Lordale.
Nythia.
Dymmeria.
The Reaches.
The names blur, the inky letters smearing. Indecipherable. Ultimately meaningless. My spirit will return to the skies regardless of where my body burns. It’s not much consolation, but I cling to it anyway.
I’m far from home, I know that much. Wherever they’ve brought me is a barren land. Not just cold—devoid of life. I can feel no pulse of power from the ground beneath my feet, hear no ancient whispers among this grove of half-dead trees. And even if I could…I’m so weak after days of frantic flight—hounds nipping at my heels, arrows whizzing past my head, torches cornering me like a wild thing—I’m not certain it would do me any good.
Sunlight cannot fix a flower on the cusp of death.
It doesn’t matter anyway, I tell myself, leaning harder against my hanging tree. The nick of the guard’s blade against his wood block is a steady metronome, ticking down the seconds until my execution.Nothing matters anymore, Rhya. By morning, you’ll be a pile of ash.
Chapter
Two
I must nod off at some point, because I wake with a start to the rumble of hooves. A lone rider, moving through the trees with speed.
The commander has finally arrived.
The ground beneath my bare feet shakes as the newcomer thunders into the encampment. Chain mail clanks, boots thud as he dismounts. I can see nothing with the damned blindfold over my eyes, darkening an already black night to pure pitch. Straining my ears, I struggle to pick up snippets of conversation.
“Commander Scythe. It’s an honor to have you here, sir. An honor.”
“Burrows.” The response is curt.
“Sir, if I may say, your tactics at the Battle of Ygri last spring were simply inspired. Those Nythian scum fell like stalks of corn at harvest! I’ve never seen anything like it in all my years as—”
“Captain, if I wanted my ass kissed I’d be in a brothel. Take me to the prisoner. Now.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Burrows stammers. “Right away.”
The footsteps grow louder as they approach. I take a deepbreath, bracing myself. Still, my heart gives a great lurch when a hand snakes out and rips the covering from my face.
Torchlight flares, searing after so many hours spent in darkness. I blink to clear the bright spots, but it does little good. Stars are bursting inside my eyes. Strong fingers fist in my dirty hair, dragging my lolling head upright with one rough jerk. His other hand curls around the noose and pulls tight, compressing my windpipe. Breath becomes an impossibility.
I thought I was past this—past the fear.
I was wrong.
The face that slowly swims into view makes my heart fail. What I can see of it, anyway, under the heavy black helmet. A metal nose bridge bisects his features into two unforgiving halves. On either side, the thick slashes of his brows are furrowed inward and, just beneath them, a set of eyes so dark, they seem two bottomless pits glaring out at me. In the flickering torchlight, he appears more daemon than man.
“Where did you find this one, a graveyard?” His grip tightens in my hair until my scalp burns. “She reeks like a week-old carcass.”
“Frogmyre Bog,” the heavily bearded man standing to the commander’s left offers. Captain Burrows. I recognize him instantly—he’s the one who put the rope around my neck when they caught me on the cliff side. He tied the other end to his saddle as they led me back to their camp, forcing me to run behind him or else be dragged. When, after almost an hour, my bleeding feet finally failed and I collapsed into the dirt, he’d rubbed my face in his horse’s shit, laughing with unbridled glee.
My hair is still clumped with it, the pale strands stained the dull brown shade of dry manure. The odor is enough to make a steel-clad stomach curdle. Beneath his nose guard, the commander’s nostrils flare. Lips pressed into a stern line, his darkgaze sweeps from my face to my feet, seeming to commit every detail to memory—skin caked in bog, skirts stiff with filth, eyes wide with terror.
“In rather rough shape, isn’t she?”
“Point bitch kept us in pursuit for three days,” Burrows hisses, glaring at me with unleashed disdain. “She’s lucky we didn’t do worse.”
Several of the gathered soldiers make sounds of agreement. Their resentment is tangible—as is their impatience. They’re eager to see me swing.
Scythe does not comment. Nor does his attention shift to his subordinates. Instead, it seems fixed on my wrists, where the irons have reduced my skin to a raw, unrecognizable mess of charred flesh. The agony of it is making me lightheaded. Or perhaps it’s the lack of air; his hold on the noose does not relent for even an instant.