Page 22 of The Throne's Undoing

Since Myra was a child, she had struggled to contain her ability. Many thought their powers were gifts from the gods, but Myra's could only be described as a curse. Bearing one's own emotions was already a burden enough for many, but to experience the emotions of every person you touched? It was a torment Myra would never wish on anyone.

Humans were not the only ones whose emotions she could sense, either. Buildings also thrust their emotions at her. If Myra was lucky, some structures had a warm and inviting aura. When she visited homes filled with laughter and love, it was reminiscent of the sun shining down on a field of freshly bloomed daisies in late spring.

But Myra was rarely lucky. These days, those kinds of places were few and far between.

Instead, the buildings Myra had to frequent often reeked of death and dread. And this humid dungeon beneath the Ardentolian castle was the worst of them all.

The air beneath the castle was sticky with agony, torment, and rage. The stone walls were soaked with the cries of the victims who had been tortured in the cells. The ground had been watered with the tears and blood of the dying, so much so that Myra could barely remain standing.

The call for death was too strong here, and it tugged on her very limbs.

Unlike the emotions of humans or animals, Myra could not manipulate the emotions of the walls or floors. Those emotions were etched in the very stone. Permanent and unbendable. The very infrastructure of a building would have to crumble for the stories melted into the concrete or the memories buried inside the walls to disappear. Even if the building was demolished, there was always the chance that the earth remembered.

An emotion's effect was always worse when Myra's memories were personally tied to the place. And here, in the dungeons, grief wrapped around Myra's lungs, agony twisted around her limbs, and rage coated her throat.

However, Myra wasn't the one bound to the wall this time. Now,, she stood behind the king, her hands trembling, while an unfamiliar woman sat chained to the cement floor.

Myra wondered what the stranger had done to be imprisoned beneath the castle. Although, perhaps the better question waswhyMyra was bearing witness to it. This was the first time in years she had been dragged down to the cells, and the last time . . .

Myra swallowed the memory, forcing it back down.Not now.

Domitius crouched before the woman. Her black hair hung in thick, grease-coated strands down her face. Her skin was nearly transparent, as if she hadn't seen the sun in years.She wore a ragged dress, stained and worn thin with holes throughout the fabric.

Domitius snatched her chin with his hand, jerking her face upward and squeezing her sunken cheeks together. "You said the fates were aligned," he hissed.

Though frail, the woman wrenched her chin free from his grip. As lifeless as she may appear, there was still some fight left in her.

"How many times must I tell you?" The woman pulled at the manacles keeping her bound. "The fates can change."

"What is the point of having a seer if you cannot tell me the truth? Yousaidit would work, that my plans would come to fruition if I had the girl!" the king thundered.

Myra's eyes widened in fear.A seer? But if she's a seer, how did she end up here?

The prisoner rolled her eyes, and something about the woman's features felt familiar, but Myra couldn't quite place them. This room--the memories and feelings that dripped from the walls--clouded her judgment.

Here, she always saw the ghosts of her past. Phantoms that would not so easily let her go.

"Time is an illusion. The world shifts," the woman sneered. She sank against the wall, exasperated, as if her current circumstance of being chained to a cell was not her primary concern but rather a simple annoyance. "My visions can only be so accurate, as I have told you many times."

Domitius pulled on one side of the chain, the links tightening around the women's limbs. "Then make themmoreaccurate."

Myra forced herself to remain still despite the screaming desire to run away. But there was no running from the bull-king. She had learned that a long time ago.

The woman tipped her chin up, snarling. "It doesn't work like that. My visions are not meant to be forced out as you so often seem to forget,Kage."

Domitius pulled at the chain once more, and the woman reeled.

"MyKing," she spat in defiance.

He tossed the chain onto the ground, and the metal links clattered against the stone floor as he pushed himself up into a standing position. Turning around, he began pacing in the small cell.

His feet wore a line in the dust-covered ground; Myra on one side, the woman on the other.

Myra couldn't help but find the similarities despite the line between them. They were both the king's prisoners. Only the woman wore chains, while Myra did not.

However, Myra wondered if it would be easier to rot inside of a cell instead of being given a false sense of freedom. Freedom that was frail, fickle, and false. A privilege she knew could be taken from her at any minute. A privilege that had resulted in Myra betraying her best friend.

The choice, however, had never been hers to make. Once Domitius discovered what Myra could do, her path was set. There was no going back now.

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