So will I.
The snow outside is perfect in the morning light, a crust of white gilding barer trees. It’ll melt by afternoon. By my count, it’s December 11. A cold, gray, dead time in the echo between autumn and winter. The true snows won’t set in until next month.
Back home we used to jump off the porch into snowdrifts, even after Bree broke his leg when he landed on a buried pile of firewood. Cost Gisa a month’s wages to get him fixed up, and I had to steal most of the supplies our so-called doctor needed. That was the winter before Bree was conscripted, the last time our entire family was together. The last time. Forever. We’ll never be whole again.
Mom and Dad are with the Guard. Gisa and my living brothers too. They’re safe. They’re safe. They’re safe. I repeat the words as I do every morning. They are a comfort, even if they might not be true.
Slowly, I push away my plate of breakfast. The now-familiar spread of sugary oatmeal, fruit, and toast holds no comfort for me.
“Finished,” I say out of habit, knowing no one will reply.
Kitten is already at my side, sneering at the half-eaten food. She picks up the plate as one would a bug, holding it at arm’s length to carry it to the door. I raise my eyes quickly, hoping for a single glimpse of the antechamber outside my room. Like always, it’s empty, and my heart sinks. She drops the plate on the floor with a clatter, maybe breaking it, but that’s not her concern. Some servant will clean it up. The door shuts behind her, and Kitten returns to her seat. Trio occupies the other chair, his arms crossed, eyes unblinking as he stares at my torso. I can feel his ability and hers. They feel like a blanket wrapped too tight, keeping my lightning pinned and hidden, far away in a place where I cannot even begin to go. It makes me want to tear my skin off.
I hate it. I hate it.
I. Hate. It.
Smash.
I throw my water glass against the opposite wall, letting it splatter and splinter against horrible gray paint. Neither of my guards flinches. I do this a lot.
And it helps. For a minute. Maybe.
I follow the usual schedule, the one I’ve developed over the last month of captivity. Wake up. Immediately regret it. Receive breakfast. Lose appetite. Have food taken away. Immediately regret it. Throw water. Immediately regret it. Strip bed linens. Maybe rip up the sheets, sometimes while shouting. Immediately regret it. Attempt to read a book. Stare out window. Stare out window. Stare out window. Receive lunch. Repeat.
I’m a very busy girl.
Or I guess I should say woman.
Eighteen is the arbitrary divide between child and adult. And I turned eighteen weeks ago. November 17. Not that anyone knew or noticed. I doubt the Arvens care that their charge is another year older. Only one person in this prison palace would. And he did not visit, to my relief. It’s the single blessing to my captivity. While I am held here, surrounded by the worst people I’ll ever know, I don’t have to suffer his presence.
Until today.
The utter silence around me shatters, not with an explosion, but with a click. The familiar turn of the door lock. Off schedule, without warrant. My head snaps to the sound, as do the Arvens’， their concentration breaking in surprise. Adrenaline bleeds into my veins, driven by my suddenly thrumming heart. In the split second, I dare to hope again. I dream of who could be on the other side of the door.
My brothers. Farley. Kilorn.
Cal.
I want it to be Cal. I want his fire to consume this place and all these people whole.
But the man standing on the other side is no one I recognize. Only his clothes are familiar—black uniform, silver detailing. A Security officer, nameless and unimportant. He steps into my prison, holding the door open with his back. More of his like gather outside the doorway, darkening the antechamber with their presence.
The Arvens jump to their feet, just as surprised as I am.
“What are you doing?” Trio sneers. It’s the first time I’ve ever heard his voice.
Kitten does as she is trained to do, stepping between me and the officer. Another burst of silence knocks into me, fed by her fear and confusion. It crashes like a wave, eating at the little bits of strength I still have left. I stay rooted in my chair, loath to fall down in front of other people.
The Security officer says nothing, staring at the floor. Waiting.
She enters in reply, in a gown made of needles. Her silver hair has been combed and braided with gems in the fashion of the crown she hungers to wear. I shudder at the sight of her, perfect and cold and sharp, a queen in bearing if not yet title. Because she’s still not a queen. I can tell.