Page 107 of Revealing Fate

Not just the Prima, she chided. Felíne. My friend. A friend who, by every indication, had been just as reluctant to face her predestined future. Damn the duty that bound them all. Damn the ill-fated connections that tied them. And damn the gods who’d forced the burden.

The hushed clamor of a gathered crowd up ahead drew Imogen from her musings. Prestyn Gore pressed closer to her as they were caught up in the throng of people. They approached the temple. Imogen recognized the spire. Had something happened to the queen?

“Can you see, Lieutenant?” Imogen was a tall woman, but Prestyn’s gaze swept beyond hers. He strained, peering over the sea of caps, head scarves, and hair. His expression turned grave, mouth pressing into a grim line. “What is it?”

“We should go, Elder,” he urged, turning her away.

She peered up at him, instincts tingling. “No.” Imogen pulled away from Prestyn and shoved through the crowd.

She stopped before the temple steps. Ahead, a wooden pillar stood erected on the first landing. Two mirrored crossbeams had been hammered into the top third of the post at opposing angles so that the wooden planks resembled a six-pointed star.

Something else had been affixed to the beams.

Someone.

A man, maybe a decade or two older than Imogen, hung suspended from the pillar, arms and legs outstretched. Bolts of iron as thick as Imogen’s thumbs protruded gruesomely from the man’s wrists and feet, securing him to the posts. Blisters from the relentless sun spread across his shaved head, face, and shoulders. The smell of dripping blood and bowels hung heavy in the cloying air.

Imogen took a step closer, beyond the edge of those gathered. A brand seared the flesh across the man’s chest, the oozing letters depicting one word.

Cozened.

The man shuddered and lifted his head, a rattled breath escaping his cracked, gray lips. Imogen covered her mouth with a shaking hand, horror-struck.

Divine, have mercy. He’s still alive.

Lieutenant Gore tensed beside her, the only other person who’d stepped beyond the safe obscurity of the crowd. “I know him.”

Imogen glanced up in surprise.

“He’s one of the army’s menders. Edmore.” Prestyn rubbed the inside of his gloved wrist absently. “He casted my arm last year after I broke it sparring.”

Gods above. What had a man dedicated to helping shurii done to deserve such a cruel punishment? They should help him. Do something.

Lieutenant Gore read the intention in Imogen’s face and took her firmly by the hand. “No, Elder. This man has been labeled a traitor to the Crown of Asteros. He’s been staked before the Goddess’s temple. No one may interfere with divine justice.”

“This isn’t justice,” she hissed as Prestyn dragged her away from the dying man. “This is torture.”

Lieutenant Gore’s brown eyes hardened. “This is our sovereign’s design. Anyone caught intervening on the traitor’s behalf will face the same punishment. Or worse.”

“So don’t get caught,” Imogen spat, wrenching her hand free. It was a reckless thing to say. Prestyn Gore was a soldier in King Domitan’s army. His first duty was to his liege. He could label Imogen a turncoat, give a full report on her recent outings, and have her arrested along with Cinah Creed and Mender Alcuin.

She imagined her two unlikely allies hammered to a wooden star on the temple steps. The notion made her stomach drop into her toes. If Gore turned her in, she’d never get out of Asteros. Karrick would remain a prisoner forever. How could she be so fucking stupid?

Imogen had an excuse half-formed on her tongue, but the rebuttal remained unspoken.

For Lieutenant Gore did not give her a look of condemnation. The eyes behind his helm shuttered with what might have been…regret? He did not speak as he led them back to the Stronghold. Imogen thought perhaps he didn’t trust himself to reply.

Karrick had just received his evening meal when Imogen entered his room. The scent of roasted potatoes and seared lamb steak unsettled her stomach after witnessing poor Mender Edmore’s sizzling flesh.

Karrick offered his plate. “Have you eaten?”

Imogen waved it away. “My afternoon has robbed me of an appetite.”

She told Karrick about the mender tortured on the temple steps.

“And Domitan calls himself king,” Karrick remarked, pushing his plate away. “He’s a blight. His rule is a farce.”

Imogen sat on Karrick’s cot and rubbed her temples. “You can’t say things like that,” she said. “You need to be more careful.”