, not as Shan pulled her cloak to the side, retrieving a gleaming dagger from the sheath at her hip.
She wore no claws, her fingers bare—an intimacy that shouldn’t have moved him.
But there was something calming about it, knowing that she would touch his skin with hers, one last time, unencumbered by metal.
“I am glad,” he said, even as the Guard yanked on his hair, baring his throat to the crowd. “That it is you and not him.”
Some real emotion broke through the performance, the dagger jerking in her hand, her eyes dark and unfathomable. She swallowed once, her mouth forming the shape of his name, when a chilling shriek echoed through the square.
Spinning away, Shan turned to the east, raising her arm to shield against the light of the sun, as Isaac crested over rooftops, his entrails fluttering behind him.
He looked both glorious and terrifying, backlit by the sun, his vicious maw stretched into a gaping chasm of fangs, his long tongue flicking in the air, scenting his targets.
A fierce joy sang through Samuel as understanding hit—Isaac was here, risking himself again to save him.
Pulling his wings in tight, Isaac cut through the air, diving directly down towards the stage, building momentum until he banked suddenly, snatching Shan around the waist as he lifted her up into the sky, the dagger flying from her grip to clatter in front of Samuel.
Despite the way that his heart threatened to beat out of his chest—he couldn’t even make sense of them, tangled together as they were, twisting through the sky—Samuel took advantage of the chaos, struggling against the stunned Guards.
They didn’t fight him, shoving him back into the wooden planks as they hurried to the edge of the platform, the useless prisoner no longer worth their time as they focused on saving the Royal Blood Worker.