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RYN

Ryn had made dozens of apple pies when she was young.

She did it with her mother at the end of every month to signal a “fresh start” for the next one.

The smell of spiced pie put a smile on everyone’s face and filled the house with warmth back when Ryn’s family was a family.

When they all sat around the same table to eat, when her father told her creepy bedtime legends like The Manticore and Gavaevodata , and her mother would scold him for it.

When laughter wasn’t a foreign concept, and there was nothing to fear.

No enemies. Nothing lurking in the shadows.

No fathers deciding they were unhappy for no good reason.

Ryn burnt her fingers on the oven during her first attempt at baking on her own. Once was enough to teach her forever to be careful around things that could hurt you. Pain was only a consequence of carelessness, after all.

Ryn’s flesh burned all around the gash. She clutched her side as Heva laid her on the bed in her chambers. “I’ll get the physician!” Heva said, but the door swung open and Marcan came marching in.

“I’ve already brought him!” he announced.

A white-haired man carried a bag of supplies and a weathered book over to the bed.

Marcan and Heva stayed back far enough that the physician could work, but didn’t step out of arm’s reach.

The man peeled away Ryn’s costume, layer by layer.

Every movement felt like Ryn was being cut by that Intelligentsia’s blade all over again.

She closed her eyes and pursed her lips as whimpers threatened the back of her throat. If she broke down now, everything she’d just been brave enough to do would be for nothing.

That black-haired Intelligentsia’s face haunted her; the wild scowl, the sharp eyes, the purple lips. Ryn caught a glimpse beneath his hood only briefly while Heva had carried her off. She could have sworn she saw a dark hue rippling over his expression like a mask of smoke.

Even so, his face hadn’t been as shocking as the King’s.

Ryn swallowed when she thought of King Xerxes.

There weren’t shadows over his face like some of the others.

There wasn’t a mask or illusion of any kind, there was just…

torment. Ryn couldn’t exactly decipher what she’d heard in that moment when he’d held her against the pillar and came in close.

It was like a murmuring choir of sounds, no actual words.

But she could see it on him, feel it even: the anguish.

The oppressors. The sounds had twisted a muscle in her chest. It reminded her of her least favourite bedtime story about a boy trapped on an island where all the water around him was filled with poison.

He only had two options: stay on the island and starve to death or brave the fatal water.

Why did Ryn feel in that moment the King was trapped on an island?

His cold words rang through her mind, “Didn’t anyone tell you that your father gave you to me to save himself? That you were the price for his freedom?”

A tear formed at the corner of Ryn’s eye. She tilted her head away from the others, letting it sail down her cheek onto the bed. Maybe Heva and Marcan would assume her tears were from her injury. She’d let them think that.

Even after all these years, her father was still finding ways to hurt her from afar. She couldn’t believe he was the reason she was here. It hadn’t made sense when the Folke had shown up to her house at first, but it did now.

A long time ago, her father would make her breakfast in the mornings, dance around the house on holidays, tell her life-lesson fables to make her think, and teach her how to barter at the market.

It made her believe the delusion that he loved her.

It was what made her believe for a while after he’d left that he might write her a letter or come back to visit. But he never did. She’d waited forever.

Even after her mother was taken away for false crimes, Ryn had sat by the door of her childhood home for a day and a half before she left to go find Kai.

Just waiting. Waiting for her father to come back and save her.

Waiting for him to tell her she’d misunderstood everything and that he would take care of her since her mother was gone.

But he never came, not after her mother was taken, not after her mother died. He never left behind a whisper of his presence, until today. She hadn’t even known her father was still alive until King Xerxes said that to her in the courtyard.

Ryn was nothing. Nothing but a throwaway whose father had used her as a ticket to survive.

Even the King knew it.

She wished she’d never stood up to the King and had to learn about her father. Her sword had given her misplaced courage in the moment, making her think anything was possible.

El’s sword.

It had buzzed like a soft, whispering song when she first drew it. White light burned down the blade as if the whole thing was on fire. When no one had commented on it, not even the King, Ryn realized no one else could see it.

It didn’t make her suddenly become a good swordswoman though.

“What’s wrong?” Heva asked her.

Ryn pushed aside all thoughts of her father and cleared her throat. “I left my sword in the courtyard.”

“I’ll go find it once you’re alright,” Heva returned. After a moment, she raised a hand to her own face and touched her cheek. Her jaw flexed and she folded her arms. “I’ve never wanted to hurt someone so badly,” she added.

Ryn thought she was talking about the King, until Marcan spoke. “Yes, well. I don’t know you that well, but I indeed felt the same way when I saw that idiot smack you,” Marcan admitted, folding his arms too.

“I almost stabbed him for it,” Heva confessed. “That sage is lucky I practice self-control for a living.”

The physician opened his book, briefly studied a diagram, then began needling thread into Ryn’s flesh. Ryn clenched her teeth and released a guttural sound. “Are you two finished?” she asked her guardswoman and artist. “I wish that sage had only slapped me.”

Both Heva and Marcan unfolded their arms and raised their hands in apology. A second later, Heva folded her arms again. “It’s definitely more of an insult to be slapped though,” she said.

Marcan nodded.

“You can’t be serious.” Ryn cast them a look.

The physician finished stabbing and began smearing salve across Ryn’s side instead. Heva leaned in to see better. “It’s not like he cut you deep. It’s just an inconvenient scratch.” After a second, she added, “I’ve gotten much worse injuries in training.”

Ryn huffed and gave up. She folded her arms across her chest while she waited for the physician to finish. A light breeze slipped in through the open window and ruffled the sheer curtains and ivies around her bed. She watched them dance for a while.

“You should heal by tomorrow with this salve. It was a gift to me from the Intelligentsia!” the physician bragged, but Ryn didn’t feel like being grateful to the Intelligentsia right now.

“Which is a relief. I was told that if I didn’t fix you by tomorrow, I’d be cast out of the palace forever. ” The man’s face fell.

Heva plugged her nose like she was trying not to snort a laugh at the physician’s predicament. Ryn’s body drained of tension, and she found a dull smile as she reached for her pillow, dragged it over, and propped it behind her head. Her eyelids grew heavy.

“I should teach you how to fight.” Heva’s smile faded. “This isn’t good, Ryn. The King has his sights on you, and I reckon the benefactors have noticed now. Assassins will start showing up soon.”

Ryn’s gaze sailed toward her bedroom door, her stomach tightening beneath the physician’s needlework.

“You can’t teach me to defend myself in time,” she said.

“Isn’t there something else we can do?” She thought about asking the King for more guards, but quickly decided it was the worst idea ever.

She’d rather fling herself off the palace roof than cross the King again.

Heva’s gaze travelled around the chambers and settled on the windows. “Well, we should lay some traps around, at least. It’s too easy to get into this room.”

Someone cleared their throat by the door, and Ryn gasped when she saw Matthias standing there uncomfortably, his cheeks rosy and his hair wild.

She pushed the physician’s hand away and sat up, ignoring the searing pain through her middle.

“Matthias?” She climbed from the bed with a wince and hobbled toward the door, holding the living space chairs for support on her way.

Marcan looked from face to face in the room. He waved the physician away, then said, “I’ll take my leave too.” He fled after the physician, glancing back curiously at Matthias.

As soon as they were out, Ryn grabbed Matthias, pulled him inside, and slammed the door shut.

Matthias held her arm to keep her steady when she grimaced in agony.

It took all her self control not to hug him, to cry in front of him, to tell him about her father’s trade—the real reason she was here.

But she bit down on her lips, keeping her secrets locked away.

Matthias didn’t know much of Ryn’s family history.

Kai never told a soul for Ryn’s benefit.

“I shouldn’t be in here, Ryn,” Matthias said, letting her go and wringing his fingers together. “If someone sees me—”

“Say I called you here,” Ryn said. She took in his blue and silver uniform. She’d only ever seen Matthias in Priesthood robes or casual clothing, often with a smile on his face. He looked like a stranger in a Folke uniform and a frown. “What’s wrong?”

Matthias took in a deep breath. “Everything is wrong, Ryn.” He shifted his weight and glanced toward the door. “You’re in a lot of trouble.”

“We know that much,” Heva cut in. Then, as if realizing she didn’t need to be part of the conversation, she turned and studied a speck on the wall. She peeked over her shoulder though, keeping her ear toward them.