His hand falls on my wrist, drawing one finger down the manacle of Silent Stone keeping me prisoner. I tremble out of fear, but so does he.
With his eyes on my hand, I’m given time to study him. His casual clothes, black as always, are rumpled, and he does not stand on ceremony. No crown, no badges. An evil boy, but a boy still.
One I must figure out how to fight. But how? I’m weak, my lightning is gone, and anything I might say will be twisted beyond my control. I can barely walk, let alone escape unaided. Rescue is all but impossible, a hopeless dream that I can’t waste any more time on. I’m stuck here, trapped by a lethal, conniving king. He dogged me over months, haunting me from afar in everything from broadcasts to his deadly notes.
I miss you. Until we meet again.
He said he was a man of his word. Perhaps, in this alone, he is.
With a deep breath, I poke at the only weakness I suspect he might still have.
“Were you here?”
Blue eyes snap to mine. It’s his turn to look confused.
“Through this.” I glance at the bed, and then far away. It’s painful to remember Samson’s torture, and I hope it shows. “I dreamed you were here.”
The warmth of him recedes, drawing back to leave the room cold with oncoming winter. His eyelids flutter, dark lashes against white skin. For a second, I remember the Maven I thought he was. I see him again, a dream or a ghost.
“Every second,” he answers.
When a gray flush spreads across his cheeks, I know it’s the truth.
And now I know how to hurt him.
The manacles make it too easy to fall asleep, so merely pretending to do so is difficult. Beneath the blanket, I clench a fist, digging my nails into my palm. I count the seconds. I count Maven’s breaths. Finally, his chair creaks. He stands. He hesitates. I can almost feel his eyes, their touch burning against my still face. And then he goes, footsteps light against the wood floor, sweeping through my bedroom with the grace and quiet of a cat. The door shuts softly behind him.
So easy to sleep.
I wait instead.
Two minutes pass, but the Arven guards don’t return.
I suppose they think the manacles are enough to keep me here.
They are wrong.
My legs wobble when they hit the floor, bare feet against cold wood in parquet designs. If there are cameras watching, I don’t care. They can’t stop me from walking. Or trying to walk.
I don’t like doing things slowly. Especially now, when every moment counts. Every second could mean another person I love dead. So I shove off the bed, forcing myself to stand on weak, trembling legs. An odd sensation, with Silent Stone weighing down my wrists and ankles, leaching what little strength my anger gives me. It takes a long moment to bear the pressure. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it. But I can get past it.
The first step is the easiest. A lunge to the little table where I take my meals. The second is more difficult, now that I know how much effort it takes. I walk like a man drunk or hobbled. For a split second, I envy my father’s wheelchair. The shame of such thoughts fuels my next steps, across the length of the room. Panting, I reach the other side, almost collapsing against the wall. The burn in my legs is pure fire, sending a prickle of sweat down my spine. A familiar feeling, like I’ve just run a mile. The nausea in the pit of my stomach is different, though. Another side effect of the Stone. It makes every beat of my heart feel heavier, and wrong somehow. It tries to empty me out.
My forehead touches the paneled wall, letting the cold soothe. “Again,” I force out.
I turn and stumble across the room.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time Kitten and Trio deliver my lunch, I’m drenched with sweat and I have to eat lying on the floor. Kitten doesn’t seem to care, toeing the plate of evenly balanced meat and vegetables toward me. Whatever’s going on outside the city walls, it doesn’t seem to have any effect on food supply. A bad sign. Trio leaves something else on my bed, but I focus on eating first. I force down every single bite.
Getting up is a bit easier. My muscles are already responding, adjusting to the manacles. There’s a small blessing in them. The Arvens are living Silvers, their ability fluctuating with their own concentration, as changing as crashing waves. Their silence is much harder to adapt to than the constant press of the Stone.
I rip open the parcel on my bed, discarding the thick, luxurious wrapping. The gown slithers out, falling against my blankets. I take a step back slowly, my body going cold as I’m seized by the familiar urge to jump out the window. For a second I shut my eyes, trying to will the dress away.
Not because it’s ugly. The dress is shockingly beautiful, a gleam of silk and jewels. But it forces me to realize a terrible truth. Before the dress, I was able to ignore Maven’s words, his plan, and what he means to do. Now it stares me in the face, a mocking piece of artistry. The fabric is red. As the dawn, my mind whispers. But that is wrong too. This is not the color of the Scarlet Guard. Ours is a lurid, bright, angry red, something to be seen and recognized, almost shocking to the eye. This gown is different. Worked in darker shades, crimson and scarlet, beaded with chips of gemstones, woven with intricate embroidery. It shimmers in the darkest way, catching the light overhead like a pool of red oil.
Like a pool of red blood.
The dress will make me—and what I am—impossible to forget.
I laugh bitterly to myself. It’s almost funny. My days as Maven’s betrothed were spent hiding, pretending to be Silver. At least now I won’t have to be painted into one of them. A very, very small mercy in the light of all else.