Page 12 of Wrath of the Never Queen

The platform looms above me and I am overly aware of the solid wood beneath my feet. I chew my lip.

“What if I fall?” I ask.

The guard’s eyes slide over to meet mine.

“Then you fall. Now move.”

I grind my teeth together and turn to the ladder. Shuffling close, I raise my leg to test thelimit of my shackles. It will be difficult but I can do it. I reach forward and grip the wooden bar, hauling myself up.

The guards wait at the bottom in case I do fall and accidentally take one of them with me. They watch me struggle upwards in tentative steps. It is not long before the muscles in my arms ache, and each time I glance down, nausea bubbles in my stomach at the height. I press my forehead against the wood and try to steady my breathing.

“Not so strong without your witchcraft,” a guard taunts me from below. I press my lips into a thin line, my spite overtaking my weariness, and pull myself up.

And then I smell it.

There is something foul in the air, lingering in the thick humidity. I wrinkle my nose in disgust and turn my head to find the source. When I do, my head snaps forward again. I always had a morbid curiosity about what happened to the heads of the maidens before me. Their bodies went to their families, but the guards always took their heads. Now I know.

The top half of the stilts are lined with spikes. Several heads are skewered there at various degrees of decay. My eyes water, both with the smell of rot and the indignity the king has inflicted upon them, even in death. My hands start to shake and I force myself to breathe through the stench and keep climbing before Islip. I will not become one of the dead holding up the king in his castle.

I make it to the top of the ladder, my legs and arms burning. A guard hauls me over the lip of the wall and grips my elbow to keep me on my feet. I sway on the spot, sucking in air before two other guards join us. Without letting me recover, they drag me to the doors of the castle.

This high up, the top of the castle penetrates the canopy of trees. Even as I am hauled away, I blink in awe at the night sky. The stars glitter against the deep black of the heavens. I am almost ashamed that I have lived for nearly two decades and never seen an open sky. Shame is quickly replaced with indignation, knowing the king has kept even the sky to himself.

I am led through the large front doors and into the throne room. Respite from the smell of the heads outside is extinguished once we step inside.

The throne room is grand, tall and wide, with thick columns supporting the high ceiling. The brick on the inside is white—making me reconsider the earlier rumours—with ornate carvings accented with gold. It is the cleanest, whitest place I have ever seen. My ragged boots squeak off the polished floor as they march me forward.

The king sits on his throne, elevated several steps above us. Grey streaks his flaxenhair, and the ghost of a thin scar sits across one cheekbone. His features are fine despite his older years but I know it is a veneer. A comely veil to cover the rot inside.

When I am finally presented to him, he barely glances at me. Boredom etched across his face, he flicks his wrist.

“Bring in the prisoner,” another guard barks at the king’s order. His uniform is different from the rest—white and crisp, whereas the others are muted pewter. At his command, a door leading further into the castle opens.

Out steps my father, shackled like me.

I nearly gasp when I see him and bite my tongue to keep my breath contained. He stumbles forward, led by two other guards. One of his eyes is swollen and a violent shade of purple. When he moves, he has a limp. I stare at him, but he does not meet my eye.

“Speak then,” the king says, reclining his throne with a detached gaze.

My father looks at the floor. The only sound in the room is the gentle clinking of his shackles as he shifts.

“M-My king…I offer you—”

“Speak up, for Saint’s sake!” the king bellows. One of the guards nudges my father roughly in the back. I nearly wince but remember he does not have anophid.

“My king, I offer you this as a volunteer,” he says, clearer now, although he still does notlook up.

“And what exactly is ‘this?’” the king replies and gestures in my direction. My numb shock fades as if waking up from a dream. The world rushes in around me. My stomach drops.

“My only daughter, of age and clean, my king,” my father clarifies, mumbling. I gape at him.

“Hm,” the king grunts before turning his eyes to me. “It appears your father has got himself into a fine mess. Only a desperate man comes to his king for a loan, but a desperate man he was.”

I close my eyes briefly. I know my father gambles, but this…

“Come closer, girl,” the king continues, beckoning me.

I want to do the absolute opposite, but I am pushed on by the guard behind me. I stumble forward a few steps, coming to a halt at the base of his platform. The king peers down at me.

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