That evening, Moria combed her hair until it shone. She smudged her eyes with kohl and doused her skin in rose water. She put on her prettiest kaftan and set out for the palace.
The guards took her straight to the king.
Moria bowed low to the king of Firgaard. She did not meet his gaze for fear he would see the raging fire in her eyes. She did not speak her name for fear he would hear the sharpened edge of her voice.
The dragon king dismissed his guards.
The flame in Moria flickered. Who was she, to pit herself against a king? She was nothing more than a girl. Not yet eighteen. And he was twice her size.
When the king reached for her, Moria froze.
When he undid the buttons of her kaftan, she trembled.
When he slid the kaftan off her shoulders and down her arms, when he let it fall to the floor, Moria thought of her dearest friend. She thought of all the girls who’d stood right here, trembling and afraid. With her clothes crumpled around her feet, Moria reached for the knife strapped to her thigh.
Seeing it, the king’s eyes widened in surprise.
And Moria cut open his throat.
The guards found her standing over the body, blood dripping from the ceremonial blade in her hand. When her gaze fell upon them, they shivered. As if it were the gaze of Iskari herself.
Taking life was forbidden. The king’s life, especially. Elorma himself instated the law against regicide. It was as old as the founding of Firgaard.
Ancient laws needed to be upheld.
So, three days later, they marched Moria to the bloodstained block in the center square, where a man holding a saber waited. All of Firgaardcame to watch. Every girl who’d ever been taken by the king lined the streets, with their families at their backs.
But as the guards marched Moria past them, her people raised a fist over their hearts. And Moria held her head high all the way to the chopping block.
Unafraid.
Twenty-One
Beneath the watchful gaze of the soldats, Asha bided her time, waiting for her moment to steal the flame.
Beneath the blazing sun, Asha and Dax walked side by side. Jarek marched six paces ahead while soldats surrounded them, their gazes cast like spears up and down the green-walled streets of the new quarter. The visiting scrublanders were missing and Jarek’s fugitive slave hadn’t been found. The city was on high alert.
“No one is allowed in or out,” Asha heard Jarek tell his second-in-command, “until the missing scrublanders are found.”
While her brother brooded beside her, Asha set her thoughts on her task. She needed to take the sacred flame from her father’s throne room without getting caught.
Up ahead, Jarek took off his mantle—useful in the early morning chill but stifling now in the increasing heat of the rising sun. A dagger hung at his hip, the ivory hilt polished and shining. Beside Asha, Dax’s gaze burned a hole in the back of Jarek’s shirt.
“You didn’t have to torch them,” said Dax. His brown curls were damp against his skin, where sweat beaded from the sun’s heat.
“You didn’t exactly give me a choice,” she said.
If she hadn’t shown up, what would Dax have done? How would he have hidden the evidence of Jarek’s rogue slave? She loved her brother, but he was too much of a dreamer. Expert at coming up with lofty plans, unskilled at carrying them out.
Like the scrolls.
What in all the skies was hethinking?
“Where’s Torwin?” Dax kept his voice low. He didn’t look at her.
“The slave?” Asha shook her head, whispering back. “You led Jarek straight to that room. Why would I tell you where he is now?”
Dax opened his mouth to respond, but instead of words, a fit of coughing erupted out of him. The harsh, ragged sound made Asha go rigid. Dax doubled over, pressing his hands to his knees at the force of it.
