Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55602 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 278(@200wpm)___ 222(@250wpm)___ 185(@300wpm)
“It’s not what you think.”
“I know,” he snaps, his anger filling the air. “You tried to keep your distance. My uncle— But I should have—”
His voice breaks, and I press my hands to the bars, pleading. “Quin needs you. He needs you to protect him.”
Nicostratus’s hands clench into fists. “And who will protect you?”
“I don’t deserve it.”
He growls in frustration, but I see the pain in his eyes.
“Promise me,” I whisper. “Promise me you’ll protect him.”
He steps closer, his voice trembling. “You’re not alone in this.”
But I am.
His parting words echo in my mind: “I’ll find a way.”
They come.
Footsteps echo down the stone corridor, each one a hammer to my resolve. The spell on the bars dissipates with a faint shimmer and they drag me out into the biting blue dawn.
The air is alive with whispers, a murmur of discontent threaded with anticipation. Officials and linea line the space in their fine attire, their faces masks of propriety. No one dares shout, but their hisses reach me all the same.
Traitor.
I search the crowd despite myself. No familiar faces. No Veronica. No Nicostratus. It’s . . . better this way. If they were here, I wouldn’t be able to hold myself together.
The redcloaks shove me to my knees. The stone is cold, the impact jarring, but I barely feel it. To my right, the high duke is seated at a table of officials, his smirk glinting brighter than the guillotine. To my left, that guillotine, its blade sharp for me.
On an elevated platform, Quin sits beneath the first fingers of morning light. His velvet cloak drapes regally, his crown gleams, but his face . . . his face is carved from ice. Cold and distant. His gaze passes over me as if I’m already gone.
I wish my magic weren’t sealed. If I could feel anything from him, even his disdain, maybe this would hurt less.
The officials drone on. My name feels foreign on their lips, like it belongs to someone else. Quin’s gaze flashes to mine for the briefest moment—a flicker of light—and my breath catches.
But there’s nothing in it I can hold on to.
The redcloaks grip my arms, already dragging me toward the guillotine. Fear flares hot and sharp, but I force it down. If Quin dies because of me, I deserve this. If I’ve truly hurt him . . .
“Halt.”
His voice cuts through the noise, sharp and determined. The redcloaks stop, their hold on me unrelenting—even tightening.
The crowd stirs, whispers building into a low hum. Officials exchange uneasy glances, and even the high duke’s smirk falters.
Quin rises, voice calm but commanding, amplified for all to hear. “Caelus Amuletos performed meritorious deeds in the aftermath of the earthshakes, and saved countless lives during the wyvern attacks on our royal city. In light of this his family shall be spared, and he shall be granted an intact body.”
Gasps ripple through the crowd, some outraged, others disbelieving. The high duke strokes his beard, a calculated gesture, before nodding his acceptance.
The redcloaks release me with a shove, and I fall back onto my knees. My head is forced down by unseen magic, pressed against the cold stone.
The scarred aklo steps forward, carrying a small silver tray. On it, a single cup of dark, murky liquid.
This will be my last bitter brew.
When the magic releases me, I lift my head shakily. The tray sits before me, the cup glistening ominously in the early light. I glance at Quin.
He isn’t looking at me. His gaze is fixed on the sun cresting the walls, his expression unreadable.
“A quick death,” he announces, his voice carrying the weight of finality. “To which you shall bear witness.”
The crowd leans in, their excitement palpable. Their eyes crawl over me, too eager to watch the life drain from my body.
I reach for the cup, my fingers trembling. For a fleeting moment, I wonder if Quin still wears the flutette, or if casting it away was the first thing he did after . . . after what I’ve done.
“Drink.”
The command slams into me. My chest heaves as I lift the cup, its weight magnified by the judgement of a thousand unseen chains. With one last breath, I press the rim to my lips and drink.
The liquid burns down my throat, searing heat spreading through my veins. My muscles seize, quivering uncontrollably as pain ignites every nerve.
I double over, gasping for air, my vision swimming. The crowd blurs, their faces melting into indistinct shapes.
With every ounce of will, I raise my head.
Quin is turning away.
His cane strikes the stone as he descends from the platform, his back to me, his figure a silhouette against the morning light.
The poison burns. But the ache of Quin turning away hurts more.
“Quin,” I croak, but it’s lost in the chaos of my own pain.
The world darkens.
He never looked back.