Page 11 of Wrath of the Never Queen

“You have been—stop it!” He leans hisweight further onto me, trapping me beneath him. “You have been volunteered. The king is expecting your presence.”

I stop breathing. Something hard forms in the pit of my stomach, heavy as lead. I feel like I am sinking through the platform.

The blood-stained chopping block.

The steel of the axe.

“No,” I whisper, eyes wide. “No!”

I shriek and throw all my strength against the guard, kicking upwards.

“Saints!” he yelps as I fling him off me. The other guards step back in surprise, and I seize the opportunity, clambering to my feet. I push off the ground to flee again.

Another guard makes to grab me and, on instinct, I swing a closed fist at his head. He somewhat manages to pull back in time but not quite—my knuckles land hard on the side of his helmet. Pain explodes along my hand as I connect with the metal. It dulls quickly, adrenaline coursing through my veins. The guard crumples to the ground, a solid dent in his helmet.

Hard hands grab my shoulders from behind and hold me in place.

“Stop fighting it, girl,” one of them growls in my ear. “The king gets what he wants.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, memories invading my mind. Another head rolling. Another woman dead.

A burst of fear makes me jerk out of the guard's hands, but they hold fast, their grip digging into my skin. Physically helpless, myophidkicks in.

Au’manawashes through me and seeps into the wood and metal around us. The platform beneath our feet begins to rattle dangerously, the stilts creaking. The planks holding us above the swamp splinter and crack.

“Quick!” someone shouts. “Before she drowns us!”

One of the guards presses a wet cloth against my face. The smell is foul, and I press my lips together, twisting my head away. The scent forces its way up my nose and I breathe it in unwillingly.

I expect to feel something but when he pulls the cloth away, my head remains clear. The only difference is the platform has stilled. There is a large crack in the wood, starting at my feet.

“Shackle her,” a guard commands. I reach for myau’manaagain but when I try, it is as though myophidsleeps. Where it is normally taut and strong, it is sluggish. I try again to rouse it but nothing happens.

They have drugged me and blocked my magic.

“But I have not volunteered.” My voice is hoarse and defeated. Exhaustion sweeps over me like a wave, overwhelming. I stare at the crack in the wood. The guard I punched clambersunsteadily to his feet and glares at me.

“No. But your father has volunteered you.”

I stand there limply as ice-cold handcuffs are bolted around my wrists. I want to feel something—anger or sadness—but I cannot bring myself to feel anything.

I try once more to reach my magic and tears spring to my eyes when I cannot. I struggle against the handcuffs and the guards hands but the fight has left me. My father, after all this time, has finally put the last nail in my coffin. Worse…I have let him.

I close my eyes and let them lead me away.

???

Mossgarde Castle towers over the village, ever-present and ominous. It was built on the highest raised platform and crafted from scarlet brick rather than the dark wood of the rest of Mossgarde. The construction itself had claimed many lives, breeding bleak rumours. Mossgardians whisper that the brick had originally been white but it was stained with the blood of those forced to build it. Others said the castle was red specifically so no one could see how blood-stained it really was. I do not give much regard to rumours but still, I tried to stay as far away from the castle as possible. The whispers may not be true, but the annualbeheadings are real and the memories will stay with me forever.

I try to wash them away as I stand before the castle, its overbearing height looming over me. I have a moment of panic and think of fleeing again but the guards are prepared now. They eye me warily and have shackled my ankles and wrists. The one standing behind me gives me a sharp prod in the back, nudging me forward. My ophid protests.

The castle is impossible to climb without the ladder, which they only lower when necessary. Or, perhaps, with au’mana to manipulate the stilts. My lip curls, thinking of the foul drug they used to take my magic away.

One of the guards calls out, mimicking a bird cry, and a few moments later, the ladder appears. When it arrives before us, I turn to look at the guard behind me.

“I cannot climb with my ankles shackled,” I tell him.

“You should have thought of that before you clocked me,” he replies.

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