“You’re the handmaiden,” said the Watcher. They were holding Ayla at arm’s length. She couldn’t reach them, the knife useless in her hand.

“So what if I am,” she snarled.

“Bad luck for you,” said the Watcher. “Scyre Kinok wants only the sovereign’s daughter alive. Everyone else dies. But the handmaiden dies painfully.”

They threw her sideways. She hit the wall hard, skull cracking against stone, and crumpled to the floor. Dizzy and gasping, bile in her throat, Ayla saw only a pair of shiny black boots advancing on her before she was pulled to her feet again. The Watcher wrenched her head back, baring her throat, and Ayla clawed at their wrist, their arm—she’d lost the knife when she fell, heard it skitter across the flagstones—but it wasn’t enough, it wasn’t anything, even the strongest human couldn’t compete with an Automa’s strength, and Ayla, though quick and clever, was not the strongest.

The Watcher let her struggle hopelessly for another few seconds, then threw her to the floor again. Ayla cried out and curled up into a ball, lifting her arms up to protect her head, waiting for the blow, the knife strike, but it didn’t come. The Watcher had told her they’d make it painful, draw it out, and they meant it. Instead of going for her skull, they drew a leg back and kicked her in the shin.

The pain was indescribable. Like someone had set off a powder bomb on her leg, but instead of blowing it to pieces, the explosion just kept going. She heard her bone shatter under the Watcher’s boot, felt her leg burning, surely it had burst open, surely it was bloody and mangled, surely this level of pain could not be contained by her skin. Ayla felt herself scream, the sound ripped from her throat, animal and raw, a sound she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of making. The pain was radiating up through her body now, coming in waves, her mind was flashing white, she was screaming again, if she felt this for a moment longer, even a moment, she’d go mad. Where was the Watcher? Why didn’t they just finish her off?

Panting, trying not to vomit, Ayla cracked one eye open. The Watcher was—gone?

No.

Crier had woken up. She was on her feet, and she was glorious, even through the haze of pain. The runes were still glowing on her arms, her collarbone, even her cheeks and forehead. Jezen had closed up her chest again, but Ayla could see the blue heart pulsing, the blue glow swirling just beneath her skin. And her eyes—her eyes were glowing silver white. Just like Yora’s. This was the power of Tourmaline. Energy derived not from blood—from suffering, from death—but from the elements, magick, the belly of the earth.

She was weaponless, but it didn’t matter. She stepped forward and the Watcher stepped back. They were brandishing their dagger, but their hand was shaking so hard the blade was trembling in the air.