Page 22 of The Heart Trials

“Come back!” I shout. “Please.”

He leaves, taking every dreg of hope I have with him. I pace in the small prison. Serafina’s medicine, Miss Omon, the ship. We were supposed to be sailing away by nightfall. They are worried sick, I know. Serafina probably can’t sleep. Nichol will be scared. He is brave, but he needs reminders. He forgets. Then there’s Miss Omon, whose worst fear is about to come true—they’re going to execute me. They’re going to end me. No more questions. No more wondering. Eighteen is all the years this Saltblood gets.

A tear drips onto my bare hand. I rub the moisture between my fingers, feeling the strangeness of it. It makes me think of my mother. What would she say to me now? My mother who warned me, endlessly, of going against the tide.

I sit, hugging my knees, trying to imagine a way this ends differently. But there is no way out of here. Caelus turned me over to them, acting like I’d snuck into his room. But I don’t believe he is tricking me. He has been too honest. His grief over Lucent is too real. And he has no other way to get Heartfillers. He needs me alive. If he doesn’t come for me, I’ll need all my strength.

I force myself to lie down. Maybe I can still outsmart them. Eyes closed, I beg sleep to come. But the groaning cries from prisoners one through seven keep me up until sunrise.

Caelus is the first face I see in the morning, and my shoulders slump, the tightness trying to leave my body. He is escorted by two Mercyenforcers, neither of them Dreth. His hair is pulled behind him in a braid; wavy, wispy tendrils frame his face.

“She’s not in proper court attire, sir,” one guard says. “Are you sure—”

“Bring her, now,” he says. “Straight to the Benevolent.”

“Caelus.” My voice is scratchy.

He shakes his head, subtly again, like he did yesterday. His eyes are a different shade of blue today, darker. The creases around them make him look very tired. He shakes his head again, this time more noticeably, and I realize it is a message.

Comply.

Go along with whatever this plan is.

“Hands?” The Mercyenforcers wait for my wrists to bind them. One of their weapons is in my reach. I could try to steal it and run. Get as far as I can and hide until I can figure out a way out of this maze. Or I can trust the prince.

I stretch my bare arms out to the guard, feeling so exposed. “My gloves, I need my gloves. And my chain.”

Caelus’s eyes don’t leave me, specifically my swollen lip. He gestures at someone. A maiden hands me a fresh pair of touching gloves. I slip them on, and the knot in my chest unravels some.

The walk through the Citadel is meandering and feels too short. When we arrive in the grand room with its granite pillars and stone statues, my heart knocks into my ribs. I feel small. Insignificant. The throne encrusted in crystals is empty. The Benevolent is not here. There is a smaller golden seat with lush cushions beside the throne that wasn’t there before.

“I’ll take her,” Caelus tells the Mercyenforcers, grabbing the restraints tied to my wrists. The guards disperse themselves around the room.

“I’ve gotten your chance to ask my father for mercy to be reinstated,” he says. “Follow my lead.”

A million questions race through my mind. But the only one that comes out is “Why?”

“My cousin convinced me that a smuggler on Dockers Row was more ruthless and determined than anyone. He died for that belief. I’m not willing to throw you away just yet.”

Caelus leads me to the center of the throne room where a small audience has formed. Mercyenforcers keep their stingers in hand instead of at their waist. There are guards on either side of the room by the side exits and several at the rear exit. There are no Mercyenforcers on the dais—where the two thrones are still empty. But there is a door behind the largest one.

About forty steps away.

Thirty, if I run…

Caelus unties me. “Gaze down for your Benevolent,” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

I cross my hands meekly and glare at the floor until the doors open. The Benevolent enters, and everyone rises. His heels clack on the polished stone. I keep my head down.

“Axira Merreri of the Saltblood district.” His voice is oddly warm and soothing. “You may look at me, Axira.”

He is much smaller than his portrait suggests. His uniform is decorated with medals and very tidy. But his eyes are just as hollow as they are in the painting above him. The strangest thing about him is his slight smile. His lips bow up just enough to make his mouth look permanently fixed in a slight grin, his cheeks pulled back. It doesn’t dim or brighten. It stays just like that, on the edge of a mocking smirk.

“Who damaged her face?” the Benevolent asks.

No one moves.

“Should I ask again?”