Page 57

She and Kara had grown up together, worked together, shared stories of first kisses together.

Some things Zylah had kept to herself, even when she knew Kara wondered what a man’s touch felt like.

Her friend always seemed too pure for any of that.

But one day soon she’d be married off, whether her mother wanted it or not.

Women had little say in the city of Dalstead.

“Thank you,” Zylah finally said. “You’ve given me hope. Something I thought I’d lost entirely.” The truth was, she’d lost hope days ago.

“Did he—the prince?” Kara’s eyes filled with tears again, and Zylah could only feel relief that it hadn’t been her friend with Jesper that night.

“No. He tried.” Zylah reached for her face in a poor attempt at disguising her wince.

“It all happened so quickly. I was stirring the fire, and he crept up on me. I just knew his intentions were not—” She glanced up at the guard as he coughed uncomfortably.

“ Honourable . I asked to be excused. He told me to stay. When I made for the door, he threw me against the wall, and—” Zylah’s heartbeat was like a raging drum in her chest, the sound filling her ears.

But she knew Kara wouldn’t have been able to hear it, or the guard.

She willed herself not to be sick again, shoved aside the thoughts of the prince’s hands tugging at her tunic.

“I was defending myself,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean for him to die.”

“He deserved it, for what he tried to do to you.” Kara pressed her face against the bars, her eyes wide and filled with tears.

“Kara, you’ll get yourself thrown in here with me,” Zylah said, shuffling closer to her friend.

The girl closed her eyes for a moment. “Do you mean it, Zy, nothing else happened?”

He’d tried. Gods, had he tried. That’s how she’d got the split lip and the black eye—because she wouldn’t go down without a fight. The minute he’d thrown her against the wall and broken eye contact, it was like she’d stepped out of quicksand and woken up all at once.

“Only this,” Zylah said, waving at her face.

She’d replayed it all, over and over again.

Enough times that every moment felt as if it were burned into her eyelids.

She’d hesitated, and if she hadn’t, she could have darted out of the room, and none of this would have happened.

But she’d hesitated, and he’d seen it, waited for it—like she was nothing but his prey.

The moment she’d snapped out of her stupor and realised he wasn’t going to stop, she’d grabbed the fire iron out of instinct.

“This was enough,” she said after a moment, her voice raspy.

Kara nodded in understanding. She looked up at the guard beside her, his gaze still fixed ahead of him, and reached into her apron.

Zylah kept her eyes on the guard as Kara’s delicate fingers slid something into hers against the bars.

Something very small. Zylah flicked her attention back to her friend, and Kara tightened her grip.

At the end of the corridor, the rusty hinges squeaked as the door to the prison slammed open, the guard beside them reaching for Kara’s arm.

“I’ll wait up for your father,” Kara said. “I’ll tell him I’ve seen you. We’ll get you out of here, Zy. I promise.” The guard was already pulling her away, fresh tears glistening in the orblight.

Zylah didn’t protest, didn’t do anything that might put Kara in more danger than she already was, just kept quiet as whoever had entered the prison approached, praying they wouldn’t throw her friend in the adjacent cell.

She slipped whatever Kara had given to her into the pocket of her apron, smoothing it down and steeling herself as the footsteps came closer. Kara and the guard left quietly, the door falling shut with a thud behind them.

Zylah counted three, maybe four sets of footsteps, and they seemed to be taking their time, delaying the inevitable. No one in the prison made a sound, even the quiet whimpers had stopped, as if the air had been sucked out of each cell.

Zylah didn’t need to see to know who it was.

King Arnir. He stank of the same avenberry liquor as his son had.

Not that she could blame him, his only son was dead, the piece of shit.

The orblights cast a soft glow across the corridor, but Zylah didn’t let herself look into the surrounding cells.

There was nothing within them that she’d want to see in her final hours.

She took a step back from the bars and braced herself for the king’s abuse, knowing all too well it could be more than just words.

“Any other bitch would have been grateful for his seed inside them,” the king spat as he stepped up to her cell, wrinkling his nose in disgust. “Brought down by a maid,” he seethed, banging his sceptre against the iron bars, his fat jowls vibrating as he spoke.

Zylah didn’t flinch. She wouldn’t let her fear show, not to him.

She took steadying breaths in through her nose, ignoring the burn of the prison’s putrid stench at the back of her throat.

She said nothing—there was no use—not to the likes of him.

He’d only silence her anyway, and that was precisely what he was trying to do, to rile her so he could cut her down in front of his guards. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

“Fine. Have it your way,” King Arnir hissed. “Guards. Take her to the gallows.”

Continue Zylah's story here.