Page 33 of King of Flames and Shadows

Linus, sitting across the chamber, in all his silent, watchful calm, inclines his head slowly and imperceptibly in my direction as I catch his eye.

Face and eyes burning, I look back down.

Time seems to mold itself around my task, an impossibly elongated thing. I must count for hours, I think, or it certainly feels that long.

I have almost reached a thousand the first time I lose count. The crowd jeers as I am forced to restart, all my work poured back into its original bowl.

That almost makes me cry. It’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done to hold back those tears.

Until a single word cuts through the haze, sharp and clear.

“Rebellion.”

I jerk upright, head snapping up, and immediately regret the motion. My neck aches, and the sudden shift sends a jolt of pain shooting through my legs.

The king is speaking to one of his advisors, a tall, thin man with a stern expression and a meticulously trimmed beard. They stand a few paces away from the dais, their voices lowered, but not enough that I can’t hear them.

“… reports of increased activity in the Western Quarter,” the advisor is saying. “Small gatherings, mostly. But there’s talk. Rumors of a group organizing—”

“Organizing?” the king interrupts, his voice hardening. “Who?”

The advisor hesitates, glancing around as if worried someone might overhear. “Humans. Workers, mostly—the dredges of our city. But of course, slothful as they are, they have much time to speak of revolution, it seems.”

Arvoren’s jaw tightens, a muscle jumping beneath the skin.

“I want names,” he says softly, dangerously. “I want to know who’s behind this. Who dares—”

The rest of his words are lost in the renewed rush of conversation, and I bite back a curse. I can’t make out what he’s saying. But it’s enough. A dangerous, heady rush of emotions rushes over me all at once. Hope, fear, anger, anxiety.Lyra.

I don’t have to do this alone. There are others. Others who might be willing to help. Others who—

Others who could die tonight, or tomorrow, easily. Others he would sooner murder than bother imprisoning or exiling.

“Eyes down,” a voice snarls above me, and I flinch, dropping my gaze back to the bowl of rice. The guard on my left looms over me, his expression dark with disapproval. “You heard the king. You don’t stop until it’s finished.”

I swallow hard and nod, forcing myself to focus. I can’t afford to draw attention right now. Not when there’s so much I still don’t know.

But as I resume my work, the king’s voice echoing faintly in the background, I make a vow.

I will learn. I will listen. I will find a way to turn this ridiculous, humiliating task into something useful. Something that can help me escape this place, escape him.

***

That night, as I lie on the hard, narrow bed in my darkened chamber, the storm still raging outside, something slips through the small gap at the bottom of my door.

I sit up, heart pounding, and crawl across the floor to retrieve it, not daring to make a sound. It’s a slip of paper, folded neatly, and I unfold it with trembling fingers.

There are only a few words, scrawled in a messy, hurried script:

Meet me in the library at midnight tomorrow.

For a moment, I just stare at it, my mind spinning. My heart thuds painfully against my ribs.

Then, slowly, I fold the note and tuck it beneath my pillow.

Whoever it is—Lyra, Linus, or someone else—I’m willing to put my neck on the line for this if it means even the tiniest sliver of hope of my freedom.

Anything to escape this nightmare. Or I really will toss myself from this tower, I promise myself. I will hurl myself to the rocks and allow them to be my unmaker.

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