MARKS - Chapter 44

Chapter Forty-Four

The sky today is bright blue and stretches end to end, like a blanket God stretched tight across the sky. Summer blue. My favorite color.

I lean back against the castle wall, content to stare at the wide expanse of blue and relish the wind on my face. People mill about the square, going about their lives as usual, but with more life in their bones than before. Hope is a funny thing to measure. You can’t roll out bolts of it like you can fabric, or hold it in your hand. But its presence hangs throughout Dracon like summer sunshine.

The castle turrets loom high above me, their black stones shimmering in the sunlight. The building hasn’t changed, but so much else has it seems an altogether different shade of black. The prince of Faraday did realize who he was. And while he will not be heir to his home Kingdom because it is not his birthright, he has gained another kingdom. He has proven so far to be a kind and fair ruler. He doesn’t spend much time sitting on the throne, but instead visits the city and the outlying towns, talking to people and seeing for himself what changes need to happen. And underneath his floors and floors of rooms, in a lone dungeon cell, our former King spends his days in chains.

I wonder if he wishes assassination was possible now. His own words have cursed him forever.

A breeze pushes through the streets, tossing strands of my hair in front of my face. I tuck them back behind my ear just as Ward comes into view.

“Hi.” I push off the wall and reach out for him.

“Hey.” He wraps an arm around me and pulls me close. His lips on mine are sure and solid. Will they ever stop sending fire through me? Kissing him always does this - shoots warmth through me that settles in my stomach like magic.

Ward holds his tunic in his hand, the blue and red something our new King insisted on keeping. I look up and study Ward’s face. “How was your day?”

He nods. “Good.”

I take his hand and squeeze it. Ward hated the idea of staying on as guard, but Kent talked him into it. Good men are needed. I bring Ward’s hand to my lips and kiss his knuckles. No longer is this hand used to hurt people against Ward’s will. Something that, in time, I hope will lessen the horrible weight he carries. Healing is painfully slow, but it is happening.

Ward smiles down at me. “Another one today?”

I nod and loop my arm through his. We take our time walking through the streets. No need to run. Or hide. Living life out in the open is something neither of us takes for granted. Once we reach our destination I walk in without any fear. The man there ushers me into the back room, and Ward takes his place beside me when I sit.

The man gathers his things. “What color today?”

I smile at Ward. “Green.”

When he’s ready I glance at Ward. He pulls up a chair and takes my hand, squeezing it tight. “You know I hate this part, right Sparks?”

My smile is pure love. “I know.” Ward’s seen me in enough pain. I wouldn’t make him do this if it wasn’t important.

The man looks at me as he puts the needle to my arm. I take a sharp breath and squeeze Ward’s hand tighter.

It’s over soon, and I nod in satisfaction at the mark on my arm, green like spring fields flush with life. I smile at Ward. “Ward Green, who gives me life.”

Sweet Ward, he’s come every time I do this. As well he should, since it was his idea. You’ve saved more than three, Gretta - he told me. You should have a mark for each one.

So once a week we come here, and I get a tattoo of color on my arm. I gaze over the other ones that climb up my forearm. Pink for Ashtin. Yellow for Mama and Papa. Deep blue for Thomas. Light blue for Lucas. Green for Ward. A color for each of them. I love that my arm holds more colors than black. That it is becoming a canvas of color, like a field of flowers, colors telling my story. One of rebirth. Of hope.

The man bandages my arm, and Ward and I make our way home. But instead of climbing our stairs, we take the steps to our neighbor’s. Two raps on the door, and a welcoming voice calls out.

I open the door and Ava looks up from her sewing and smiles. “Ashtin,” she calls. “Look who’s here.”

Ashtin peeks out from the back bedroom. Her brown hair hangs in braids over her shoulders, and pink ribbons adorn the ends. She gives me a shy smile. I never thought I’d have to be brave to see my sister each day, but it takes more strength than I knew I had to not cry each time I see her.

She sits in her chair and peeks up at me. I want to touch her, to squish her to myself. I sit on my hand and tell myself to behave.

“Did you get a new color, Gretta?” she asks me.

I push up my sleeve and unwrap the bandage so she can see. She doesn’t know what the marks are for, just that I get them for people I love. She reaches a finger out and traces over the pink one. Her mark.

“Pink is my favorite,” she tells me.

You’re mine, I want to tell her. But I just nod. “I know.”

Ava serves up dinner just as Kent gets home. Two people I never knew, and Ward and I have dinner with them every night. My own version of family. Ashtin doesn’t know about Lyrans. About my power. About how she may grow up and have it, too. And she doesn’t understand how she has two mamas and papas. But she knows I’m her sister - that truth Kent insisted on right away.

“You going to see Nolan this weekend?” Kent asks.

Ward nods. Nolan couldn’t bear the thought of living in the city, so he bought a farm a few miles outside the city gates.

“Can we go there again, Mama?” Ashtin asks.

“Soon,” Ava says and tosses me a wink. Ashtin and Liddy are already fast friends.

Ward and I return to our own place as night falls. For the first time in what feels like forever, I sleep without fear. The morning dawns and once again the same blue blanket of sky has been tossed over the city. Ward holds my hand the entire walk to Nolan and Blair’s.

Freedom feels like summer, I have decided. Or maybe it’s the other way around.

Blair and Nolan are delighted to see us. Blair pushes their new baby into my arms. I can’t fight the tears that come as I bounce him in my arms. He is a boy the King will never have. He will choose who he serves.

Ward and I play with the older children in late afternoon, a game of tag that Ward wins every time. Reid reaches me and I slow on purpose.

“Got you!” He spins and takes off the other direction.

Liddy isn’t far off, and squeals when she sees me coming toward her. “Get Ward, Gretta!”

Ward laughs. “She can’t.”

Sassy boy. I walk toward him and he stands still. “Oh, couldn’t I?”

Ward arches his eyebrows. “You don’t stand a chance, Sparks.”

I push off before he finishes speaking. He sprints to the left and stops when I slow. Blast it all, the boy is fast. He laughs and I run again. Faster and faster, until my legs feel like they can go no more and my lungs gasp for air. But still I run.

The gap between us lessens. I’m almost there and push with all I have.

Ward stops and spins around.

And instead of catching Ward, Ward catches me.

 

 

MARKS - Chapter 43

Chapter Forty-Three

Ward will escape the dungeon alive, tonight. It will happen. I have no idea how.

           

My feet strum a staccato rhythm on the cold floor. What if I was too late? What if they’d already killed Ward before I wrote what I did?

Hours have passed. The King hasn’t returned. Kent was relieved from duty, and no one else was sent to replace him. It’s still night; at least I think. The hallway is quiet: no sounds except the breathing and occasional groans or grimaces from others in their cells. My head pounds and my legs ache, my body screaming for sleep, but I want to stay awake. Ward is getting out, I keep telling myself.

Ward is getting out.

And please, sweet Saints above, don’t let me have hurt him with my words. He could get injured- my seven words wouldn’t prevent that. But he has to be alive when he gets out.

Please let it work. Please don’t let my words have killed him.

He was found because of my words. My stupid words telling him I loved him that had both of our names on it. What was I thinking? They only found him because of me. It makes sense that the last words I write would be to write Ward freedom.

And now I can go home.

My body throbs with exhaustion. I curl up on the floor. Just to rest. Just for a minute.

I’m dreaming in color when something startles me. I jerk awake, my chains rattling in the darkness. I’m still here, chained to the wall and all alone.

Muffled yells bounce down the hallway. I hold my breath and listen. Voices, frantic ones, and then a chorus of yells and shouts rises up from somewhere nearby. Pounding footsteps. Someone shouts orders.

I push up and press my face to the door of my cell. A rushing of feet echoes down the rock hallway, and more voices chase after it. All of them growing closer. Amidst the blur of noise, I hear men yelling. In pain. Or surprise.

My heart hammers and I grip the bars of my cell. A shout comes yards away, where the guards are posted at the end of the hall. I hear the crisp twang of metal on metal. Who’s fighting who? Others have come to their cell doors, straining to see. The torches in their sconces are few and far between, and darkness shrouds the entire dungeon. They could be coming to kill all of us. Footsteps pound down the hallway, and I scoot back, hitting the rough rock wall behind me.

          

A man races down the hall and stops at my door, rifling through a key ring.

“Kent?”

Kent shoves a key in the lock and pushes open the door, then drops to his knees in front of me. He pulls another key from his pocket. The shackle around my ankle clatters to the ground. Kent reaches for the other one.

“What’s happening?” I ask him.

“A riot.”

My second shackle falls free and Kent moves to the ones around my wrists.

“A riot?”

“Prisoners revolted, got out of their cells, and stormed the guards on duty. Half of which joined them in fighting off Blackfeet.”

My left wrist is free. “How’d they get out of their cells?”

Kent unlocks me from the last one and looks at me. “They might have had some help,” he says with a smile. He grabs my elbow. “Come on.”

He pulls me from my cell and leads me down the other end of the hallway. We pass cell after cell.

“What about them?”

“Someone is coming for them.”

I watch the last prisoner, his face pushed up to his door. Kent pulls me up a set of stairs and stops. Then he unsheathes his sword and grabs my arm again with his left hand.

The stairs dump us into a hallway clogged with men. Guards fight other guards. Kent turns and heads up another flight of stairs.

"The Chancellor is really the King,” I tell him.

“We figured that out.” He pulls me up and into another hallway.

“When?”

“Earlier tonight when he thrust a knife through the heart of the man we thought was King.”

Sweet mercy.

“Lyran prophecies are true, so we knew the man we thought was King clearly wasn’t.”

He comes to a stop and peers through the stairway opening. Then he pulls me down the hallway. We round a corner, and a large room opens up. Men fill it. A blur of tunics. Green. Not blue and red.

Colors of another Kingdom. Faraday.

They dash here and there, calling out orders and shouting to each other. One looks at us as we rush through the room. Kent nods to him, and the man lets us pass. Then I notice, Kent isn’t wearing his guard tunic.

He yanks me down another hallway. We burst through doors into an outdoor courtyard. Stars hang heavy overhead, and the night air bites at my skin. Men are everywhere.

A cloaked figure appears in front of us and Kent thrusts me forward. Strong hands grip my shoulders. I stare up into chocolate brown eyes.

Ward.

“Thank you,” he says to Kent, then takes my hand and once again, I’m being pulled to who knows where.

Ward is here. Alive. With me. Sobs spring up inside me, taking energy my body doesn’t have. But I can’t stop them.

Ward spins and pulls me to him. “It’s all right, Gretta. I’m here.” He presses a kiss to my forehead. “I need to get you somewhere safe.”

He leads me through a gate in the castle wall. People clog the city streets.

“Ward, what’s happening?”

He wraps an arm around my waist. “People are taking back control of their kingdom.”

“But how?”

“Nolan made contact with the Lyrans we’ve been using. One of them knew about another press. So they started printing. All about the King and what he’s doing. They got passed around. To the guilds. The docks. Even among the guards. It stirred things up, Gretta.”

My words come rushing to mind. The King’s evil will be written down.

We reach the end of an alley. A wagon hitched to two horses sits idle on the street. Ward picks me up and sets me in the back, then climbs up after me. The wagon jolts forward, sending me flying back. Right into Ward.

“Hang on,” our driver says. Nolan. Nolan is our driver.

Ward scoops me into his lap. Tears rush down my cheeks. I put my hands on Ward’s face. Bruises stain his cheekbones, and dried blood clings to the corner of his mouth.

“My words.” I rub my fingers over the bruises on his cheeks. “I thought he’d kill you because I wrote those words and it had my name on it.”

Ward shakes his head and covers my hands with his. “Your words kept me alive, Gretta.” He cups my face and with the gentleness only he possesses, presses his lips to mine.

I curl into his chest and rest against him, his solidness keeping me still as the wagon jostles down the bumpy road. “What’s going to happen now, Ward?”

He wraps both arms around me. “We’re going to live again, Gretta. All of us.”

MARKS - Chapter 42

Chapter Forty-Two

I used to think time was endless. But now it presses down on me, closer and closer. The King has Ward, and will save him only if I write what he wants.

I have until tomorrow morning.

Kent stands near the door, filling up the space between it and the table guards dragged in here earlier. A table, a chair, a stack of paper. A pen.

And not enough time.

“I’m sorry, Kent.”

He snaps his eyes to mine.

“You don’t want to be here, doing this. Serving the King. Serving the Chancellor.” I study his face, searching for anything that indicates he knows. Nothing. I swallow. “You fear for your family, don’t you? Like so many others here.”

Kent says nothing, but holds my gaze.

“I had two brothers and a sister. They’re all gone now.” I take a piece of paper from the stack. Kent stares at it then moves to stand behind me. I look over my shoulder at him. “The King will keep living and continue to force all the men of Dracon to do his dirty work. I understand why people fear for their sons.” I think of Lucas and Thomas. Of Ward. And Reid and Mason. “I would.”

Kent doesn’t respond.

I stare up at him. “I could write your son free.”

His eyes glimmer and he looks away.

Ah. “You have a daughter?”

Such sadness leaps to Kent’s eyes I think he might cry. But no.

I pick up the pen. “What’s her name?”

He stays silent. Too scared for her life to speak.

“It doesn’t matter.” I press the pen to the page. The King will never have Kent’s daughter. I pause and glimpse up at Kent. “You understand it can’t be destroyed?”

He studies the paper, and his breaths are labored. One glance to the hallway, then back to me, and he nods.

I sign my name, then tear off the strip of paper and hand it to him. He tucks it into his boot then resumes his stance behind me.

I tap the pen on the paper. Can I trust Kent? It’s one thing to let me write his own daughter’s safety. Quite another to trust him not to kill me or raise alarm if I try and write Ward free.

I can’t write the Chancellor dead. All hell would break loose, and Kent’s been my only guard. They’d know it was him. And I won’t kill anyone else who doesn’t deserve it. I sigh. There has to be a way.

“My daughter.” Kent’s voice cuts through my thoughts. He shifts his weight behind me. “Her name is Ashtin.”

Sweetness bursts through my veins, and my heart swells. Hope - that’s what the sweetness is.

"Her mother and I…” Kent pauses. “We couldn’t have children, but one day out of nowhere, Ashtin was given to us.” He draws in a ragged breath. “I couldn’t imagine life without her. Thank you.”

I turn around in my chair. “In late August? On a rainy day, and she cried because she was hungry?”

Kent’s eyes widen.

“And she was wrapped in a green blanket and left outside your back door?”

His eyes narrow. “How do you know that?”

“Because I put her there.” I swallow and tears stream down my face. “Your little girl is my baby sister.”

 ####

 Kent says nothing. I smile and turn around in my chair. “Kent?” I reach for a piece of paper. “Will you let me write one more thing?”

I pause and stare up at him. He checks the hallway, and he nods. Ward will escape the dungeon alive tonight. Gretta Marks.

I rip it off, and Kent reaches for it before I even turn. Ward could get out a million different ways. I have to trust it will be through something other than Kent being discovered.

I have a stack of paper, but I can’t keep doing this. Kent will be discovered. The King wants me to write a prophecy to force something to happen. If only I could write that the Chancellor is really the King.

All these lies the King has us believing. He’s been masquerading as the Chancellor. He has a child.

A thought pricks my brain. A child. But no, he said his son died in the plague.

Good heavens, Gretta, as if you can trust anything the King says.

The King had a son. Rumors spread that the King got ran off from Faraday for some offense to the princess years ago. The King’s words echo in my thoughts. The prince needs to realize what he’s heir to.

Sweet Saints in heaven.

The prince of Faraday is the King’s son.

He has to be. The King doesn’t want an alliance with Faraday. He wants his son to what? Take over Dracon? Become King of Faraday and then King Dracon will win over his son and essentially rule both Kingdoms?

I grab the pen and hold it over the page. Words have power. The King wants words? I’ll give him words.

I scrawl words on the page. None with my name. And none are sentences of seven. But this is the most powerful thing I have ever written.

These aren’t prophecies. Instead I write stories. The truth about the Lyran plague. The guard who killed Papa. The Blackfeet who killed Mama and the boys. I leave Ashtin’s name out. I don’t mention Ward or Nolan or any of the others. But word after word I write the truth. Kent looks over my shoulder, his hand on his weapon. But he knows these words aren’t prophecies.

At least if I die, the truth of the King’s crimes won’t die with me.

Words have power.

I rip a new piece of paper. “Get the Chancellor.”

Kent hesitates, then walks to the door and calls for a guard. I wait, my pen at the ready. The King walks in and stares at the stack of papers then at Kent.

“They’re not prophecies, Sir,” Kent says.

The King rifles through the papers, then he glares at me.

My lip quivers. All my life, and it comes down to one sentence. I scrawl words on a page. Faraday’s prince will realize who he is.

I look up at the King. “Will this do?”

He stares at the words. Weighing them. Measuring them against his plan. His eyes meet mine again. “Sign it.”

I sign my name and the King snatches the paper and smiles. Then he gathers all the other papers and walks out.

The iron door clangs shut behind him. My grip on the pen is so tight my fingers are white. I count to five and look to Kent. “I need that paper back.”

He pulls the paper for Ashtin from his boot and hands it to me. I turn it over and the blank space of paper stares back at me.

Words have power.

All words do.

Death. Life.

Hate. Love.

I need to trust the power of words. I grip the pen tighter. Last time, I tell myself. Then I put the pen to paper. The King’s evil will be written down. Gretta Marks.

 

MARKS - Chapter 41

Chapter Forty-One

The iron shackles on my feet dig into my skin, leaving anklets of dried blood. I’ve been back in this cell for a while, chained once again to the King’s walls.

Black put me back in here, unaware that I know he’s the King. A switch that had to be made years ago, because his own men don’t know. They protect the man masquerading as King, and not the King himself.

Black - the real King - leads the Blackfeet because that is his true desire. It’s the perfect ruse. He gets to make up whatever he wants, under guise of obeying orders, when really he’s ruling the Kingdom.

A wave of nausea washes over me and I stare at the iron bars, willing them into focus. It’s been a long time, days maybe. No plate of food has come. No water.

I’m going to die here, aren’t I?

I hug my knees to my chest.

I’ll be there soon, Mama. Then it can all be over. And that’s all right.

Footsteps echo down the hall, and I meet Black’s stare as he lets himself in my cell. He leaves the door open and stands in front of me.

Words spring to life in my mind. Chancellor. Black. King.

If I die, I’ll die with as much truth as I can. From now on, I’ll call him what he is.

The King bends down and his grin eases up slow and steady to his face, like blood spilling out of a body. He steps aside and two Blackfeet enter, dragging a person between them.

Ward.

I push against the wall and stand. They have Ward. His face is bloodied and bruised. One eye is swollen shut. He looks at me with the other one. His face is tight, his features clenched in fiery determination. “Don’t do it, Gretta.”

 “Go ahead,” the King says. “Save him.”

The King grabs my right arm and pulls it. It snaps the tension of the other shackle, jerking my wrist. Pain sings through me and I cry out.

The King pulls a knife from his side. The blade touches my skin, light like a kiss. My breaths are trapped inside me and my arm shakes in his hand. The blade hovers over the first of my three marks. The King looks at me, his eyes dark. Then he smiles and presses the knife into my skin.

Piercing pain reverberates down my arm, but he doesn’t stop. He traces the first line with the tip of the knife, and blood seeps up where the black line is. He takes the knife away and grins again before he starts on the second line. The blade doesn’t go deep, but I can’t keep from yelling.

Ward pulls against his chains, but a Blackfeet drives his fist into Ward’s back, rendering him silent. When the King raises the blade from the end of the second line, I pull my arm with all my might. He tightens his grasp and, with the patience only a mad man possesses, draws a line of blood down the third mark. Pain explodes through my arm, wave after wave of it. I bite down on the inside of my cheek, harder and harder until the pain of it blends with the terrible piercing in my arm.

When the King is done, he squeezes my arm so tight I wonder if it won’t break. Blood pools up on my arm and the pain takes over. Stars dance in my vision.

“Oh Gretta,” he says. “Your three saves are all used up. You can’t save him.”

My entire body shakes as fear wraps a noose around my heart.

The King’s eyes pierce mine. “But I can.”

####

 The King flings my arm away and strides out. Ward lunges for me, but the two Blackfeet pull him away.

"Don’t do it, Gretta! Don’t do what he wants!”

His voice echoes down the hallway as they drag him away. I collapse to the stone floor.

It all comes rushing back. Like a gale force wind.

####

The Blackfeet came out of nowhere that day. Later I would find out another Lyran gave us up. She wrote our discovery so her child wouldn’t die.

A neighbor ran over, screaming that the Blackfeet were coming. My mother hid Thomas and Lucas in the tiny cellar. She pushed the baby in my arms. “Run, Gretta.”

So I did.

The ground rumbled underneath my feet with the sound of horses coming fast. I ran into the corn field and let the stalks and leaves cover me as I watched.

I knew they’d come to kill her. Or take her.

They did neither.

Instead they dismounted. Only a half dozen or so but to me they looked like an entire army. Prisoners were with them - three of them - two women and a little girl. The Blackfeet pulled all three from their horses and threw them onto the ground.

They didn’t kill my mother. Or take her captive. Instead they threw paper and a pen at her and told her to write. I couldn’t hear what it was they wanted, but I knew from the way she clenched her mouth shut that it wasn’t good.

She refused at first. They beat her and hurt her. Still she would not write.

Then they heard Lucas crying in the cellar.

I watched as they held a knife to his little body. My mother screamed. Over and over she begged them. But these men weren’t just guards. They were Blackfeet. Content to kill.

My mother picked up a pen but didn’t move it over the paper.

That’s when they cut Lucas’ hand off.

His screams mingled with my mother’s. Blood poured out of his arm and my mother’s hand flew across the paper. And didn’t stop.

The Blackfeet spoke - I couldn’t hear their words. But the prisoners they had started screaming. Convulsing.

That’s what my mother wrote.

Their torture.

An hour later the screams of all of them were so ingrained in my head I knew I’d never forget them. I held Ashtin to my chest and rocked her back and forth. She slept through it all, thank the Saints.

When the screams of the little girl grew too much, my mother stopped writing.

They cut off Lucas’ other hand.

I stood then and raced deep into the corn field. Faster and faster I flew, Ashtin’s body heavy in my arms and the screams echoing behind me. I ran to the next farm house. No one was there. Everyone else had run when the Blackfeet first showed up. I put Ashtin down on the bed and tore through the house looking for paper.

A book of prayers was in a drawer by the bed. I took it out and pulled the pen from its hidden place in my shift. “Always have it with you,” my mother had taught me.

I grabbed a knife from the kitchen and sliced my leg, using the blood from my own body as ink. I scribbled as fast as I could. Then threw the paper in the kitchen fire, grabbed Ashtin, and ran back home.

There was no screaming. Just an eerie silence. No horses were in the yard, only torn up dirt where they had continued up the road.

I walked to my house until I came to my mother’s body, blood spilled around it and Lucas’ tiny body in her arms. Thomas lay a few feet from her.

The prisoner’s bodies lay on the ground. All three of them.

My words had worked. I remembered then to look down at my arm. No marks on my right. But on my left, three dark marks sifted up to the surface of my skin.

Three deaths.

That’s what I had written.

Ever since that day I have wakened ridden with guilt that I killed them.

But now I know.

In giving them death, I was giving them mercy.

And I wish there was someone out there who would write such a fate for me. 

 

MARKS - Chapter 40

Chapter Forty

 Dots dance along my vision in all sorts of colors. Pink and yellow. Green and purple. Little constellations of color. My head rests against the wall, and when I lift it the little dots spread and swim.

The bucket I use to relieve myself in is probably only a few feet away, but it seems the length of the entire Kingdom. I crawl to it, and Kent, bless his soul, places a booted foot on the stack of papers, then turns his head. Finally, a decent human being in this place.

I’m barely finished when my daily plate of brown slop is shoved under the door. A cup of water usually follows. The brown slop rests on the plate, unadorned with the usual slice of bread. Why aren’t they giving me bread? Sweet bread with its spots of greenish black. I miss the bread. 

Fine. Brown slop is all I get. Brown slop is all I want anyway.        

The food is like sludge in my stomach, and I lay down until the uneasy feeling passes. Exhaustion spreads through me, and thoughts hang heavy in my head.

Round and round I’ve tried to think of words to write that would appease the King but still ensure safety. But I don’t know what the King wants with Faraday’s prince. What could the King offer him? It must be something big, because the King is going to the extreme to get me to write. The King wants Faraday. He can’t conquer it. He knows Faraday won’t agree to an alliance. He wants the prince here.

And the prince isn’t even heir to Faraday! So how is it helpful to involve him in anything?

Ugly words spring to mind. Anger. Death. Desperation - now there’s a powerful word.

I squeeze my eyes tight and think of words I love.

Family.

Grass.

Sunshine.

I think of my own name and I wonder where it came from. If I ever have a daughter I’d want to name her a good word. Hope. Or Summer.

If Ward and I were to have a daughter, I wonder if she’d have green eyes like mine or brown ones like Ward. A flutter rises up inside my chest. The same flutter that shows up whenever I hold Ward and my future in the same thought.         

The heavy thud of boots pounding the cobblestone floor sends a wave of panic shooting through my limbs. 

Black strides to my door and lets himself in. He pulls a key from his pocket and releases me from my shackles. His hand comes under my armpit, and he digs his fingers into my skin as he hoists me up. The colored dots explode in my field of vision and my stomach bottoms out.

He pulls me from the cell, and I stumble after him. I hate him. Oh, I hate him, but my body leans into his out of its own will. My muscles won’t work on their own. Up, up, up the stairs we go. Sweat breaks out on my forehead.

My legs give out completely and Black doesn’t even flinch, just heaves my full weight onto his arm and drags me into the same room.

With people in it.

He drops me to the ground on top of a pile of papers.

Four Blackfeet are in the room. Two on one side of me, with a man between them. On the other side, the same thing - a man on his knees between two Blackfeet. My heart hammers inside me, its rhythm clashing in my ears. The King stands in front of me, arms crossed over his rotten chest. He tosses a pen at my feet, then turns to the Blackfeet.

The horror is unleashed so fast my brain can’t register it at first. Two men beaten in front of me. I look from one to the other.

“Stop!” I glare at the King. “Why are you doing this?”

“Write for me, Gretta.”

I shake my head. “No.”

The men’s muffled groans and cries of pain echo in my ears. The King holds up a hand and the Blackfeet stop. The Blackfeet watch their King, who glances to Black - a triangle of evil, and I’m in the blasted middle.

The King nods to the Blackfeet. One of each pair grabs their prisoner with one hand and while the other pulls his blade from his side. A knife at each man’s neck. I hold my breath, but the knives don’t move. They hover over the flesh of their would-be victim.

“Gretta.”

I look to the King. He kneels in front of me and tosses me a pen. “Pick one.”

Oh please, no.

The pen lies inches from my knees. I look from it to the King.

The King nods to one man. “That’s Ben.” He nods to the other. “That’s Landon.” His dark eyes stare at me. “I’m going to kill these men. You can write one of them alive.”

I blink.

The King lifts a finger - one finger that rises from its resting place on his other arm - and the two Blackfeet draw daggers and stab their prisoners in the arm.

The prisoner on my right sags, the Blackfeet’s knife now pressed to his throat. Blood pools on his shirt sleeve, turning the faded blue a dark, dark red. Sweat beads on his forehead and trickles down over the stubble on his chin. Ben. He’s a father. A husband. He’s someone’s Nolan.

On the left, the prisoner yells through clenched teeth. Landon. He’s young, and his muscles tighten as he strains against the man who has him. His eyes lock onto mine. He is strong and brave, holding his courage in an impossible situation and even more impossible king. A brave, strong man. Someone’s Ward.

“I’ll kill them both, Gretta.” The King’s words are like a blade across my heart. He sinks down into a crouch, his body mere inches from mine. “Save one if you want. It’s up to you.”

His eyes are blank. Empty of any decent emotion. “Just know, Gretta, I’ll keep torturing both of them until you pick.”

The King stands and once more, all it takes is a tiny movement from him, and there’s the quick flash of metal, followed by more screams.

Moments pass, the men gasping, the King staring at me. A pit opens up inside me. My power’s not mine. My words aren’t mine. It’s only in this terrible silence that I wish I’d never been given the gift of words at all.

Tears spring to my eyes, and my body sags. I can’t do this. I can’t.

I watch the King’s finger start to rise again. I sob and pick up the pen.

How do I pick who gets to live?

My hands shake violently and I grip the pen tighter. Tears run down my nose and slip onto the paper, smearing my words.

Please forgive me. My heart squeezes so tight inside me I can’t breathe. I sign my name with shaking hands, then rise on my knees and throw the pen at the King’s face. “I hate you!”

Black grabs me under my arm again. The Blackfeet leave, dragging one prisoner and one dead body out of the room. A trail of blood is left on the carpet, a bright red that will darken to almost black over time.

Enough.

That’s the word that grows in my mind, beating against the brain and shattering any fear left. I’ve had enough.

I glare at the King. “You are a horrible man. It’s a good thing your son died and couldn’t grow up with you as a father.”

Black clamps his hand down harder, his fingers practically slicing into my skin, but I feel no pain. Just anger. A lifetime of it.

I lunge at the King but Black jerks me back and throws me to the floor. He walks in front of me and stands beside the King.

Was it a kill or a save? I examine my left arm, where the same three marks I’ve had for what feels like forever stare back from my skin.

On my right, a third black mark surfaces beside the others.

I look at the King, triumph on my face. “I’ll kill you,” I tell him. “I have kills left.” I nod to Black, the King’s mighty Chancellor. “I’ll write that he kills you. That all the horror you have him to do other people, he will do to you.”

The King chuckles. “I know how your powers work, Gretta. And you don’t know his name.”

“True,” I say. “But I know yours. And I could write that you, Jameson, kill your first man.”

His face pales, to such an ashen color his face is more white than pink. His eyes dart to Black and a look passes over his face that is so unexpected my breath catches in my throat. The look is fear. Why would the King fear his own Chancellor?

Black’s face is not one of fear. Rather, his eyes are wide with accusation, as though the King had already reached a blade out to him. His jaw tightens and his eyes shoot daggers across the room.

And that’s when it hits me.

This is how the Lyran prophecy about the King has worked. It’s not that assassination attempts have failed. It’s that they’ve been targeting the wrong person.

The King isn’t the King at all.

The Chancellor is.