Page 77 of Claiming Glass

“Goddess, bless me on my way,” I whispered. “Let my Spirit rattle my bones. Let my life be changed. Let me rest in Tal.”

Koshka placed a hand on my back, steering me to the trapdoor at the center. Did she blame me for leading her into the tunnels? For abandoning her or forcing her will? That night, she had laughed with me and joked with Yahontov. Today, she was killing me and though there was sympathy in her eyes, she did not seem too bothered by it.

She placed the coarse rope around my neck and pulled it until I could barely swallow. With a nod to someone behind me, she stepped back.

Months of fearing suffocation returned with panic like that of the man on the bridge. I imagined someone reaching for me, like I had him, sharing hope as if it could stop the inevitable.

Ealhswip and Gennady, the royal healer who once lectured me on magic use, stood to the side of the platform, the female scribe from yesterday seated beside them to document the judgment carried out. The old healer met my eyes, and I remembered his sigh as I ignored his words about seeking help. Today, his face showed only compassion. They could have sent a lesser healer to confirm my death. Having the royal one here was a privilege I did not want. A reminder of who I, for a short time, had been.

The wind rustled the leaves. The sun hit my eyes. On my exhale, I closed them. I wanted to think of Lumi, of our mother who had beenmurdered as I murdered the king; instead, I only saw Dimitri’s judgmental face. The heart-held hope that’d believed he would save me, had loved me, died.

Anger wrapped itself around my heart.

I had killed for him.

Loved him.

“Pull!”

The floor fell away. The noose tightened.

In desperation, I yanked my still-chained hands and kicked my legs. Pain tore through my neck. Stars danced behind my eyes. My lungs burned.

Opening and closing my mouth, my body fought to draw breath, fought to survive even though the mind knew it was too late.

I exploded outward, my power searching for someone to save me.

Lumi’s hands enveloped mine.

Calm filled me. I had sworn I was done running. There was no other way this could have ended.

Finally, the hope escaped my chest, finding no more purchase. Perhaps it could help someone else.

Tomorrow will be a better day, our mother whispered in my ear as I let go.

Chapter nineteen

Dimitri

One king died, one ascended. One princess hanged, and another prepared to become queen. Three years ago, my father killed my infant son and told me I was too soft to wear the glass crown. He had been right.

My child was gone. My best friend was gone. My father was gone. The woman I could have, might have, and should not have loved was gone.

Instead of succumbing to the cold that had wrapped around me the last three years, I wanted to howl like an animal in pain. To grieve the loss of what I had not known I needed; for one perfect moment, I’d thought it mine. If today went wrong—

No.

Earth and stone pressed down, and the musty air tried to fill my aching lungs as I strode as third in line down the steps deep under the Women’s Tower. It felt like my own tomb, not my father’s.

The stillness suffocated me, like my pretend princess would be on the other side of Tal. The Council had made its decision, but I had signed the papers. Preemptively, some might think. For a few bells yet, I was an uncrownedking.

As Mariska arrived late to take her designated place in the family procession, there had been no time for words. Even if I had to break tradition, I had to speak to her before she left. For my prayer to the Wishmaker and Death Goddess both, I needed her to listen.

As was her right as our matriarch, Solovyova led the procession. The city might soon belong to me, but the Women’s Tower had its own laws.

After the coronation, I would be the only grown male allowed inside the Tower—outside royal funerals—but I would still have to obey her rules. My mother followed Solovyova, as was her right as the wife of the deceased. Behind me came the rest of our family and Morovara. The coronation would be a public event, as would the hanging of the king’s bones on the next three-day. The crypt walk and preparation of the body was private.

Solovyova inched blindly down the worn stone steps, but every time I reached past my mother to help, she shooed me away as if I was still a child begging for sweets.

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