Again he laughs. “Oh really?” He takes a small step back, hangs his lantern over the handle of the door, folds his arms across his chest. “Let’s hear it then. How so?”
I sit up taller, don’t dare take my eyes off him. Don’t even think of blinking. “Without the version of the Night you’ve created, there’s no fear. And without fear, Bellonians will see through you, see deep down how powerless you are, and they’ll turn on you.” I struggle but manage to stand, take a step forward. “And that scares the shit out of you.”
If what I said or my piercing stare affects him in any way, he doesn’t show it. Instead, he completely ignores it.
“When your father was a child”—he smooths his red sash, utterly disinterested, as if he’s talking about the weather outside—“he loved telling stories too. Always had an overactive imagination, head in the clouds. I should have known he’d be a lost cause as heir.” He nods, smiles to himself, like there’s some unspoken meaning there. “My son, your father, was never fit for this family or to be High Regent. I didn’t see it coming—for that, I blame myself. But he made the choice. By betraying his class, his position, his god, and his family’s legacy … for nothing. He relinquished everything. I’ll never understand it.”
“You’ll never understand why he wanted peace for Basso? A better life for those in constant torment?”
“I’ll never understand risking so much for so little.” That’s honest. “My son is no more. It was better he died than betray his Sun-given fate. I couldn’t have him killed, but I did the second-best thing: I changed his story. Vincent Raevald was murdered by the Night, it’s as true as the Sun rises each morning. That is his legacy. And I’ll spend the rest of my days avenging his honor.”
“Punishing those he chose—Basso, the Night—above being your heir, more like?”
He shrugs. “Depends who you ask. But only some opinions matter, and that, Lunalette, is true power.” Turning toward the door, Raevald lifts the lantern back up, then glances over his shoulder.
“Speaking of power and heirs, here’s a story for you to ponder, Veda.” He opens the door but turns to face me, his body blocking the light of the hallway so he’s just one large, dark silhouette. A blockade between this cell and freedom. But just when I’m happy I can’t see his evil features, he lifts the lamp before his face. Leans forward for effect. “You will be sacrificed in a most spectacular fashion. An Offering fit only for the Savior to the Night.”
It’s faint. Barely there, but I swear I see a shadow quickly move across the hall behind him. And I’m going to make sure whoever it is hears some of Raevald’s truths.
“But why?” I say. “Why kill your granddaughter? Your own flesh and blood and the true heir to Bellona?” I inch forward. Work up a bit of emotion in my voice. “Isn’t there some sort of deal we could make? A truce? Surely I have something you might need?” My eyes actually well up with tears. It’s from hunger. Exhaustion. Fear. It has nothing to do with my grandfather. “We can work together. Fix everything that’s gone wrong. We’re family…” I swallow hard to force the word from my mouth. “Grandfather.” It comes out along with a bit of warm bile in the back of my throat.
I’ve likely gone mad. It’s possible that shadow was in my imagination, but I pray it’s my guard. Of course I know trying to negotiate with Raevald is as good as making a deal with the devil himself.
But if I can only get that guard on my side …
If she could hear the High Regent say something—anything—that causes her doubt or, hell, even pity toward me, it will be worth it.
Raevald lifts the lantern to his face so every feature is both exaggerated and blurred. Through clenched teeth he says, “You are no granddaughter of mine. Traitor. Basso. Filth. Just like your mother. And that truth—that we have any ties—will die with you. Sink to the bottom of the Great Sea and rot.” He reaches into his breast pocket, tosses something at me, slams the door, and locks the bolt.
The item is small, metal. It clicks and clanks before it slides across the floor. I’m not focusing on what he said, the man speaks in lies and half-truths. But I can’t not search the darkness for what it was he so carelessly threw at me.
My knees are bare where my pants are long worn through, but I don’t care. My skin scrapes and cuts against the cruel stone floor as I crawl along my cell, being sure to cover each and every knob and crevice. I begin in the place I believe it bounced, only to move back toward the middle of the room until, finally, the tips of my fingers bump something small: a smooth, round disk.
The item gripped in my fist, I move quick as I can on all fours toward the crack underneath the door.
There, under the dim, golden flicker of the corridor light, I see it.
The thing I once feared more than anything.
An Imperi medallion: on one side, embossed in all its glory, shines the sun; on the other, the name, Veda Adeline.
It hits me.
I already knew it, but there’s something about seeing it. Holding the coin in my hand. It makes it real.
I punch the door.
Stand and kick the thing until my toes and heels match my sliced-up knees.
“I hate you!” I scream, then melt back onto the floor. Hot, hopeless tears stream down my face. “I hate you,” I sob.
I’m about to punch the door again when the clap-clap of boots quickly approaches.
I clutch the coin in my hand, ready to throw it at Raevald should he reenter. It’s heavy and could do a bit of damage if aimed correctly.
I stand up. The door unlocks.
Not daring even the shallowest of breaths, I wait.
The door flings open, then shuts again.
Whoever it is, we’re in this cell. In the dark. Together.
I listen.
Quick breathing, followed by a hushed, “Hello?”
The Imperi officer.
Thank the Moon.
CHAPTER 3
NICO
“Nico?”
My eyes are lead. I can’t imagine any circumstance where I’d be able to pry them open.
“Nico?”
Eyes still welded shut, I try lifting my neck.
No good. If my eyes are leaden, my head’s a pile of bricks.
I sense someone’s standing next to me. He sits and must have a lantern with him, because there’s the slightest illumination on the other side of my eyelids. The air is cool. Musty. I attempt lifting my arm.
No. Definitely not. A pained whine leaves my mouth as white-hot fire shoots from my shoulder blade straight through to my collarbone and back again.
“Shit—” I don’t mean to say it out loud, but the stab of pain jogs my memory, and images come piling back like a blizzard in the dead of night. I force my eyes open.
“Hey, man.” Dorian leans over me.
I want to punch him, but I can’t. I want to sit up, but that’s impossible. I search the room.
I’m in a cave.
Quickly noting my surroundings, I see a mural, one door, a curtain hanging from the ceiling, a wooden stump with a canteen on it, and … I allow my fingers to feel beneath me … I’m lying on some kind of soft rug.