“Lys, please.” Tarus grabbed her face as she began to tremble. “You’ve always been so strong. Please be strong today.”
“And what will strength accomplish now? We’re going to die.”
Now that she’d accepted her fate, a feeling of calm spread through her, numbing her senses. Her heart did not mirror the panic on Tarus’s face.
Soon it would be over. All the pain. All the misery. All the misplaced hope.
Soon there would only be silence.
Tarus smacked her again. “Lys! Stay with me!”
How she wished she could share this newfound serenity with him and take away his fear.
The guards entered their cell. They bound their hands behind their backs with rough ropes and led them out of the dungeon. Earlier, the prisoners had been allowed to wash the dirt from their skin and faces and had been given clean clothes for their presentation to the crowd. In her daze Lysandra could vaguely hear the taunts and heckles of the other prisoners they passed, along with a few blessings from those who hadn’t yet lost their souls to this cesspit.
The good and the bad—it was easy to ignore every last one of them.
“No fight left,” one guard said to his colleague. “This one had fire in her eyes mere days ago, but it’s died out now.”
“Wouldn’t help her anyway,” said the other.
They were right. Before, she was made of pure fire and fury. She’d been a girl no one dared push into mud puddles.
It seemed that the King of Blood had killed that girl before her own execution.
They passed the cell holding the nameless girl Lysandra had been forced to fight. Her grimy hands were curled around the iron bars and her expression was vacant.
Lysandra wondered if there had also once been fire in that girl, whose spirit had also clearly been doused forever.
They exited the dungeon and walked straight into the open air. After two weeks of being imprisoned in near darkness, the brightness of the day blinded her. For a moment, all Lys could see was white light, making her squint. She heard the crowd cheer, their chant of “Death to the rebels!” waking her from her daze and chilling her to the core.
As her eyes grew more accustomed to the sunlight, she saw just how many people had gathered in the palace square. There were a countless number of faces and bodies milling about. Conversation buzzed like insects, whispers and murmurs thick in the warm air. Curious stares followed Lysandra and Tarus as they were led to their place of death.
A crowd surrounded the execution stage, cheering louder than anyone else in attendance. Behind them, Lysandra could sense that the larger crowd was beginning to lose its enthusiasm, looking on more quietly and solemnly than those closest to the stage.
At least that was something to hold on to. Perhaps there was still some hope after all, some tiny shred that showed Lysandra that not all of these people were as lost as she’d thought they were.
Limerian guards in crimson uniforms patrolled the crowd, swiftly gathering up and arresting protestors the moment they raised their voices against the king, dragging them away from the spectacle before they could provoke others to do the same.
Lysandra’s vision narrowed and she stumbled, causing the guard to hold her more firmly.
“One foot in front of the other, girl,” he muttered. “Make a good show for the crowd and the king.”
The king.
The crowd quieted as the king and his heir approached a raised dais next to the execution stage to witness the proceedings up close.
Something stirred within her, deep down under layer upon layer of grief and defeat. She found she couldn’t look away from the monster who’d ordered her brother’s death, or from the prince who’d just stood there studying her reaction as Gregor was decapitated.
Trailing close behind King Gaius and Prince Magnus were the two princesses. One was dark haired with a serene expression, and Lys knew her immediately as Princess Lucia Damora, the king’s daughter.
The other was blond and familiar.
Lysandra had met Princess Cleo before, when Jonas had foolishly insisted on kidnapping her, believing her to be an asset the king would bargain to retrieve. But plans—especially those made by Jonas—never seemed to work out as expected.
Jonas had been infatuated with this shallow, insipid princess, his head turned by her golden beauty.
Lysandra was sickened to have the princess amongst rebel ranks. And, she had to admit, the way Jonas had looked at Cleo during that week had spiked jealousy in her like nothing ever had before.
But such petty things no longer mattered.
Lysandra looked upward to the balcony to see King Gaius gazing down upon the square. To his right stood Prince Magnus.
She was forced up five steps, the wooden slats creaking beneath her feet, to where the hooded executioner waited. Tarus stood at her side, trembling.
She didn’t care what happened to her anymore. But Tarus . . .
He was only fourteen.
Her throat grew tight at the thought of Tarus dying by her side without having been given the barest chance to live a full life.
She looked down at the people who chanted so enthusiastically for her death. There were a hundred of them, maybe, among the thousands here. She studied one fanatical face after another, finding that they looked much the same as anyone else. Yet these were the people who’d chosen to celebrate, rather than somberly observe, this day. Did they really believe this execution to be a just punishment for their crimes? Did they truly think Gaius Damora was a good, honest king who could do no wrong?
Or were they simply cowards, afraid that the same fate could befall them if they stopped chanting and shouting in support of his decisions?