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Six, and the rebel arches his back, spittle and agony unleashed from his swollen throat.
Seven, and the man pulls so hard, the guard stumbles.
Eight, and his body goes limp.
Nine, and the pain brings him back to consciousness.
Ten, and only a wail from somewhere deep inside his chest reaches my ears.
The guard steps aside, leaving a crimson trail where the whip slithers over the stones. Blood oozes from ten deep gashes across the rebel’s back, overlapping over each other in a grotesque painting.
A cheer erupts somewhere deeper in the hall. Another one follows until thrilled cries and applause overtake the crowd.
I don’t share their excitement. A treacherous tear escapes my eye, and before a tremble could settle, I roll my hands into fists. I forgot Rev’s hand was still in mine, and he presses it back. I dare to hope that even for him, it’s just too much. That this boy, a few years older than I am, dressed in the uniform of a captain, finds it as despicable as I do.
I couldn’t be more wrong. Only scorn burns in the all-devouring blackness of his eyes. For him, the rebel deserved what he got. For him, torture in front of dozens is a fair punishment for someone who only fought for his beliefs.
The emperor basks in his glorious act while the crowd cheers for the torment inflicted on the man guilty of the worst crime in Usmad. A glimmer of hope and the will to fight for it.
When the ovations die down, the guards drag the rebel out of the hall. A bloody trail, that servants will spend days scrubbing out of the stones, is all that is left.
Dropping Rev’s hand, I take a step toward my father. I won’t stay idle and wait for another torture the emperor has planned as entertainment for the blood-thirsty nobles.
“Father,” I say and the ruckus of voices dies out.
I can hear Ofara click her tongue somewhere in the crowd, but Magnar turns at my call. Amusement pulls his face into a semblance of a smile, and I know it’ll haunt every single one of my nightmares.
What’s another broken rule when my oblivion is so close? I square my shoulders and mirror Magnar’s smile. “I hope to speak in the name of all gathered here when I say that we’re grateful for you watching over the safety and prosperity of the Empire of Usmad, so we can steal moments like this from the endless cycle Evanae spins.”
A hum of approval spreads through the hall. The nobles might not have heard much about me before, but now they’ll remember me as the girl who dared to speak. I bow again, and with loud swishing and rustling of expensive fabrics, the nobles follow my lead. When I stand back up, an eerie smile still tugs on the corners of Magnar’s lips, and the kaftan sticks to my legs where blood has drenched it to the last thread.
“Forgive me for my insolence, but I’m unwilling to wait another moment to meet my betrothed.”
My father doesn’t have to voice a command. He doesn’t have to click his fingers to make the guards obey. The crowd parts to let Olaf guide the man he and Rev were so intent on observing.
Ajaia of the House of The Sour Peaks.
A trickle of sweat runs down from his receding hairline, over his brow, and disappears in the curls of his unruly beard. His eyes are sluggish after ingesting one too many glasses of chilled wine, and it takes everything in me to keep up a smile even Tylea would be proud to see. When he grabs my hand, his palm is damp with sweat and not a single scar webs his skin. This man hasn’t fought a single battle in his life, but earned his position through immoral intrigues and petty plots. Yet this is a man I am to marry, whether I want to or not.
Another bang of the ceremonial gong rings loudly. The voice is no longer as sharp when he calls the name of the newcomer and it reaches our ears in a sinuous string of titles.
Leaning heavily on a jeweled staff with the symbol of Evanae’s watchful eye on its peak, the priest in robes of blue and red shuffles toward us. I should have learned his name, but the priests who serve in the palace have a habit of disappearing, replaced by new ones within a day. This one, now wrapping a sash of gold and green around our hands, has proved himself an exception. He has been in the palace for over a year. His milky gaze and the fact he has no tongue has saved his life in a place where no god could reign over the emperor’s will.
“My dear guests,” my father says when the priest has dabbed his finger in a blessed blend of ashes and herbs mixed with oil and drawn a sacred symbol on our foreheads. A circle to represent Evanae’s endless cycle of life and a straight line cutting it in two to symbolize Livith’s will and the certainty of death it carries. The mixture trickles into my eyes, mixing with unshed tears and flecks of gold. “This union brings me immense joy, and I can only hope the Maker will grace them with his blessing, for our empire will only be stronger for it.” My father unfurls the sash from our hands, revealing angry marks where Ajaia’s fingers had pressed too hard into my skin. “I trust the Governor of the House of The Sour Peaks to do everything in his power to ensure my daughter’s safety, and I can only wish them luck on their trip back to their household.”
The nobles behind us explode in joyful cries and drown out what my father says next. Maker knows they’ll need it.
Ignorant of my father’s last words, Ajaia pulls me closer. His hand wrapped around my waist, he makes me face the crowd, as the whole hall is thundering with applause.
“Remember this, little one. Our marriage might be in a few months, but you’re already mine.” Ajaia’s breath is slick, coating my skin with memories I won’t be able to scrub off even after hours in a bath. “There will be no more dancing with other men. I won’t allow you to forget your place.”
“Which is?” I ask, lifting my chin.
Stirring up trouble might not be worth it, but cowering under threats of a man with no honor would tear me to shreds.
“Another piece of my property.”
Ajaia salutes the hall with his ringed hand waving high in the air. Under my father’s wary glare, I force myself to do the same. The ceremony won’t be botched by a rebellious princess. Not when the emperor’s threat still rings in the air as if the whip never stopped splitting skin.
