But her uncle disobeying an order to kill her, an order to kill her parents … A feather could have knocked her over, she was so stunned. And so hollow too. As if someone had just scraped out all her memories but then failed to fill in the empty space again.

“Did … did you kill my parents then?” she asked.

Henrick shook his head. He was done answering questions, he was done with this conversation, and Safi knew it was time to fold.

“Thank you, my Emperor. As promised, I shall never ask about my uncle again.” She bowed her head once, wearing a bitter smile. Henrick truly was the villain she’d always believed him to be. Degrees of everything or not, his monstrous side was the one that mattered. The one that left hell-fires and destruction wherever his armies spread.

She would ruin him.

After pushing to her feet, Safi strode like the empress she was toward the door. Everything had gone according to her morning’s haphazard plan. She had the stones, she had the chain, and she even had an answer for the question that had haunted her for almost two decades.

Now all she had to do was to leave.

Fourteen Days After the Earth Well Healed

“Don’t touch me,” Safi screams. “Don’t touch me!”

Iseult screams it too. Words that shred her throat. “Don’t touch her, don’t touch her.” There are threats in those words—promises she will kill them. Promises she will cleave them.

But the Emperor of Cartorra, his Threads dull with boredom, does not listen, and the Hell-Bards who do his bidding cannot.

Iseult yanks against her iron restraints. She pulls, she fights, and her chains clatter in time to her growing shrieks. “Don’t touch her, don’t touch her!”

They hold Safi pinned against the marble table while they strap her in iron. Safi had told Iseult this room was beautiful, but Iseult sees nothing beautiful now. White marble walls, veined with gold and draped in chains—and in spells too, meant to induce calm. Faint Threads of power that are useless against such violence.

The Emperor says something that Iseult cannot hear, and one of the Hell-Bards slaps Safi. A crack of gauntlets against her face. It silences her long enough for them to stuff scarlet cloth inside her mouth.

So Iseult screams even louder, screams for the both of them. “Don’t touch her! Don’t touch her!”

Before her, Safi’s Threads are changing fast, moving from crimson rage to pure white fear. A saturation of terror that makes Iseult strain that much harder against her bindings. She knows what is coming; Safi knows what is coming too.

Again, Henrick speaks, this time glaring in Iseult’s direction, as if he wants her dealt with. His Threads flare with red impatience.