Page 39 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

I fought like I’d been trained—no, like what enabled me to survive. My time in the army wasn’t for show. I ducked low, sweeping one guard off his feet, and brought the stall beam down on the other’s arm hard enough to hear bone crunch. But I wasn’t invincible.

Another guard tackled me from behind and slammed me to the cobblestones. My shoulder screamed in protest.

“My lady!” Maeve shrieked.

I rolled, kicked upward, and knocked him back. But more were coming. Too many. Even if I’d had weapons, even if I was fighting at full strength, I couldn’t take them all. Added to the fact that they were supernaturals and I was a mere human.

Maeve tried to pull me to my feet. We nearly made it.

“Halt!” one of the guards barked.

The butt of a spear slammed into my ribs. I gasped and folded over. Rough hands grabbed my arms, pinning me.

Maeve screamed as another soldier grabbed her.

“Don’t touch her!” I roared, struggling in their punishing grip.

They ignored me.

“Who are you to raise arms against the Imperial Guard?” one of them demanded coldly.

“A hungry woman trying to survive!” I spat.

They didn’t like that.

The flat of a sword struck me across the jaw and the world spun.

Maeve cried out, and that sound snapped something inside me.

I surged again, but this time, I was dragged down hard with a knee in my back, hands wrenching my arms behind me.

We were caught.

The riot roared on around us, but for me, the world narrowed to the sight of blood on the cobblestones, the copper taste in my mouth, and Maeve’s tear-streaked face as she looked to me for hope.

I had none to give. Not yet.

But I would. One way or another, I would make Thorne pay for every bruise, every death, and every empty stomach.

Even if I had to tear his empire down with my bare hands.

The cold stone floor of the dungeon pressed against my cheek, unforgiving and damp. The stench of mildew, rot, and blood lingered like a second skin, thick in my nose, clawing at my throat. Somewhere down the corridor, a scream rose high and sharp before suddenly cutting off.

Maeve trembled beside me with her knees pulled tightly to her chest. Her face was pale and blotchy, stained with tear tracks and fear. I shifted closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulders.

“They're not going to touch you,” I whispered. “You hear me? I won’t let that happen.”

She sniffled and nodded, though her body betrayed her agreement. She was shaking so hard her teeth chattered.

Another scream. This one hoarser. Wet.

I clenched my jaw and forced myself to breathe through my nose. The walls were thick, but sound carried. Iron shackles clinked in the next cell over. Someone moaned. It was hard to tell if they were alive or dying.

“How long do you think it’ll be until they come for us?” Maeve's voice was so small I barely heard it.

I didn’t answer.

Instead, I shifted to sit between her and the cell door, shielding her with my body to offer the only protection I could.

My hands were still bound, my wrists rubbed raw by the manacles, but I wouldn’t let them take her.

Not Maeve. Not the one person in this strange world who had been my ride-or-die since day one.

The metallic creak of a heavy door opening down the hall made Maeve flinch. Footsteps echoed—two sets. Then a third. They dragged something behind them.

A limp body.

I squinted in the torchlight. The guards' boots clanked louder with each step. Then I saw him.

The man from the riot. The one who shouted about the Immortals, about Thorne being cursed. His eyes stared blankly upward, his mouth open in a frozen scream. Blood soaked his tunic and streaked the stones as they dragged him past.

Maeve buried her face in my shoulder.

The guards said nothing. Just hauled the body like a sack of spoiled grain.

“It will be you next,” one of them muttered as they passed our cell.

I tightened my jaw.

Moments later, they returned—this time stopping directly in front of our cell.

“Alright. Who's next?”

Maeve whimpered.

The guard’s cruel eyes scanned us, landing on her. He pointed. “The small one. Bring her.”

Maeve froze.

“No,” I said flatly, standing and stepping in front of her.

The guard chuckled. “You volunteering to scream first, girl?”

I gave him a cold smile. “I think you should start with me. Might save you the trouble.”

He frowned. “And what makes you think you're worth more than a trembling maid?”

I tilted my head. “Ask your emperor. He seems to think I’m special.”

Confusion. Then suspicion.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I leaned closer to the bars and dropped my voice to a purr. “I’m betrothed to Emperor Thorne.”

That got their attention.

The second guard blinked. “Wait... Lady Arya?”

I slowly nodded, letting the smirk curve across my lips. “In the flesh.”

They looked at each other.

“Why the hell is she in here?”

“You think I know? Orders were to arrest anyone from the riot. No names.”

The first guard cursed and stepped back. “By the Immortals. We need to tell someone. If she dies down here—”

“Exactly,” I said sweetly. “So unless your boss wants his future Empress's corpse on the front page of the morning scrolls, I suggest you unchain me and my maid and get us out of this pit.”

For a moment, hesitation flickered in his eyes. My face—identical to Lady Arya's in every way—gave him pause.

“She does look like her,” the second guard muttered.

The first guard gripped my jaw. “A passing resemblance. Nothing more.” He shoved me back. “The Empress-to-be has a birthmark on her left wrist. Show me your arms.”

My heart sank. I knew nothing about a birthmark. The real Arya—wherever she was in my world—had details about her body I couldn't possibly know, and Maeve had never mentioned anything about a birthmark.

“The birthmark is small,” I lied desperately. “Under my sleeve—”

“Enough!” The guard yanked at my sleeve, revealing the beginning of my tattooed skin—the intricate designs I'd collected over years back home. Designs no noble lady in this world would dare to mark herself with.

The guard's eyes widened. “Markings?” He roughly grabbed my arm and pushed the sleeve further up. “Lady Arya would never defile her skin with commoner's ink!”

“You don't understand—” I started, but the second guard cut me off.

“She's an imposter!” he hissed. “Trying to use Lady Arya's name to escape punishment.”

The first guard's face darkened with rage. “That's treason on top of sedition.” He yanked me forward. “The interrogator will enjoy this one.”

“No!” Maeve lunged forward and grabbed his arm. “Please, she's not—”

The guard backhanded her so hard she crashed against the wall. Her head hit stone with a sickening crack and she slumped to the floor.

“Maeve!” I screamed, struggling against the guard's grip as he dragged me out of the cell. I caught a glimpse of her slumped form, blood trickling from her temple. “You bastard! If she dies—”

“Save your breath,” the guard growled, twisting my arm behind my back. “You'll need it.”

“If she dies, I swear to god—” My threat was cut short by a brutal punch to my stomach. I doubled over, gasping.

“You'll what?” the guard sneered. “Pretend to be someone important again?”

They hauled me down the corridor past cells filled with bloodied faces—people from the market, some I recognized, others beaten too brutally to identify.

The dungeon spiraled deeper beneath Dragon Valley where the palace rose high above, oblivious to the suffering that occurred below.

Where Damien was likely still safely hidden at his uncle’s mansion in the Northern District, unaware that I'd been captured.

The interrogation chamber reeked of copper and fear. Chains hung from the ceiling. Various instruments lined the walls—pliers, knives, brands. A masked figure stood in the center with his hands clasped behind his back.

“Another one from the riot,” the guard announced, shoving me forward. “Claims to be Lady Arya.”

The interrogator slowly turned, his face obscured by a black leather mask with only slits for eyes. Those eyes—pale blue, almost colorless—assessed me with clinical detachment.

“Does she now?” His voice was surprisingly soft. “How... creative.”

I straightened my spine despite the pain radiating through my ribs. “I am Lady Arya. You're making a terrible mistake.”

The interrogator leisurely circled me. “We've had three Lady Aryas today alone. And two Prince Damiens. And one who surprisingly stated they were Prince Julian,” he sighed. “The desperate will grasp at any protection they can invent.” He nodded to the guards. “Chain her.”

They dragged me to the center of the room and secured my wrists in a pair of hanging shackles. The cold metal bit into my already raw skin as they hoisted me until my toes barely scraped the floor. My shoulders screamed in protest.

“Now,” the interrogator said, selecting a thin, curved blade from the wall, “let's begin with a simple question. What is your real name?”

“I told you,” I said through gritted teeth. “I'm Lady Arya Ryder.”

He sighed, as if disappointed. “Very well.”

The first cut came without warning—a shallow slice across my collarbone. I hissed and bit back a scream.

“The market riot was coordinated,” he said conversationally, examining the blade. “Someone has been spreading lies about grain shortages and trying to destabilize Emperor Thorne's rule.” The interrogator dragged the blade along my jawline, not cutting, just threatening. “I want names.”

“I don't know any names!” I spat. “I just happened to be at the market.”

“With your maid? Dressed like a commoner? Inciting violence?” He laughed softly. “You expect me to believe Lady Arya would be so careless?”

The next cut came at my shoulder, deeper this time. I bit my lip until I tasted blood, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my scream. “I don't care what you believe,” I managed. “When Thorne finds out—”