Page 61 of The Prince's Captive

Marcella woke up on a cold stone floor in near darkness with only faint, distant light giving her anything to see by. She imagined it was from light runes the Inimicus had set up throughout the dungeon for the guards’ benefit, not the prisoners’.

She rolled onto her back and chains rattled as she did so. She blinked down to see her ankles were shackled to the ground. She had a little bit of length that she could walk with, but not much.

Her wrists were connected by a chain again. The limiter cuffs were on both of them now. The metal and leather bracelet was still on as well, and her skin still had those lines.

That was when it all came rushing back.

Commander Gavril.

Prince Gavril.

Of course he’d been lying to her about who he was. He was an illusionist. She was the fool for believing any word that left his tainted mouth.

What did he want from her? What did he think he could get out of her?

Why did he think she was going to fall for his stupid, empty promises of protection?

Why did she keep falling for them anyway?

It was probably in the same piece of her soul that had her pushing herself off the ground, crossing her legs and clasping her hands together and bowing her head.

Having faith in something wasn’t as simple as simply wanting to.

But she did believe in things. Gavril wasn’t one of them.

She couldn’t let him be one of them.

She needed to stop letting herself believe in him because all it meant was that she lost control when his promises collapsed.

He’d lied to her.

Of course he had. It was his nature.

She’d known from the start every word he said to her was just in his pursuit of the end of her people.

He pretended he was a champion for peace, but peace to an Inimicus only came from extermination of the corrupted savages.

She steeled her heart and turned to stone even as she felt the tear droplets roll down her face.

Prince Gavril.

Whatever his vision and how he was going to manipulate her to play a part in it, clearly his family didn’t agree. She’d heard them. They were going to hand her over to one of their heretics to flay open.

Her clasped hands shook, and she choked on the sob.

Her soul would stay whole, wouldn’t it? It had to. It was the only way to return to Asentai after death.

The weight of the cloak around her shoulders was heavier than the iron on her wrists. Why was that liar’s cloak still on her shoulders? She reached up again but the clasp still wouldn’t come loose. She tried to shrug it off, and it stayed. She pushed it up, trying to get it up and over her head, but no matter what she did, she couldn’t seem to get it off.

Eventually she huffed and gave up, settling back onto the ground and focusing on moving through the prayers of High Priestess Hagne the Wise.

Hagne had been a Solitus born from a Clan Desero mage, so she was a favorite of their people’s to return to her prayers and hymns.

Marcella had memorized them all in the days following her mother’s death. They were all she had said for weeks afterward.

If Marcella hadn’t been born with vitae, she might very well have followed in Hagne’s footsteps and joined the Solitus who made up the priests and acolytes who served Asentai at the temples. But that wasn’t the world she lived in.

Asentai had seen fit to bless Marcella with vitae—a minuscule amount, but it was not Marcella’s place to question why she was given so little compared to others like Hypatia who overflowed with vitae.

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