I don’t like doing things slowly. Especially now, when every moment counts. Every second could mean another person I love dead. So I shove off the bed, forcing myself to stand on weak, trembling legs. An odd sensation, with Silent Stone weighing down my wrists and ankles, leaching what little strength my anger gives me. It takes a long moment to bear the pressure. I doubt I’ll ever get used to it. But I can get past it.
The first step is the easiest. A lunge to the little table where I take my meals. The second is more difficult, now that I know how much effort it takes. I walk like a man drunk or hobbled. For a split second, I envy my father’s wheelchair. The shame of such thoughts fuels my next steps, across the length of the room. Panting, I reach the other side, almost collapsing against the wall. The burn in my legs is pure fire, sending a prickle of sweat down my spine. A familiar feeling, like I’ve just run a mile. The nausea in the pit of my stomach is different, though. Another side effect of the Stone. It makes every beat of my heart feel heavier, and wrong somehow. It tries to empty me out.
My forehead touches the paneled wall, letting the cold soothe. “Again,” I force out.
I turn and stumble across the room.
Again.
Again.
Again.
By the time Kitten and Trio deliver my lunch, I’m drenched with sweat and I have to eat lying on the floor. Kitten doesn’t seem to care, toeing the plate of evenly balanced meat and vegetables toward me. Whatever’s going on outside the city walls, it doesn’t seem to have any effect on food supply. A bad sign. Trio leaves something else on my bed, but I focus on eating first. I force down every single bite.
Getting up is a bit easier. My muscles are already responding, adjusting to the manacles. There’s a small blessing in them. The Arvens are living Silvers, their ability fluctuating with their own concentration, as changing as crashing waves. Their silence is much harder to adapt to than the constant press of the Stone.
I rip open the parcel on my bed, discarding the thick, luxurious wrapping. The gown slithers out, falling against my blankets. I take a step back slowly, my body going cold as I’m seized by the familiar urge to jump out the window. For a second I shut my eyes, trying to will the dress away.
Not because it’s ugly. The dress is shockingly beautiful, a gleam of silk and jewels. But it forces me to realize a terrible truth. Before the dress, I was able to ignore Maven’s words, his plan, and what he means to do. Now it stares me in the face, a mocking piece of artistry. The fabric is red. As the dawn, my mind whispers. But that is wrong too. This is not the color of the Scarlet Guard. Ours is a lurid, bright, angry red, something to be seen and recognized, almost shocking to the eye. This gown is different. Worked in darker shades, crimson and scarlet, beaded with chips of gemstones, woven with intricate embroidery. It shimmers in the darkest way, catching the light overhead like a pool of red oil.
Like a pool of red blood.
The dress will make me—and what I am—impossible to forget.
I laugh bitterly to myself. It’s almost funny. My days as Maven’s betrothed were spent hiding, pretending to be Silver. At least now I won’t have to be painted into one of them. A very, very small mercy in the light of all else.
So, I am going before his court, and the world, the color of my blood bare for all to see. I wonder if the kingdom will realize I am nothing more than a lure hiding a steel-sharp hook.
He doesn’t come back until the next morning. When he enters, he frowns at the dress, balled up in the corner. I couldn’t stand to look at it. I can’t really look at him either, so I keep at my exercises: currently a very stunted, slow version of sit-ups. I feel like a clumsy toddler, my arms heavier than usual, but I force through it. He takes a few steps closer, and I clench a fist, willing myself to send a spark in his direction. Nothing happens, just as nothing happened the last dozen times I tried to use my electricity.
“Good to know they got the balance right,” he muses, settling into his seat at the table. Today he looks polished, with his badges bright and shining on his chest. He must’ve come from outside. There’s snow in his hair, and he removes his leather gloves with his teeth.
“Oh yes, these bracelets are just lovely,” I bite back at him, waving one heavy hand in his direction. The manacles are loose enough to spin, but tight enough that I could never pull them off, even if I dislocated a thumb. I considered it, until I realized it would be pointless.
“I’ll give Evangeline your compliments.”
“Of course she made them,” I scoff. She must be so pleased to know she is the literal creator of my cage. “Surprised she has the time, though. She must be spending every second making crowns and tiaras to wear. Dresses too. I bet you cut yourself every time you have to hold her hand.”
A muscle in his cheek ticks. Maven has no feelings for Evangeline, something I’ve always known. Something I can easily exploit.
“Have you set a date?” I ask, sitting up.
Blue eyes flash to mine. “What?”
“I doubt a royal wedding is something you can do on short notice. I assume you know exactly when you’re marrying Samos.”
“Oh, that.” He shrugs, brushing it off with a wave. “Planning the wedding is her business.”
I hold his gaze. “If it were her business, she’d have been queen months ago.” When he doesn’t reply, I push harder. “You don’t want to marry her.”
Instead of crumbling, his facade strengthens. He even chuckles, projecting an image of abject disinterest. “That’s not why Silvers get married, as well you know.”
I try a different tactic, playing on the pieces of him I used to know. The pieces I hope are still real. “Well, I don’t blame you for stalling—”
“It isn’t stalling to postpone a wedding in wartime.”
“She’s not who you would’ve chosen—”
“As if there’s choice in the matter.”
“Not to mention the fact that she was Cal’s before she was yours.”
The mention of his brother stills his lazy protesting. I can almost see the muscles tighten beneath his skin, and one hand flicks the bracelet at his wrist. Every gentle ting of the metal rings as loud as a warning bell. One spark from it and he will burn.
But fire doesn’t scare me anymore.
“Based on your progress, it should take another day or so for you to learn how to walk properly with those.” His words are measured, forced, calculated. He probably rehearsed them before he came in here. “And then you’ll finally be of some use to me.”
As I do every day, I glance around the room, looking for cameras. I still don’t see them, but they must be there. “Do you spend all day spying on me, or does a Security officer give you a summary? Some kind of written report?”
Maven lets the remark glance off. “Tomorrow you will stand up and say exactly what I tell you to.”
“Or what?” I force myself to my feet without any of the grace or agility I used to claim. He watches every inch. I let him. “I’m already your prisoner. You can kill me whenever you like. And quite frankly, I’d prefer that to luring newbloods into your net to die.”
“I’m not going to kill you, Mare.” Even though he’s still sitting, I feel like he towers over me. “And I don’t want to kill them either.”
I understand what the words mean, but not when they come from Maven’s mouth. It makes no sense. No sense at all. “Why?”
“You’ll never fight for us, I know that. But your kind . . . they’re strong, stronger than many Silvers could ever be. Imagine what we will do with an army of them, combined with an army of mine. When they hear your voice, they’ll come. How they are treated once they arrive depends on your behavior, of course. And your compliance.” Finally, he stands. He’s grown in the past few months. Taller and leaner, taking after his mother, as he does in most things. “So I have two choices, and you get to pick which one I follow. Either you bring me newbloods, and they join with us, or I continue finding them on my own, and killing them.”