I know exactly why I am unhappy. The Daggers have given themselves to another country. They have put Enzo—and Kenettra’s throne—in the hands of a foreign nation. The thought makes my stomach lurch violently.
This is wrong. Enzo wouldn’t have wanted this, handing Kenettra over to Beldain. How can the Daggers agree to be Maeve’s lackeys? Beldain treats their malfettos well, certainly—but they are not our allies. They have always been Kenettra’s rival.
They shouldn’t be on your throne, the whispers in my head snap, suddenly awakened. They stir in a restless whirlwind, irritated. That is why you are angry. The Daggers don’t deserve to rule, not after what they did to you. Don’t let them have something that is yours. Don’t let them take that revenge from you.
“My revenge is against the Inquisition Axis,” I whisper, my voice so quiet that even I can’t hear it.
It should be against the Daggers, too, for throwing you into the wild. For putting their own prince in Beldain’s hands.
The whispers repeat their words until I can’t understand them anymore, and then, gradually, they fade away. The illusion of Enzo disappears, returning me to the street. To reality.
The sound of footsteps snaps me out of my thoughts. My head jerks up from my hands. Violetta? She’s probably nearby, perhaps listening in on the conversation from somewhere else. But something about the footsteps seems off. There is a certain familiarity between those who have known each other for an entire lifetime—I would recognize the sound of Violetta approaching from anywhere. This is not her.
Even though I’m already exhausted from the invisibility I’d been holding up, I take a breath and weave the net around me again, hiding myself away. Then I move from the edge of the alley, just in case the approaching person accidentally bumps into me.
I see the shadow of a person first. It yawns across the opening of the alley, hesitates, and then moves forward. A girl. Gemma. She stops in the entrance of the alley and looks around. A slight frown sits on her face. I stay completely still, not daring to move or breathe. She’d noticed my illusion flicker earlier, after all.
Gemma doesn’t call out for the others. Instead, she steps slowly into the alley. Now I can see her face clearly—the purple marking across her face is hidden behind a layer of beauty powder, and her waves of dark hair are woven back into a long braid over her shoulder. The cloak’s hood still shades her face. She looks suspicious, though, and moves gradually closer to where I crouch.
She stops barely a foot away from me. I can almost hear her breathing.
Gemma shakes her head. She smiles a little at herself and rubs her eyes. I think back to when she’d ridden a horse in the qualifying races for the Tournament of Storms. To how I’d decided to save her.
I have a sudden desire to lift my illusion of invisibility. I imagine myself getting up and calling out her name. Perhaps she’ll look at me, startled, and then break into a smile. “Adelina!” she’d say. “You’re safe! What are you doing here?” I imagine her hurrying over to take my hand, tugging me to my feet. “Come back with us. We could use your help.”
The thought leaves me warm, rosy with the feeling of a friendship that once was.
What a fantasy. If I were to show my face to her, she’d back away from me. Her expression of confusion would change into one of fear. She’d run to the others, and they would hunt for me. I am not her friend anymore. The truth of this brings a surge of darkness up in my stomach, a smattering of the whispers that call for me to lash out at her. I could kill her right here, if I wanted. Hadn’t I so easily ordered the deaths of those Inquisitors on the ship? I have never known the mind of a wolf hunting a deer, but I imagine it must feel a little like this: the twisted excitement of seeing the weak and wounded cowering before you, the knowledge that, in this instant, you have the power to end its life or grant it mercy. In this moment, I am a god.
So I stay where I am, looking on while Gemma turns one more time in the alley, holding my breath, wishing I could talk to her and wishing I could hurt her, suspended between light and dark.
The moment passes—a warning horn blares out across the harbor, jolting both Gemma and me out of our thoughts. Gemma jumps a little, then turns sharply in the direction of the piers. “What was that?” she mutters.
The horn blares again. It is the Inquisition; they’ve discovered the Inquisitors’ bodies on board our ship at the docks, as well as gone to investigate their floating ship out in the water. They know I’m here. Somehow, the thought brings me a small smile.