I tried.
“What’s your plea?” he grinds out.
“Guilty. Of all charges.”
“She does not lie,” the Truthtune states.
“Wouldn’t dare.” I glance over my shoulder at the scribe, meeting his wide-eyed stare. “You can probably tack on a few more charges, too. I’m sure I’ll fill the quota if you look hard enough. I’m practically a one-folk show.”
Another swell of murmurs.
I’m surprised they still have things to talk about.
“All those in favor of Prisoner Seventy-Three being drawn and quartered next aurora rise?”
I ignore the frantic thump of my heart as over half the Nobles raise their hands, including half the crowd packed into the mezzanine.
I lift my hand, too.
Most would probably prefer the coliseum, but I’d much rather be sliced open while my heart’s still beating than be served to a thunder of fire-breathing dragons, thank you very much.
“All in favor of feeding her to the Moltenmaws?”
Another flock of hands rise, and the scribe counts them quietly. “It’s a draw,” he calls out, gaze cast on the mezzanine, appearing to recount.
I frown.
Surely not.
I count too—looking up in time to watch a familiar hooded “Runi” raise his hand, like he’s lifting a gavel of his own.
Casting a vote.
“Oh, no matter,” the scribe bellows. “Dragons it is—by one vote!”
My blood chills, my rapidly beating heart making my head spin, certain I’m going to pass out. Not that it stops me from slaying the Incognito King with a glare I hope he feels all the way to his bones.
I should be able to die how I want to die, dammit!
The King dips his head, and I picture myself lobbing it off his shoulders and watching it thump upon the floor, but then the Chancellor slams his gavel against the table again.
I flinch, gaze plummeting in unison with my guts.
“It’s settled. Prisoner Seventy-Three, you will be led to the coliseum come next aurora rise, and the bell will toll in your name. May the Creators have mercy on your tarnished soul.”
I’m escorted back down the long, twisting tunnels of Gore’s notorious prison, past cells that smell as rotten as I do. Past folk who cling to their bars with blanched hands, looking at me through wide eyes—faces gaunt, lips cracked and sapped of color.
We pass a boy with his cheek pressed against the bars, his eyes so glazed and sightless I almost wonder if he’s— He blinks, pupils tightening, gaze shifting to me.
The strings of my stony heart tug, because I recognize those yellow irises. That flock of matted golden curls.
On a foggy aurora rise not too long ago, I found him wandering the Ditch, blood spilling from his nose that looked as crooked as it does now, bruises in places that told me someone much stronger had taken their anger out on him.
I’d given him an Elding orb. Asked if he wanted my help in any way. He’d pushed the orb back into my palm and told me he wanted to do it himself— I look away, a shiver scurrying up my spine where it explodes across my shoulders, down my shredded back.
I’m nudged into my cell, stumbling to a stop. One of the guards unclips me from the leash, reattaches my mobility-restricting pole, and kicks me.
Hard.
Panic erupts beneath my ribs as I pitch toward the back wall, certain I’m about to rip half my face clean off, my feet clamped so close together it’s impossible to kick my foot forward and catch myself. Instead, I tip my body to the side and tuck into a ball— My shoulder collides with the wall, the top half of my back grating down the rough-hewn rock in an explosion of teeth-gnashing agony, violent aftershocks coursing through me—my flesh lit with the whipping pain of a thousand lashes.
A deep, searing scream wrangles up my throat, seeming to echo off the walls, the tapered end of it chased by a chilling silence.
Hissing through the aftermath, I tap my hand against the floor to the beat of my calming song while letting my eyes slit open. Narrow on the offending guard.
He picks my broken lock off the ground, then leers at me like it’s my fault a king with a fist of iron crumbled it free. He secures my door with a new padlock he plucks off the latch of an empty cell, and leaves with the rest of my armored entourage—their heavy footsteps fading into oblivion.
He’s lucky I’m chained and secured in a cell; otherwise, I’d have his heart in my squeezing fist for making me scream.
“Guessing it didn’t go well?” Wrook asks from somewhere so close I can feel his whiskers twitching against my arm.