Page 54

RYN

Every once in a while, someone stopped on the Navy Road and looked a little closer at Ryn sitting on the stairs of a trade building amidst dirt and dragon scales.

Sometimes they pointed, sometimes they whispered, and sometimes they took a step toward her only to realize Ryn was holding a sword, before carefully stepping back again.

But even her sword didn’t stop the loud gossip passing down the streets from mouth to mouth.

“…Heartstealer maiden…?”

“Did she do this? The Heartstealer?”

“…Are you sure that’s the same Hearstealer from the banner?”

“Is the Heartstealer cursed? Is that why our dragon fell?”

If Ryn heard the word “ Heartstealer ” one more time, she’d lose it.

Even hours after she’d shouted at the gods in the night sky to release their dragon, to come down and face her, she still hadn’t found the strength to stand. Her calves ached, her back was sore, her eyes stung from lack of sleep.

The dragon had fallen as soon as the gods let go of it. The battle was short, and they’d flung pebbles. Ryn’s lip was busted, and her cheeks were scratched up. But by El’s power, she won.

She smirked as she remembered.

Thankfully, a man passing by had been kind enough to offer her water. Ryn had accepted gratefully. The man asked her if she was a Heartstealer maiden a moment after, and she’d scowled. Then she’d said, “No. Not at all.”

The great white dragon’s body took up half the Navy Road, almost reaching the palace.

The creature’s mouth gaped open, its tongue hanging out the side.

Overall, it was an embarrassment to anyone who’d ever revered it.

People screamed when they saw it. They turned pale—one noblewoman even fainted.

It had been like that all morning; a slow current of people discovering the great judge of the sky was dead.

Unfortunately, Ryn was far too tired to explain to them that it had never actually been alive.

Ryn chugged the last of her water and eyed the sky where the sun indicated it was almost noon.

She set the canteen aside and released a moan as she climbed to her feet.

She leaned her hands on her knees, swaying a little.

Her legs shook. She took in a deep breath, then she stood tall, grabbing her sword and dragging it along behind her.

She thought of her soft sheets in the palace. Her plush bed. She craved bread with sugar.

“I don’t want to do that again for a while,” she told El as she walked the length of the dragon’s serpentine body. Its tail nearly brushed the palace gates. “Also… I’m starving,” she added.

The gates were wide open when she arrived. The guards still weren’t back at their posts and Ryn looked around as she walked through. She took the shortcut through the gardens, flicking the blooms of unopened flowers, and she headed to the entrance stairs.

She took in a deep breath as she went over what she would say to Xerxes after what happened in the basement. She chewed on her lip. There wasn’t an easy way to explain that she could see shadows and that she’d battled them late into the night—and that’s why she’d left him there.

“Ugh.” She dug her fingers into her hair.

She stopped on the stairs, imagining telling him the truth.

Telling him that even though his voices were gone, she didn’t want to leave the palace.

She didn’t want to leave his side. But reason reminded her that she was just the maiden he needed, not the maiden he’d choose.

And now that the gods had left him, he didn’t need her anymore.

The Heartstealer trials had been delayed anyway, and Ryn doubted Xerxes would be in a rush to start them up again.

Her sigh filled the entrance as she climbed the last stairs and went inside. Her feet came together when she saw the atrium.

Statues had been tipped over. The fountain was smashed, and an enormous puddle covered the floor, almost reaching her toes. It was empty—not even a servant was to be found.

Ryn drifted in, eyeing the puddle.

She was grabbed.

Her hand fumbled for her sword as someone pulled her into a hall and shoved her into the nearest bedroom. Ryn nearly raised her sword at him, until she saw Marcan’s face.

His eyes glistened. His bottom lip quivered.

“What are you doing?” Ryn asked. His normally polished hair stuck out in all directions.

“They know, Estheryn,” he said. He slapped a hand over his mouth as soon as he said it, like he couldn’t bear to hear his own words spoken aloud.

Ryn would have asked what he was talking about, but with the way his eyes hung on the verge of tears, something rolled in the pit of her abdomen.

They know …

His fingers slid off his face. “They know everything: what you are, the laws you broke, what you came here to do.” Marcan squeezed his arms to himself and chewed on his thumbnail.

Ryn’s lips peeled apart, a thousand explanations rushing to the surface. “I…” What was there to say though? She couldn’t deny anything. Marcan must have put the pieces together already—it was probably obvious to him now based on things he’d seen and overheard her say.

“I need to see Xerxes,” she said.

Marcan released a gawking sound. “You should never call him that again!” he warned.

“And no, Estheryn, you should not go see him.” He took a deep breath and let it out.

“I am and always have been a Weylin—your enemy. And I know it’s treason, but if you want, my makeup artists and I can get you out of here right now. ”

Ryn’s jaw dropped. “Marcan, you can’t be serious—”

“We can disguise you as one of us and leave. But you must decide in the next thirty seconds. I’ll be long gone from here in five minutes,” he went on.

“The palace has been evacuated of all non-essential personnel. It’s a safety measure now that Per-Siana and B’rei Mira…

” He waved a hand through the air like that was off topic.

“Now would be your best time to escape. Everyone might forget about you soon with what’s coming. ”

Ryn watched a crease form between his brows. His shoe tapped against the floor. He glanced toward the hallway, then back at her.

Run? Leave the palace?

Forever?

The sword slipped from Ryn’s hands and clattered over the floor. Marcan’s hand flashed out as if to silence it, his eyes turning wild.

“I didn’t know there was goodness to be found in the Weylin people,” Ryn admitted. “Weylins killed my mother and swayed my father to leave.”

Marcan sighed and folded his arms again. “Estheryn,” he said impatiently. “Decide.”

Ryn ran her fingers through her long, knotted hair, thinking. “I just want you to know that since I’ve come here, I’ve discovered several Weylins who have changed my mind. Including you.”

Marcan’s face fell. “That sounded like a goodbye,” he said. “You’re not coming, then?”

Ryn shook her head. “I need to see the King.”

Marcan looked like he might argue, but he pursed his lips, and then said, “He’s in the Throne Room. But if you go in there, you’d better be prepared to never come out again.”

Her throat thickened as she put a hand on her artist’s shoulder. “Thank you.”

Marcan tsked. “May the Celestial Divinities watch over you,” he whispered. With that, he gave her a teary-eyed nod. He opened the door and held it for her, his lip quivering again as he did.

“I hope they don’t,” Ryn murmured as she walked through.

She turned for the atrium. When she reached it, she heard Marcan scamper the opposite way and flee out the entrance.

She stepped over chunks of broken statues, kicking aside fountain water as she headed toward the Throne Room.

The halls felt empty without nobles and palace attendants fluttering around.

There were no dancing napkins or dusters either; the sweet taste of magic was missing from the air.

Ryn had never been in the Throne Room—rumours in the palace claimed it was hardly ever used.

She wasn’t certain where it was, but she followed the map in her head until she heard murmuring voices; lots of them.

She imagined the Throne Room was full of all the people missing from the rest of the palace.

“Ah…” Ryn paused just outside the vaulted entrance and glanced back the way she’d come. Her sword was still back in the bedroom.

“There she is.” A voice lifted from the hall, and Ryn spotted a dozen Folke approaching. One grabbed her arm before she could form her next thought.

“I need to see the K…” Ryn went silent as she was pulled into the room. The ceiling reached several stories high and gold-framed windows stretched the full stature. It was bright and packed with nobles.

Folke guards lined a gold carpet down the middle of the room that led to a glass dais, and on the dais was a gold throne, and on the throne…

Xerxes.

He wore his crown. His royal coat. His frown.

His eyes were closed. He held tight to the armrests of his throne, still as a statue.

Ryn took in a deep breath as the small army of Folke inched in around her. She studied the Intelligentsia lining the dais behind the King, and the enormous council of richly dressed people she realized she didn’t belong to. They stared down their noses at her. They scowled.

The Folke released her and stepped back, leaving Ryn to stand on her own before everyone. She rubbed her arms where they’d grabbed her.

“Estheryn Electus—or whatever your real name is—you have been caught committing the crimes of impersonating a noble, spying on the King, plotting treason, and entering the palace, which are crimes punishable by death.” Ryn didn’t look at Damon as he read from a scroll in his dark voice.

She waited for Xerxes to open his eyes. She waited for him to look at her and say something.

Damon lowered the scroll. “The King, the Intelligentsia, and the King’s council hereby sentence you to be executed immediately.”

The words rang in her ears.