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There are no more paths left to choose. No more silence left to hide within. Only the weight of what has already begun.

This is the night of reckoning.

Beware the truth that arrives with the breaking of dawn.

For on the eleventh night of Yule, the world does not ask for justice—it demands balance.

The Ashen Grimoire

41

The loss of Aster’s warmth hit before consciousness fully returned. No solid body next to mine. No chain rattled whenever I shifted. The prison air was stale, and a sharp ache split through the base of my skull. My shoulder flamed with a deep, throbbing pain. I was freezing cold, but the thin burn line down my arm was red hot from where the Rider’s fire whip had struck me. My wrists burned too. The shackles were gone now, but blood had dried black against my skin where I had fought them.

I had no idea how long I had been out. I was back in the cell, but there was no Aster this time.

Every part of me was crumbling on the inside. Please don’t take him from me. Keep him alive.

I tried to stand, but my muscles protested. The memory of Aster’s cries and the smell of his burned flesh mixed with my own sent bile hurtling up my throat. I steadied myself against the wall.

Breathe. Gods, I can’t breathe!

The only way to get out of this was to become the hollowness I believed I could be. It had to be nearly the twelfth night, and soon the Barren Riders would come to take me back to my death. There would be time for the rage and the tears, but only if I stayed alive long enough.

Three years ago we had come up with the ‘grand plan’ after news of ‘movement’ in our homelands. Barren guards were being attacked, and stores raided. The people were fighting back, and it gave us hope. But the Kings would only come after us and start another war. Our homelands didn’t need that, so we decided on another way. Take down everyone who had taken Annatalia from us. Kill the Barren King. Kill the Northlands King. Kill the Wilds King. And then, without me knowing, Thorn had decided that the Ruckus needed infiltrating too.

I forced myself to straighten, and nausea rolled through me hard enough that I nearly fell from the cot. Deep in my bones, I sensed the eleventh night would break soon. The Reckoning was almost over.

I pressed my ear to the door and nearly collapsed against it.

Silence.

It was then that I remembered the pick I’d had between my fingers back in the torture room was gone. My hands flew to my throat—no amulet. A quick inspection confirmed that everything was gone—the sharp dagger, the little book. The thick green dress that Ember had made had been taken, and instead, I was left with the trousers Aster had given me and the thick undershirt Ember had made. They must have found the pick on the floor.

Stupid for caving in so quickly.

So the Riders knew what the dress had hidden. But without the amulet, I couldn’t get into the FootPaths and escape…

I stumbled, then my legs gave out, and I crashed onto my knees. The plan was never going to go smoothly, no matter how many contingencies we had discussed. With the door pressed to my back, I ran through it all again, searching for the moment it had begun to unravel.

Torran.

At every turn, it had been Torran.

Somewhere high above the prison, a phoenix screamed. The sound reverberated through the walls beneath my palms. Not the clean cry of a bonded bird; this was the crazed cry of a rogue bird mad with YuleMots. The wall shook as if one of them had landed on the roof, and dust drifted from the ceiling as another scream split the night.

Then came shouting from deeper within the prison, along with running footsteps and metal alarms. The entire building had descended into chaos.

I rested my head against the door and swore beneath my breath, reaching automatically for my hairpin and then toward the hidden seam inside my sleeve. But the guards had stripped everything from me hours ago.

Except—my fingers brushed a thin metal strip in the cuff of the undertunic—it was curved into the fabric…

Gods, Ember, you’re a genius. We had been shackled many times, and she had been paying attention to what had happened each time. Freezing cold women were more compliant. So she had sewn a little sliver of help beneath the inner lining near my wrist. I nearly laughed when I tore at the seam and tugged free a tiny emergency pick in each sleeve. So small that they had escaped the guards entirely.

My hands trembled as I worked the metal free as the walls shook again, and this time the flames along the walls dimmed before surging brighter than before.

I forced myself to focus on the lock and escape while they were all distracted. I steadied my breathing. One breath. Two. Then I caught the catch with one pick while turning the other. The mechanism clicked open, and I pressed my forehead to the cool metal door before turning the handle.

I shoved the door outward and, through a crack, checked the corridor. There was no one around and the air had changed—it was heated with YuleMots, and it smelt like burnt logs.