Page 10 of The Cerise

I hesitate, hoping to seem like a meek little girl, scared for her first night at the Red Keep. I assume that ladies who are pure dread their first night of work. Perhaps even the seasoned women too. Giving your body to someone you care for is different from giving it to someone who sees it as a hole to plug.

Rafol’s face lights up in delight. His eyes lick every part of my body, and the look he gives me makes bile crawl up my throat. I can tell he's eager to break me, as I hope Graves would be, and I plan to use that desire to my advantage. It won't take long to get him alone, and then...

Well... Then, I'll finish my mission.

Guilt slithers into me like venom from a snake. It takes its time to build in my system, but once it hits, it's lethal. I hate this man. I hate what he's done to me and my family. I hate everything he represents within this kingdom. But mostly, I hate the numbness that replaces the fury that usedto burn through me. I hate how even though I want to end Sergeant Graves's life, I'll still pray for his soul.

Revenge is a bitter poison. At first, it feels incredible. Hearing the screams of the soldiers who killed the innocents of Emberfell. Watching the life drift from their eyes. But now, as I reach the final piece to my puzzle, the last living man with that damned serpent brand, I don't feel relief.

I feel… tired.

I step toward my mark, and a cold hand grips the back of my neck. Everything around me stills like a photo snapped in the night. Even the flames dancing upon candles and tabletop lanterns cease to move.

I send a silent prayer to the stars above for help. I fear I’ll need their blessing to make it through the night, and I hope they haven't turned their backs on me.

I don't know why I can't sense my attacker.

Or why I never feel his presence drawing nearer.

I should have known my gift’s silence was a warning of what would come.

I should have realized something, though I didn’t know what, was wrong.

It takes every bit of restraint I have not to jab my elbow into the man’s stomach and fight my attacker off. I could hurt him, kill him if I wanted to, quicker than he could take his next breath.

But being in a bar filled with soldiers who can subdue me within minutes gives me pause. I don’t know the rules of engagement in a place like this.

Would Madam Marcy condone me defending myself, or would I be the one persecuted?

I doubt anything of consequence would happen to the soldier. They’re pardoned for crimes worse than a rough touch without so much as His Highness blinking an eye.

I take a deep breath and try to convince myself everything will be fine. Men are brutes, especially after being in the trenches of Arcane for six months. This one is no different. He’s probably just lonely, and horny, and overall harmless.

But Sage’s wide eyes give me pause. She grabs Harrison’s hand and squeezes, worry etched across her face, yet she doesn't move to assist me. It seems our newfound friendship covers the loss of wages but nothing else. I don’t blame her. Still, it's disappointing.

The man jerks me into him, and it’s like I’ve hit a wall. He’s solid with no give. The coldness of his jacket and shirt sends a panic-laced chill through me—memories of the past rippling into the present. The instinct to defend myself is overwhelming, but I can't react. Not yet.

Not without risking exposure of who I am and what I can do.

The presumed Sergeant Graves stands so quickly his chair falls to the floor. I arch my eyebrows, shocked that of all the people around us, he’s coming to my aid. Perhaps, though, I shouldn’t be. I know firsthand what this man is like once he decides something is his.

Graves widens his stance and sets one hand on the hilt of his sword. “Soldier,” he says firmly.

My attacker wordlessly pulls a sword from his holster, somehow working it between his body and mine, careful not to cut me, and then levels it at Graves’s face. For a heart-wrenching moment, time comes to a near stop again. My vision blurs at the edges, leaving only a tiny section directly in front of me clear, while the piano’s music distorts in my ears. Pins and needles gather under my skin and in my hands, and as horrible as it is to feel that tingling again, I am relieved.

As unpredictable as it has been tonight, my magic hasn’t abandoned me. The darkness I try so hard to keep locked away has woken. It’s ready to protect me, and if things go sideways, I might need it.

I hope I don’t.

I wiggle my fingers, feeling heat jump from one to the next, but I resist touching my captor. I don’t know if his coat will catch fire or if his blood will boil him from the inside out. All I know is that if I let it, my magic will kill him, and then there will be no denying what I am.

I take a slow, deep breath, determined to put out the fire before it starts. Then another. By the third, the tingling sensation in my hands is gone and I can see more than two feet ahead of me again. I drag my gaze to the right, barely able to turn my head from the way my neck is being held, but the silver of my attacker’s sword glints under the flickering firelight.

I recognize it.

Symbols from the old world are etched on the center of the metal, from the handle down to its point. I doubt anyone on these lands would recognize the origin, let alone know their meaning. The language died when King Travers murdered every witch within a thousand miles of the castle, but it was struggling to survive even before that.

Yet, I know what each carving stands for and what it means for them to be strung together in that fateful pattern. It’s a long-forgotten blessing for luck and safety. A custom engraving on all the weapons at my uncle’s estate, even though he swears the ruins are useless.

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