Filed to story: When the Moon Hatched Book
Watching me go by.
But the only stare I can feel is his
—drawing a crisscrossed trail over my back, my tunic no doubt stained in blotches of blood both fresh and old.
I swear the ground shakes.
I’m shoved down another hall free from his line of sight, marched toward a trial that’ll pound the gavel on my fate.
No point hoping for a good outcome. There is none. A thought that’s almost …
freeing.
That lifts a weight from my shoulders and makes my steps feel lighter.
A smile splits my face as I’m nudged up a curl of stairs by one of the boisterous guards …
Might as well have some fun before I die.
Eight guards escort me through a lofty hall, multicolored windows spilling a kaleidoscope of light that slathers the side of my face in too much warmth. I’m slow, every step a shuffled victory, my damp tunic clinging to the torn, tacky flesh on my back.
Each forward motion feels heavier than the last, as if gravity is crushing me beneath the press of its thumb, slowly applying more pressure.
More.
Black spots begin to blot my vision as my leash is tugged by the guard ahead, luring me to turn a corner. We come to the base of a shadowed staircase, and I swallow a bludgeoning groan.
If I’d known this walk would be so tiresome, I might’ve eaten my last serving of gruel rather than sliding it down the line like I’ve done with most of the others.
“Keep walking,” the guard behind me growls, shoving me between the shoulder blades.
A raze of crippling pain threatens to buckle my knees, and my body jolts, air sucking through my clamped teeth. A surge of warm wetness seeps down my spine.
Cracking my neck from side to side, I tackle the staircase one wobbly step at a time until we’re spat out onto a circular iron stage at the base of a domed amphitheater. I’m led forward a few jingling steps, the metal smooth and cold beneath my feet as my leash is connected to an iron loop poking up from the ground.
Above me is a low banister that bands the entire circumference, hosting a ring of males, each flaunting more than one elemental bead.
The Nobles, plus the beady-eyed Chancellor.
They’re garbed in vibrant robes that blend with the ceiling—a mural of Moltenmaws midflight, boasting multicolored plumage and long, feathered tails adorned with a fluffy tuft on the end that veils their poisonous spike.
I look down at myself smothered in blood and filth and who knows what else. Drawing a deep whiff of my shift, my face scrunches.
I cut a glance at the leering Nobles. “Apologies,” I say, my voice echoing through the vast space. “Forgot to bathe for our very important date.”
Silence.
“Never mind, Prisoner Seventy-Three,” I mutter in a forged baritone. “We know you’ve had a lot on your plate.”
My guards thread back down the stairway, and my gaze rises to the second mezzanine that loops around the room. It’s much higher than the one the Nobles sit at, its banister waist high on most folk standing behind it, looking down from their purchased perch. The ones who get a kick out of watching the Nobles unravel lives. Can’t imagine why. But to be fair, I intend to put on a show this dae, so they’ll get their bloodstone’s worth.
I scan the faces, fearful I might find someone I know—someone who might do something stupid—winning myself a kick to the chest when I see the
Incognito King staring down at me from his lofty place amongst the commoners.
Fuck.
Even though he’s hooded, his face half cast in shadow, I still feel his stare shred across me, leaving a prickly trail.
Not sure what I did to deserve his foul attention, but I wish I could take it back.
I rip my gaze away, looking to the empty stone throne set amongst the Nobles’ seats, wondering when King Fade is going to join the party.
Perhaps he’s making a late entrance?
The Chancellor slams his gavel three times, my heart thumping in unison. He sets down the tool and breaks the seal on a scroll, unraveling it—signifying the start of my trial.
My heart drops.
I come to the grim realization that our boastful king must still be in Drelgad, disappointment lumping upon me …
Damn. There goes all my fun.
I was so looking forward to telling him he’d be better off shoveling colk shit than governing The Fade.
Silence roars as the Chancellor leers down at me over his hooked nose, brown and clear beads hanging from his lobe, his ruddy beard whittled into twin braided tails. “Fade law states that those who hear the Creators’ songs are obliged to wear elemental beads,” he says, his voice a conjuring drawl that echoes through the space seemingly runed to amplify sound. “It is first noted that you wear none and that you are showcasing as a null.”
The scribe three paces away from me—sitting behind a desk beside a white-robed Runi—scratches at a scroll with a bloodred quill, the sound carrying so well it almost feels like the words are being etched into my flesh.
“I thought I was a null,” I announce, shrugging. Flesh-ripping pain flares across my back that makes my insides shudder, my next words spoken past gritted teeth. “Imagine my surprise when Clode whispered pretty words in my ear and helped me pulverize the lungs of all those soldiers.”
A sea of murmurs float down from above.
The Chancellor’s eyes narrow. “From what I understand, you spoke Clode’s language fluently enough to suggest you’ve been hearing such words for a while.”
I offer a wide smile. “Beginner’s luck.”
“Lie.”
I flick a sideways glare at the broad, blond-haired Runi, my gaze dropping, scouring the two gold buttons adorning the central seam of his robe. An etching stick and a small musical note.
Truthtune.
He garnishes me with a stony stare, and I frown.
“Rude.”
“And Bulder?” the Chancellor asks. “What of him?”
I cock my head to the side. “Haven’t you ever wished the ground would split and chew on your enemies? Guess my dream came true. Lucky me.”
“Not a lie.”
“See?”
The Chancellor condemns me with a seething scowl, like he’s picturing me being chewed by a hole in the ground as we speak.
Clearing his throat, he begins reading from the scroll. “You, self-appointed as
Prisoner Seventy-Three
“—he peers down at me, eyes narrowed, and my smile widens in unison with his deepening frown—“are hereby charged for the murder of twenty-three soldiers of The Crown—“
“Twenty-five,” I correct, and the room bursts with murmurs again as the Chancellor raises a brow.
“Excuse me?”
If he’s going to read out my charge, he might as well get it right.
“Personally, I lost count. But the guard who led me here said I killed twenty-five.” The Chancellor opens his mouth to speak again, but I cut him off with a swift, “Also, I’d like it added to the record that I bit off the tip of Rekk Zharos’s finger. I only recently managed to flick out what was left of it from between my tee—“
“That’s enough.”
“Pity.”