Page 140 of Burn

We raced across the distance and collided. His arms snared around me, crushing my frame to him, and I pasted myself to his solid form.

“Poet,” I whimpered.

“Briar,” he rasped.

The warmth of his skin threatened to buckle my limbs. An instant later, we pulled back, both of us checking one another for wounds. In the dark, I raced my hands over his body, not satisfied until I covered every inch of his torso. The slickness of blood saturated his clothes, but it didn’t originate from him.

Quickly, the jester fished a scrap of fabric from his pocket. A dry sob fled my lips as he looped the ribbon around my wrist. “You found it,” I rejoiced.

“As I’ll always find you,” he swore, knotting the scarlet bracelet.

Yet my relief was short-lived. Because when Poet brushed the place where Rhys had struck me, I winced. Whereupon, a murderous sound grated from his mouth. “I’ll skin him alive.”

I clasped the jester’s face. “I’m all right.”

Unfortunately, so was the king. One of the attackers might have led Rhys to safety, but more likely, Summer had fled and left his cult to fend for themselves.

Aire’s silhouette lingered beside the casualties, where he mumbled an Autumn prayer. I swayed in the group’s direction and knelt beside one of the figures. My heart clattered as I strained and failed to make out their features.

Poet squatted beside me and traced the texture of their blood-soaked attire. “Cashmere,” he muttered before continuing to the next person. At which point, a hiss ripped from his throat. “Roughspun.”

Cashmere and roughspun. Textiles worn by two distinct classes. Nobles comprised the first, and when I skimmed one of the fallen weapons, making out the teeth of a short saw blade, a cry fell from my lips. “Oh, Seasons.” My head fell forward in remorse. “I’m sorry,” I croaked. “I’m so sorry.”

We had expected our enemies to be members of another organization, akin to the Masters. But from these garments and weapons, their identities left no room for question.

Courtiers. Harvesters.

Rhys had enlisted the nobility as well as the tenants of the lower town. He must have appealed to their combined sense of the greater good, as he had with the Masters. He’d inspired these people to lace my food with Willow Dime, to burn an innocent human in protest of my reign, and to hunt me through this castle. That explained how they’d moved confidently through these halls, despite the absence of light. Because half of them lived here, while the others had grown accustomed to sneaking in and out, presumably in the dead of night.

Poet and I had also theorized Rhys’s cult might include figures dwelling both beyond and within these walls. Yet we hadn’t been certain. These discoveries punctured my heart, and I mourned the victims regardless of what they’d done.

“We must hurry,” Aire coaxed, though sympathy etched his voice.

Without a leaf to place on their foreheads, I mumbled the same words I’d bestowed on Merit in The Shadow Orchard, then rose with Poet. Yet as the jester harnessed his crimson-splattered staff and snatched my hand, I resisted.

“Wait,” I said. “The prisoners.”

Realization struck Poet’s features. The born souls in the dungeon. They were still in here, unable to get out.

I had wanted to find and extract them. But I’d been alone, targeted, and unable to aim my weapon properly. Now I had backup.

In a faint slash of light, Aire’s hair gleamed. After a moment’s contemplation, he said, “They are not the intended quarry, Highness. I don’t feel any disturbance in the air that signals additional infiltrators.”

“Then helping them shouldn’t be an obstacle.”

“I also don’t sense that the born souls are in peril.”

“Not yet, you don’t. And while I trust your power of perception, I must insist we go against it. I will never abandon my people.”

“Then I will see to them,” the knight vowed. “But you must go. Likely, Winter has already inspected the dungeon.”

My brows furrowed, confusion tinting my words. “Winter?”

Quickly, Poet explained how the prince had joined them. Apparently, Jeryn had wanted to make sure his so-called property wasn’t compromised.

“He hustled to the north wing,” the jester said, but then his voice trailed off.

Suddenly, Poet’s thoughts linked with my own. Dread lanced through my gut.

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