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But Zander promptly dismisses him as if the Lord of Kettling is nothing more than a nuisance. “Lead the prisoners to the dungeon, and if a single hair is harmed on their heads, every guard in the escort will visit this square at dawn, and those pyres will be used.” He looks pointedly at the men with swords as the six mortals follow them out on wobbly legs. “I need this night over with now,” Zander mutters under his breath, waving a hand to his left.
A parade of soldiers marches out, the three Ybarisan prisoners sandwiched between them, shuffling forward in a line.
I inhale sharply. They’re wearing nothing but the fetters around their ankles and wrists. When I saw them last, they were filthy and bloodied. They’ve since been bathed and healed, save for the eternal slash across the arm to subdue their elven affinity. They’ve been prepared.
I struggle to hide my sneer. I guess the immortals can’t feed off grimy bodies.
All three walk forward with their chins held high, as if the fact that they’re marching to their public execution—naked—doesn’t faze them. Maybe this pales in comparison to what Abarrane did to them. I steal another glance over my shoulder to catch her private smile as she observes.
People are watching me as readily as they watch my condemned Ybarisan brethren. I keep my gaze forward as the men are forced onto three tables, their arms and ankles shackled to each corner. Piles of timber of varying lengths have been stacked beneath, kindling for a fire.
The priestesses move in quietly for their task of keeping the Ybarisans alive.
“For the crimes of murder, conspiracy to commit murder, and conspiring against the crown, you are receiving the penalty of death by royal repast followed by pyre. May the fates have mercy on you.” Zander’s voice is wooden. “As an honor to those of noble blood, we offer first sampling to them.”
A line of nobility scamper forward from the crowd, some faces I recognize. Adley is not among them. He is busy spouting words in Atticus’s ear, his expression tight and his gestures sweeping.
Atticus stands stoically and listens, his face stony. I can’t begin to read him.
The nobility look like eager children as they flock, each finding a corner of a prisoner. Even from this distance, I can make out their fangs as they elongate. The Ybarisans visibly tense as teeth sink into their flesh, and my stomach curls. This is nothing like the night I witnessed Zander with that tributary. That was tender and considerate and personal.
This is savage.
And it’s not just a few. The lineup grows, snaking around the tables and pyres. There can’t possibly be enough blood for them all.
“This is why Ybaris calls them demons,” I whisper under my breath.
Beside me, Zander tenses.
And then the first scream ricochets through the square.
