“You common folk are attracted to the glamor of noble life like—like a moth to a flame,” he said with a wicked smile. “So sad you often fly too close and simply burn away.”

Vhalla couldn’t keep her face from dropping into a frown as he spoke. She was growing to detest everything about this man, and every time he opened his mouth, he succeeded in reminding her why. He was smart, and she quickly realized that it made him dangerous.

“What do you want with me?” she asked, attempting to force her voice to stay as level as possible, to not betray any fear or panic.

“Oh, it’s nothing I want with you. I honestly just want you to crawl back under the rock you came from and never come out again. But, well, you made that difficult for yourself when you attacked the crown prince.” He put his hands in the air before dropping them. “Now, we will need to see you properly punished for your transgressions.”

“What?” Vhalla’s voice rose sharply. “I didn’t—”

“Denials?” the senator hissed. “You must sing a different song before the trial.”

“But I didn’t do anything.” Vhalla repeated.

“Guards,” Egmun sighed. “I think our prisoner may need her memory jarred.”

Rat and Mole exchanged a look Vhalla had a difficult time reading before they started for the cell door. The moment the door opened and the two armored men entered Vhalla knew it hadn’t been a good look. Vhalla put as much distance between her and the men as the cell would allow, ignoring the screaming pain in her shoulder.

These men were there to protect her. But they stared down at her with the same look of contempt the Northerners had.

“Don’t...” Vhalla whimpered out of instinct.

“Denials still?” the senator hummed, leaning against the wall beyond.

Mole heard a command that Vhalla hadn’t in Egmun’s voice and his fist was in her hair. She cried out in agony, grabbing at his tense wrists as he practically lifted her off the floor. The man threw her against the wall and the back of her head cracked loudly.

She slumped, blinking away stars in a blurry daze. Mole was on her again before she had time to decide which of the four of him was real. His boot connected with her stomach, again and again. She tried to lift her hand to blow them away with magic, but no sorcery crackled beneath her fingertips. There wasn’t even time to panic as Mole stomped upon the appendage, the bones crunching. Vhalla didn’t feel the next strike to her ribs; she could only feel the dirt and gravel covering the floor pressed against her cheek.

“Do you remember now?” Egmun called.

“Why?” she wheezed. Why were they doing this?

Rat picked her up by the front of her dress. The sound of the seams exploding as he pommeled a fist into her face were louder than her screams or cries for help. The garment could only endure two strikes before tearing and Vhalla fell onto the floor in an undignified heap wearing nothing but her underclothes.

Her consciousness was smaller than a pin by the time their beating ended. She existed in such a tiny portion of her mind that the outside world was only tangible through echoes. Yet, somehow, their cruel words still made it to her fracturing psyche.

“That’s sufficient, I should think. Unfortunately we cannot take the Empire’s justice.” Egmun walked to the entrance of the cell. “Remember this. For I will. This is how I will always see you, worthless trash.”

She blinked up at him, unmoving, unflinching. Hatred had always been described in her books like fire, a hot and uncontrollable inferno. This hatred felt like ice. It numbed her empathy and sharpened her resolve to survive at any and all costs if for no other reason than to spite him.

Egmun took a slow breath; as though he could feel the daggers she was mentally flaying him with. “Now get dressed.” He tossed a burlap sack atop her and left the cell.

Vhalla’s limbs barely heeded her demands for movement and sitting was agony. Phantom pains from her fall seeped from fractured bones and torn tissues. The sack she had been bestowed had some slits cut into it for her arms and head and Vhalla crawled into it with as much dignity as she could muster.

She had endured worse. The once library apprentice struggled to her feet. She had survived a fall from the palace spires and warriors from the North. Her limbs trembled with pain and fear as Vhalla reminded herself of those facts and faced the three men.

Mole grabbed her and yanked her forward. Vhalla stumbled and cried, instantly hating herself for it. She hated them and she hated her treacherous body for feeling the pain caused by them. His hand dug into her shoulder, and she felt a drip trail down her back. Rat retrieved shackles and bound her hands and feet together. The last fastenings to her sanity were snapping, and they sounded like a raspy laugh.

“As if I can run.” She smiled madly at Egmun.

This sudden emotional contrast almost seemed to shake his perfect poise. He adjusted his robes and said nothing before starting down the hall. Rat and Mole practically carried her as they held her up with each arm.

It was after a short flight of stairs upward when Egmun left them. They walked the rest of the way in silence. A numbing chill crept from her extremities inward. Sareem was dead. The blood dripping from her skull reminded Vhalla of his shattered face. Roan likely was too. The prince had somehow lived, but Vhalla expected him to blame her—rightfully—for everything he shouldn’t have had to endure. The pendulum of her emotions swung far into guilt. It was her fault. All of this was her fault. She was suddenly laughing again.

Why was losing her whole life so funny?

“Shut up,” Rat hissed, slapping her across the face.

Her craze left her, and she hung limply. Blood dripped down her chin, adding to the trail she left on the stairs they were ascending. They opened a door, and threw her into a brightly lit room. She hit the floor with an ungraceful clank of chains, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light.

She had been thrown into a square cage welded into the wall behind her on all sides. Rat and Mole assumed guard duty to the left and right of the door. There was no other visible entrance into this section of the room, her temporary prison.

To her far left was a different door and empty seating. To the right stared thirteen people, Egmun at their center. The senators had been lined up neatly in two rows. Before them on the floor in the center of the room was a dais made of a golden sun. Across was a raised area with three seats—no, not seats: thrones.

In the smallest throne to the Emperor’s left sat Prince Baldair; it was the first time she’d ever seen him without a smile. In the middle sat the Emperor, his expression unreadable. On his right, was a face she knew well. Vhalla choked back a sob of relief at seeing Aldrik alive. She shut her eyes before she could see whatever was written on his features. She didn’t want him here; she didn’t want him to see her like this. She who had killed her friends and endangered his life didn’t deserve his gaze, even if it held justified anger.

The Emperor raised a large staff and brought it down onto the floor three times. The sound of metal on stone echoed through the silent hall.

“I, Emperor Solaris, on behalf of the Mother, call this special trial to order. Senate Head Elect?”

Egmun stood, and Vhalla kept herself from screaming the worst obscenities she could imagine.

“Vhalla Yarl, we the Senate have charged you with recklessness, endangerment of your fellow citizens, public destruction, impersonating nobility, heresy, murder, and treason in an attempt on the life of the Crown Prince Aldrik.”