Page 40 of Song of the Heart Scale (The Dragon’s Ballad #3)

“The Emperor ,” he corrected sharply, pressing the tip of the blade against my throat, “has personally ordered the interrogation of all rebels.”

I bit my lip until I tasted copper. “Where is Emperor Thorne? He'll recognize me.”

“His Imperial Majesty is too busy to deal with pretenders,” one of the guards spat. “Especially ones who desecrate their bodies with markings.”

The interrogator paused, his head tilting. “Show me.”

The guard ripped my sleeve, exposing the intricate tattoos that covered my left arm from wrist to shoulder—a tapestry of symbols, creatures, and patterns from my world. The interrogator's eyes widened behind his mask.

“Interesting,” he murmured, tracing one of the designs with the tip of his blade. “No noble lady would mark herself this way. Yet your face...” He stepped closer, studying my features. “The resemblance is remarkable.”

“Because I am her!” I insisted, though the words sounded hollow, even to my ears.

The interrogator chuckled. “A talented impostor, perhaps. The real Lady Arya attended the Emperor's council meeting this morning.” He selected a different tool from the wall—metal tongs that gleamed in the torchlight. “Now, shall we try again? Who are you working with?”

My blood ran cold. Lady Arya at the council meeting? That was impossible! She was trapped in my world, just as I was trapped in hers.

“You're lying,” I hissed. “Lady Arya couldn't have been at any council meeting.”

The interrogator's eyes crinkled with amusement. “And why is that?”

I bit my tongue. I couldn't tell him the truth—that Arya and I had somehow switched places during that thunderstorm months ago, that I wasn't from this world at all.

“Someone is impersonating me,” I said instead. “Because I'm the real Arya.”

The interrogator sighed dramatically. “This charade grows tiresome.” He heated the metal tongs in a nearby brazier until they glowed orange-red.

The smell of hot metal filled the chamber.

“You know,” he said conversationally, “I've interrogated dozens since the riots began. Most break quickly. Some hold out longer.” He lifted the tongs, examining their glow. “But all of them break eventually.”

Pain rocketed through my shoulders as I hung from the chains. “I'm telling you the truth!” I gasped.

“Truth?” He laughed. “The real Lady Arya is betrothed to Emperor Thorne. She lives in luxury; she does not roll in filth with peasants.” He pressed the hot tongs against my side.

My scream echoed off the stone walls. The pain was blinding, white-hot and searing. The smell of burning flesh—my flesh—filled my nostrils.

“Who organized the riot?” The interrogator pulled the tongs away, leaving behind a blistering welt on my side.

I gasped for breath as tears streamed down my face. “No one. It just... happened. People are hungry.”

“Lies!” He pressed the tongs to my arm this time, and I screamed until my throat felt raw. “Someone is spreading rumors about grain shortages. Someone is turning the people against their emperor.”

When he finally pulled the tongs away, I sagged in my chains, trembling. “There's no... shortage?” I managed through ragged breaths.

“The emperor provides well for his people,” the interrogator intoned mechanically. “Those who claim otherwise are traitors.”

“Impossible,” I muttered.

Through tears, I saw the guards exchange uncomfortable glances. One of them shifted his weight.

“Sir,” he said cautiously, “what if she's telling the truth? The resemblance is—”

“Silence!” The interrogator whirled on him. “Are you questioning me?”

The guard stiffened. “No, sir. But if there's even a chance...”

The interrogator tossed the tongs aside with a clatter. “Fine. If you're so concerned, send word to the palace. Ask if Lady Arya is missing.” His voice dripped with sarcasm. “In the meantime, we continue.”

The guard hesitated, then nodded and left the chamber.

“Now,” the interrogator said, turning back to me, “while we wait for confirmation of your obvious lies, let's discuss your real purpose at the market.” He selected a thin whip from the wall, the leather tip adorned with metal barbs that gleamed wickedly in the torchlight.

“I was just shopping,” I gasped, my side and arm still burning from the tongs. “I swear!”

The first lash caught me across the back, tearing through my dress and ripping into flesh. I screamed, my body jerking in the chains.

“The Heart Scale song,” he continued, circling me like a predator. “Who taught it to you? Who's spreading it through the districts?”

Another lash. Another scream tore from my throat.

“I don't know!” I cried, blood trickling down my back.

The interrogator leaned close, his breath hot against my ear. “You're part of the rebellion, aren't you? Working with Prince Damien's sympathizers?”

My heart stuttered at Damien's name. I forced my face to remain neutral despite the agony radiating through my body. If Thorne was aware of Damien’s actions, then there was definitely a mole.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” I whispered.

The whip cracked again. I bit through my lip to keep from screaming.

“The prince may be the emperor's brother,” the interrogator hissed, “but his sympathies with the resistance are well-known. Tell me if he’s aiding them!”

I said nothing, which earned me another lash. My vision blurred and darkness crept in at the edges.

It seemed Thorne didn’t know about Damien’s plans, after all. He just thought someone was starting a rebellion and Damien had sympathized with them. Interesting.

“Prince Damien hasn't been seen at court in days,” the interrogator continued.

“Some say he's gathering forces. Others say he's planning to overthrow his brother.” He grabbed my chin and forced me to meet his icy blue stare.

“And now we find a woman with Lady Arya's face at a riot. Interesting coincidence.”

“It's not... a coincidence,” I gasped. “I am Lady Arya.”

The door to the chamber creaked open. The guard who had left returned, his face pale.

“Sir,” he said, his voice tight. “Lady Arya is indeed at the palace. She was seen dining with Emperor Thorne not an hour ago.”

The interrogator's eyes gleamed behind his mask. “As I suspected.” He turned back to me, satisfaction evident in his posture. “It seems your charade is at an end.”

My mind raced. It wasn't possible! Lady Arya couldn't be here—she was in my world, trapped just as I was trapped in hers.

“There's been a mistake,” I gasped. “I am—”

The whip cracked again, cutting off my words and my back simultaneously. Blood soaked through what remained of my dress.

“Enough lies!” the interrogator shouted. “You're nothing but a common rebel using a noble's face to escape justice. Perhaps you're one of those shapeshifters from the Southern District?”

The pain was becoming unbearable. Each breath sent fresh waves of agony rippling through my body where the whip had torn open my flesh and the hot tongs seared my skin.

“I swear to you,” I gasped, “there's an explanation—”

The interrogator struck me across the face with his fist. “The explanation is simple. You're a traitor and a liar!” He turned to the guards. “Bring the salt water. Let's see how our impostor enjoys that on her wounds!”

A guard approached with a bucket, the liquid inside sloshing ominously. The interrogator dipped a cloth into it and lightly wrung it out before approaching me.

“Last chance,” he sneered, hovering the soaked cloth over my exposed back. “Tell me who organized the riots, and I'll make your death quick.”

“I don’t know,” I muttered.

The instant the salt water-soaked cloth touched my flayed skin, I was consumed by liquid fire. I screamed until there was no air left in my lungs, my body convulsing against the chains. Salt water seeped into every laceration and burn, magnifying the pain beyond anything I'd thought possible.

“Stop!” I begged when I could finally speak again. “Please—”

The interrogator pressed the cloth harder against my flayed skin. “Names!”

I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe. My vision tunneled and darkness crept in from all sides.

“She's passing out,” one of the guards observed dispassionately.

“Wake her!” the interrogator commanded.

I gasped and jerked back to consciousness as the icy shock of a bucket of cold water splashed over me and brought fresh waves of agony to my wounds. The interrogator's masked face swam in my blurred vision.

“You're going to tell me everything,” he sneered, selecting a new instrument from his collection—a metal contraption with screws that could crush fingers. “Starting with who you really are.”

“I've told you,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. “I'm Lady Arya Ryder.”

“Impossible!” he spat. “Lady Arya is with the emperor. You're nothing but a fraud wearing her face!”

I weakly shook my head, water dripping from my hair and mixing with the blood that trickled down my legs. “There's been a mistake... please...”

Just then, the door to the chamber swung open with such force it slammed against the stone wall. A guard rushed in, his face pale.

“Sir!” The guard's voice cracked with urgency. “His Imperial Majesty is coming!”

The interrogator froze, still clenching the finger-crushing device. “What?”

“Emperor Thorne himself—he's descending to the dungeons!”

The interrogator's eyes widened behind his mask. He dropped the device with a clatter and quickly straightened his uniform. “Clear this room! Get her down—no, wait.” He hesitated, glancing at me. “Keep her hanging. The emperor will want to see the rebel.”

I sagged in my chains, too weak to protest. The salt water had reopened every wound and blood trickled down my arms, back, and legs. My consciousness flickered like a dying candle.

Heavy footsteps echoed down the corridor, accompanied by the clank of armored guards. The air in the dungeon seemed to thicken, growing heavier with each approaching step.

Guards wearing polished armor and crimson capes flanked the entrance, standing at rigid attention as a tall figure strode through.

Emperor Thorne filled the doorway, his presence instantly commanding the eyes of everyone in the room.

His black hair was swept back from a face that could have been carved from marble—all sharp angles and cold authority.

The imperial crown sat upon his brow, gold and obsidian twisted together like flame and shadow.

His eyes, piercing and blue like a predator's, swept the chamber before landing on me.

The interrogator dropped to one knee. “Your Imperial Majesty! We didn't expect—”

“Silence,” Thorne commanded, his voice deceptively soft, yet carrying enough power to freeze the very air in the chamber. His ocean blue eyes narrowed as they fixed on my hanging form.

The interrogator kept his head bowed. “Your Majesty, we captured this woman during the market riots. She claims to be Lady Arya, but we've confirmed Lady Arya is in the palace—”

“Is she?” Thorne interrupted, taking measured steps toward me. Each footfall echoed in the sudden silence.

My vision swam, consciousness slipping. Through the haze of pain, I watched Emperor Thorne approach, his expression unreadable. I tried to speak, but my throat produced only a raw whisper.

“Thorne...”

He reached me and lifted my chin with one gloved finger. His touch was surprisingly gentle as he examined my face, turning it this way and that. Despite my blurred vision, I saw the moment recognition flickered in his blue eyes.

“Leave us,” he commanded, not looking away from me.

The interrogator hesitated. “Your Majesty, this prisoner was involved in today's riot. She's dangerous—”

“I said, leave us .” Thorne's voice dropped to a deadly whisper. “Now.”

The interrogator and guards scrambled to obey, slamming the door behind them with a heavy thud. Silence fell over the chamber, broken only by my ragged breathing and the occasional drip of blood onto stone.

Thorne slowly circled me, taking in my torn clothing, the burns on my side, and the lash marks across my back. His jaw tightened, a muscle working beneath the surface. When he completed his circuit, he stood before me, his eyes blazing with something I couldn't quite name.

“Arya,” he said simply, confirming what I'd been screaming for hours.

“Finally,” I croaked, my voice barely audible. “Someone with eyes.”

His mouth twitched—not quite a smile, but something close.

“The guards informed me a woman claiming to be Lady Arya had been captured during the riots. I came to see for myself.” He reached up to touch my face again, his fingers tracing a bruise forming on my cheekbone.

“I must say, this is quite a change from our last encounter.”

The memory flashed between us—me pinning him to the ground with a knee on his throat as I bested the newly crowned Emperor in combat. That was the fight that led to me hiding in Royal Prince Bai's mansion with Damien for the past few days.

“You look terrible,” Thorne stated flatly.

“Yeah, well, your hospitality leaves much to be desired,” I managed through cracked lips.

Without warning, he reached up and unlocked the shackles. My legs buckled, but Thorne caught me before I hit the ground. Pain shot through my body at the contact and I couldn't suppress a whimper.

“Who did this to you?” His voice was dangerously calm.

“Your masked friend,” I whispered. “He didn't believe me.”

Thorne's jaw clenched, his eyes scanning my face with unsettling intensity. “You've been hiding from me for days. With my brother, I presume?”

I said nothing, which was answer enough.

“At Uncle Bai's mansion in the Northern District,” he continued, his voice deceptively conversational. “Did you really think I didn't know?”

A chill ran through me despite the burning pain of my wounds. He'd known all along.

“Why now?” I asked. “Why come for me now?”

Thorne's lips curved into a cold smile. “I didn't. You walked right into my dungeon, Lady Arya.” He shifted his grip to better support my weight, his eyes falling to the blood-soaked fabric of my dress. “You've made quite a mess of things.”

“The riot wasn't planned,” I whispered. “People are starving.”

His expression hardened. “There is no famine in Elaria. Those are only lies spread by those who wish to see me fail before my reign has properly begun.”

I wanted to argue, but my strength was fading. The room tilted dangerously.

“You need a healer,” Thorne muttered, more to himself than to me.

“Maeve,” I croaked. “My maid—they hurt her. She's in the cells.”

Something flickered across his face—perhaps annoyance, perhaps something else entirely.

“I'll send guards for your maid,” he said dismissively.

“Now…” I mumbled, quickly followed by darkness as my knees finally gave out completely. Thorne caught me against his chest, his arms tightening around my broken body.

“You always were dramatic,” he muttered.

The last thing I remembered was the feeling of being lifted into his arms, my head lolling against the imperial insignia embroidered onto his jacket. Then, mercifully, nothing.