Keenan tries to take my arm, but I dodge him, pulling out Elias’s dagger.
Mazen’s men rush forward, but I’m closer than they are, and they aren’t fast enough. In an instant, I have the blade at the Resistance leader’s throat.
“Back!” I say to the fighters. They lower their weapons reluctantly. My pulse pounds in my ears, and I have no fear in this moment, only rage for everything Mazen has put me through.
“You tell me where my brother is, you lying son of a whore.” When Mazen says nothing, I dig the blade in deeper, drawing out a thin line of blood. “Tell me,” I say. “Or I’ll slit your throat here and now.”
“I’ll tell you,” he rasps. “For all the good it will do. He’s in Kauf, girl. They shipped him there the day after the Moon Festival.”
Kauf. Kauf. Kauf. I force myself to believe it. To face it. Kauf, where my parents and sister were tortured and executed. Kauf, where only the foulest criminals are sent. To suffer. To rot. To die.
It’s over, I realize. Nothing I’ve endured—the whippings, the scarring, the beatings—none of it matters. The Resistance will kill me. Darin will die in prison. There’s nothing I can do to change it.
My knife is still at Mazen’s throat. “You’ll pay for this,” I say to him. “I swear it to the skies, to the stars. You’ll pay.”
“I very much doubt it, Laia.” His eyes dart over my shoulder and I turn—too late. I catch a flash of red hair and brown eyes before pain bursts in my temple and I fall into darkness.
***
When I come to, my first feeling is that of relief that I’m not dead.
My next is of blunt, consuming rage as Keenan’s face swims into focus. Traitor! Deceiver! Liar!
“Thank the skies,” he says. “I thought I’d hit you too hard. No—wait—”
I fumble for my knife, every second I’m conscious making me more lucid and, thus, more murderous. “I’m not going to hurt you, Laia. Please—listen.”
My knife is gone, and I look around wildly. He’s going to kill me now.
We’re in some sort of large shed; sunlight seeps through the cracks between the warped wooded boards, and there’s a jungle of gardening implements leaning against the walls.
If I can escape him, I can hide out in the city. The Commandant thinks I’m dead, so if I can get the slaves’ cuffs off, I might be able to leave Serra.
But then what? Do I go back to Blackcliff for Izzi, lest she be taken by the Commandant and tortured? Do I try to help Elias? Do I try to make my way to Kauf and break Darin out? The prison’s more than a thousand miles away.
I have no idea how to get there. No skills to survive a country swarming with Martial patrols. If, by some miracle, I do make it there, how will I get in? How will I get out? Darin might be dead by then. He might be dead now.
He’s not dead. If he was dead, I’d know.
All this passes through my mind in an instant. I jump to my feet and lunge for a rake: Right now, what matters most is getting away from Keenan.
“Laia, no.” He grabs my arms and forces them to my sides. “I’m not going to kill you,” he says. “I swear it. Just listen.”
I stare into his dark eyes, hating myself for how weak and stupid I feel.
“You knew, Keenan. You knew Mazen never wanted to help me. And you told me my brother was in the death cells. You used me—”