Chapter Fifty-Two

King Wilhelm visited me about two weeks later.

He ducked under the lintel of my cell, a painting, a fairytale, a storybook character with his gold diadem and fur-trimmed cape, red and clasped at each shoulder with a swan.

An entourage gathered in the hallway outside, dukes and earls, mistresses and foreign princes, a swish of cotton and silk, damask and rose, a strong perfume that made my eyes water.

He stopped in front of me, pressed two stiff fingers under my chin and tilted it to meet his face. “I hear you’ve been difficult.”

My heart knocked against my ribs. Run , something in me said. But I wouldn’t make it past the portcullis.

Instead, I bit my lip to keep from crying.

“My spies tell me the Vold general has yet to return to Karlsborn Castle,” he continued. “They tell me he sends orders to his men from a secret location. They tell me the Volds are gathering along the coast like a storm. They tell me war is coming. Is that true?”

I took a steadying breath. “I don’t know what the Volds are planning, and I don’t know where the general is.” I’d repeated the words so many times they might have been true.

Might have been.

I braced for the jerk of my neck, a slap on the cheek. Instead, the king’s eyes brightened. He pinched my chin. “You’re a terrible liar, but I admire your persistence. Do you know why they call me the Red King?”

I shifted. “I don’t.”

“Ambition. The Grain Wars left us stripped and weak, a shadow of our former self. But I plan to rebuild our empire and bring the other nations under our wing. They will fly our banners—red—and I’ll make a better life for them. For us all. So won’t you tell me where they went?”

I forced myself to meet his eyes, the pale blue of his irises threaded with something wiggling and dark. “Never.”

The brightness collapsed into a frenzied hate. The king grabbed the front of my dress and pushed me back, back, back. My shoulders hit the wall.

“Set an execution,” he said. “Tomorrow. Dawn.”

A strangled cry escaped my lips.

He pressed me harder. “I want her body hanging from the gallows. I want carrion to feast on her eyes. I want—”

Wisps of black smoke escaped from beneath the king’s fingers, curling up my chest, my neck, searing, blistering. They slithered down my arms, leaving trails of burning flesh, and I could taste it—ash, soot, and bitter tar. It scraped against my tongue, my brain, two claws prying at my mouth saying, Let me in, and Oh? You are hers, and I want you, I want you, I want you . I pressed my lips together, but the thing was inside of me, flooding me, and it was like standing under a waterfall, trying to drink, and it was saying You are mine, and I am going to take you away from her, and—

“Come on, Wil,” one of the lordlings said.

The smoke disappeared. The king still held me against the wall, his fingers tangled through the front of my shift, his knuckles gone white.

I glanced at the lordling who’d spoken. He leaned against the cell bars, and dark hair framed an arrogant face—strong cheekbones, chiseled jaw. Had he seen the smoke? Had anyone else?

The lordling’s mouth tipped into a wicked grin. “I don’t know if she deserves to die . Give her one last chance. A confession. It’ll show the people you’re generous. I mean, look at her. She’s just a nobody.” He gave me a quizzical expression.

The king’s grip on the front of my dress loosened, then released. He turned and gestured toward a red-faced seneschal. “Paper.”

The seneschal dug in a satchel.

King Wilhem snapped his fingers. “ Paper! ”

The seneschal pulled out several crumpled pages.

King Wilhem tossed them on the floor. “Write.” Then he stormed out.

The act of throwing the papers was probably meant to degrade me further, to make me crawl on my hands and knees in this filthy cell while everyone watched. Except I wouldn’t do it. I wouldn’t kneel.

Something shifted in the periphery of my vision.

I looked down.

The lordling had crouched beside me, scooping them up. He stood. “He’s been irritable lately. I don’t think you’ve helped.” He held out the pages.

I didn’t take them.

The lordling rolled his eyes. “Don’t go all noble. This is your last chance. Tell us where they went. Write a confession. Don’t squander it.”

I flashed my teeth. “You shouldn’t trust anything I write.”

“Then write telling me to go south, and I’ll be sure to send my army north. Write a ballad. A song. Something. But if you help us capture the Vold general, we’ll let you go free. You have my word. Around these parts, that’s pretty strong.”

I studied his face. I’d guessed lordling from his jacket—dark green studded with pearl buttons and roses embroidered around the cuffs. Expensive. But the way he spoke…

I bit the inside of my cheek. “Who…are you?”

The lordling cocked a brow. “I’m Alexander. Prince Alexander.”

He set the papers on the floor and turned toward the lintel.

The women and courtiers had begun filtering out—powdered faces and fluffy dresses, their chatter idle like birds. “… just a nobody from the Sanokes…” they tittered. “A nobody, a nobody.”

I stared at my hands, streaked with grit, ringed with grime. I’d spent weeks in prison, starved and tortured. Kept in conditions worse than a dog. And yet—

“I’m not a nobody.” The words were only a rasp.

Alexander paused near the bars. “What was that?”

I lifted my head, my hair falling loose around my face. The moment wasn’t grand. There were no statues, no cannons, no poems, or ballads. Swans didn’t fly, and it wouldn’t go down in history. Still, something flared, a seed, a spark, a kindling that lit a fire and saved…me.

“I’m not a nobody,” I repeated.

Alexander waited, his back to me. Torchlight gilded his shoulder, played off his iron-dark hair. For a moment, I didn’t think he was going to respond at all, but the corner of his mouth lifted and I caught his eye. “Okay. Somebody.”