“We were afraid the bad men would take her too,” the boy said simply. “That’s why we wanted to leave.”
The bad men. A tiny chill skipped up Eliana’s neck. The masked men from the docks?
But the boy said no more than that. He did not even try to run.
Smart boy, Eliana thought.
He knew he would not get far.
? ? ?
The next afternoon, Eliana stood on a balcony overlooking the gallows.
Lord Arkelion lounged at the east end of the square, the high back of his throne carved to resemble wings.
Eliana, watching him, folded her arms across her chest. Shifted her weight to one hip. Tried to ignore the figure standing in a red-and-black Invictus uniform beside His Lordship’s throne.
From this height, Eliana couldn’t tell who it was, but it didn’t matter. The mere sight of that familiar silhouette was enough to turn her stomach.
Invictus: a company of assassins that traveled the world and carried out the Emperor’s bidding. The most dangerous jobs, the bloodiest jobs.
It was only a matter of time before they recruited her. She imagined it daily, just to see if the idea would ever stop terrifying her.
So far, it hadn’t.
Probably Rahzavel would be the one to come for her. Eliana had seen him at a handful of His Lordship’s parties over the years. Each time, he had requested a dance with her. Each time, his flat gray gaze had dared her to refuse him.
Oh, how she’d wished she could have.
“An invincible bounty hunter,” he had crooned in her ear during their last dance together the previous summer. “How curious.” He had threaded his cold fingers through hers. “You’ll make a fine addition to our family someday.”
When Rahzavel came for her, he probably wouldn’t even let her say goodbye to her loved ones before escorting her overseas to Celdaria, the heart of the Undying Empire—and to the Emperor himself.
Welcome, Eliana Ferracora, the Emperor said in her most awful dreams, his smile not reaching his black eyes. I’ve heard so much about you.
And that would be the end of life as she now knew it. She would become one of the elite—a soldier of Invictus.
She would become, like Rahzavel, a new breed of monster.
Today, however, was not that day.
So Eliana watched, tapping her fingers against her arm, wishing His Lordship would get it over with. She was hungry and tired, and Harkan was beside himself with shame. And the longer they stood there, the more desperately he would expect something from her that she couldn’t give him:
Regret.
The Empire guard marched Quill and the eldest child up to the gallows. It been constructed in the ruins of the temple of Saint Marzana, the revered firebrand of the Old World—the world before the Blood Queen Rielle had died. Before the rise of the Empire.
Empire soldiers had almost entirely demolished the temple when they seized Orline. Once, the temple had been a grand array of domed halls, classrooms and sanctuaries open to the river breeze, and courtyards draped in blossoming vines. Now, only a few crumbling pillars remained. Saint Marzana’s statue, standing guard at the temple entrance, had been destroyed. A likeness of the Emperor now loomed there instead—his features masked, his body cloaked. Gold, black, and crimson banners flanked his head.
The plaza beneath him was crowded but quiet. The citizens of Orline were used to executions, but Quill was popular in certain circles, and not even His Lordship often slaughtered children.
When Eliana and Harkan had presented the captive children to him, Lord Arkelion had smiled kindly, inspected the younger ones’ teeth, and sent them off with one of his mistresses. The children had reached back for their brother, wailing all the way down the throne room until someone had, blessedly, shut the doors.
But the eldest child had not cried. And he was not crying today, not even as he watched the executioner raise his sword.
“The Empire will burn!” shouted Quill, his hair plastered to his scalp with sweat.
The sword fell; Quill’s head rolled. An uneasy wave of sound swept through the crowd.
Only then, his face splattered with fresh blood, did the boy start to cry.
“El,” Harkan choked out. He took Eliana’s hand in his sweaty one, rubbed his thumb along her palm. His voice came out frayed. He had not slept.
She had slept like the dead. Sleep was important. One could not hunt without a good night’s sleep.
“We don’t have to watch,” she told him as patiently as she could manage. “We can go.”
He released her hand. “You can go if you want. I have to watch.”