Page 91 of Crown of the Courtesan

But behind him, the fire calls.

Beckons.

I stop seeing Ashland.

Stop seeing anything but the flames.

I inch closer. Each lick of flame glitters with a strange light, drawing my gaze. Doors summon, enticing me further into their depthless abyss. I’m transfixed until one shifts, opens, and washes over my vision entirely.

A colorless force of whispers and magic and power slides by me on all sides, claiming and devouring but never hurting. It happens so fast⁠—

Another blink, and I’m sitting on the floor in the back of a wooden cart with iron bars on all sides; even the ceiling cages me in. The moon shines through the open slats, revealing that every bench is full of women huddled together—holding tight as the speeding horses violently gallop, hitting holes and overgrown roots in the road. The pull of magic tugs the cart forward at an unnatural pace, blurring the landscape as we pass. The faces looking back at me from the benches are covered with bruises, cuts, and black eyes. All with terror imprinted on them.

Where am I?

The silhouettes of two males sit on the driving seat, gripping the reins. Their shoulders bear K&M for Klay Metalla. The flipped K positions its spine against the straight line of the M.

I remember Rett’s words: Onlookers described the general’s personal militia insignia and the Alexra cuffs of interlocking circles he wears on his wrists. They named him as the commander who gave the orders.

Something glints and glimmers along the dark countryside—the Hetaira River.

The wheels slow until they stop at a muddy riverbank. Every woman tenses as the men jump down and start unhitching the horses before leading them to the water. Neither of them looks at nor pays attention to their living, breathing cargo. But in this instance, it’s better to be ignored.

A little girl with corn-yellow hair pleads with round, silver eyes. It hurts that I’ve wasted so much time at Ashland Castle. I should have found a way to escape. I should have helped them sooner.

The child reaches out her tiny hand toward me, seeking comfort.

I try to reach for it.

My skin touches hers.

Without warning, his arms pull me to him, holding me as the darkness takes control.

Forty-One

Cold water splashes over my hairline, running down my forehead and cheeks. My chest tightens, and I gasp for air as my eyes flutter fully open.

“We don’t have time for sleep,” urges Ashland, impatient and hoarse. “Tell us what you saw.”

Droplets fall from my jaw, wetting my neck and shoulders. He uses his rough hand to wipe the rest off, and I shiver.

Ivory trees dance in the dark sky above us, stars winking down from their partition of night. The bitter smell of the smoldering ashes irritates my nostrils.

Feeling out-of-body, I look around slowly yet frantically, searching for something I can’t name. Ashland’s face drains of color as he grabs the swells of my cheeks to keep me from moving. He stares into my eyes, disbelief weathering his square jaw as he frowns down at me.

I want to care.

I should care, but there’s too much power coursing through my veins, making it hard to grasp reality.

I’m here. In the stone circle. In his arms.

My body recoils. I kick and thrash until Valora restrains me with her tightening grip. He peers down with that strange expression again, the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced than ever.

Despite her closeness, Valora practically shouts, “Ash—her eyes—they’ve turned silver.”

I vomit down my bodice and into the folds of my skirts before I roll away onto the grass. The circlet digs into my scalp, and my hand flies to the ring of metal as I struggle to believe it truly belongs to me again. But that thought is quickly replaced by another.

Silver?