Aria's POV
The rats come at night.
I hear them scratching in the darkness, their tiny claws scraping against the stone floor of the cellar. Three days ago, I thought the rats were the worst thing about being locked down here. I was wrong. The worst thing is the silence between their scratching when I'm alone with the pain in my back and the fear in my chest.
My stomach stopped hurting from hunger yesterday. Now it just feels empty, like a hole inside me. I press my cheek against the cold floor and try to remember what food tastes like. Bread. Warm soup. An apple, crisp and sweet.
The memory makes my eyes burn with tears, but I don't cry. Crying doesn't help. It never has.
I shift my weight and immediately regret it. Pain explodes across my back like fire. The whip marks from yesterday's beating are still fresh, still bleeding through my torn dress. I bite my lip hard to keep from screaming.
Princess Celeste's ruby necklace. That's what they said I stole. A lie. I've never stolen anything in my life. But who believes a servant over a princess?
The guards believed Celeste. They always do. Twenty lashes with the whip, then three days in the cellar with no food or water. To teach you a lesson, the head guard said while he locked the door.
I learned my lesson years ago: in Valdris Kingdom, people like me don't matter.
Slowly, carefully, I reach my hand behind my back. My fingers find the worst cut, right between my shoulder blades. It's deep. I can feel blood, wet and warm.
I look around the cellar. Still alone. Still dark except for the thin line of light under the door.
I take a breath and let my secret out.
Green light glows from my palm, soft as firefly shine. I press my hand against the cut and feel the familiar tingle of magic. The skin begins to close, just a little. The pain fades from screaming-fire to dull ache.
Better. Not healed, but better.
I pull my hand away and the green light dies. My heart pounds. Stupid, stupid, stupid. Even down here, someone might see. Someone might tell. And if they find out I have magic...
Magic is forbidden in Valdris. Has been for twenty-three years, ever since the Great Purge. That's when the king ordered his soldiers to kill every person who could do magic. Thousands died. My parents died.
I was just a baby then. The servants who raised me said I was lucky to survive. They taught me two rules: keep your head down, and never, ever let anyone see you're magic.
I've followed those rules my whole life. I've been invisible. Safe.
But safe doesn't mean happy. Safe doesn't mean free.
A sound interrupts my thoughts a crash from somewhere above. Then another. And another.
Shouting. Screaming. The clash of swords.
I sit up too fast and my back screams in protest, but I barely notice. My heart races as I press my ear against the cellar door.
The north wall is breached!
Fall back! FALL BACK!
The Warlord is inside the palace!
The Warlord.
For three months, the Northern Warlord has been attacking Valdris. His army has destroyed city after city, getting closer and closer to the capital. Everyone in the palace has been terrified. The servants whisper about him they say he's a monster, that he kills everyone, that he shows no mercy.
More crashes. More screaming. The sounds are getting closer.
The palace is falling.
I should be scared. Maybe I am. But mostly I feel... nothing. What does it matter if the Warlord kills me? The guards were probably going to let me die down here anyway. At least death by sword would be faster than death by starvation.
I close my eyes and lean against the wall. The stone is cold. Everything is cold.
This is it, I think. This is how my story ends. Twenty-three years of hiding, of being invisible, of surviving and I die alone in a cellar, forgotten.
The thought should scare me. Instead, I just feel tired.
Minutes pass. Or maybe hours. Time feels strange in the dark.
Then I hear them.
Footsteps. Heavy boots on stairs. Coming down.
My whole body goes tense. The footsteps are different from the guards' usual shuffle. These are steady. Strong. Military.
Northern soldiers.
The door handle rattles. Metal scrapes against metal as someone unlocks it from outside.
The door swings open.
Light floods in, so bright after three days of darkness that I have to squeeze my eyes shut. When I can finally see again, my blood goes cold.
Three soldiers stand in the doorway. They wear black armor with a silver wolf on the chest the Northern Warlord's symbol. Their faces are hard. Their hands rest on their sword hilts.
One of them looks at me. His eyes are gray and emotionless, like winter ice.
Get up, he says. His voice is rough, commanding.
I try to stand, but my legs shake. I haven't walked in three days. I barely have the strength to move.
The soldier makes an impatient sound. He steps into the cellar and grabs my arm, hauling me to my feet. Pain shoots through my back, but I bite my tongue to stay quiet.
Come with us, the soldier orders.
Why? My voice comes out as a whisper. Are you going to kill me?
The soldier's expression doesn't change. The Duke wants you.
Duke Malachi. The king's advisor. The second most powerful man in Valdris or he was, before the palace fell.
Why would the Duke want me? I'm nobody. Just a servant. Just
And then a terrible thought hits me, so horrible that ice floods through my veins.
The Duke has always watched me. I've seen him staring sometimes, with eyes that seem to see too much. What if he knows about my magic? What if he's known all along, and now he's going to tell the Warlord?
The soldiers drag me toward the stairs. My bare feet stumble on the stone steps. We climb up and up, out of the cellar, into the palace.
Everything has changed.
Bodies lie in the hallwaysguards, servants, and nobles. Blood stains the beautiful marble floors. Northern soldiers stand at every corner, weapons ready. The air smells like smoke and death.
They pull me through the chaos, and with every step, my fear grows.
We turn a corner, and I see where they're taking me.
The throne room.
The massive doors stand open. Inside, I can see hundreds of Northern soldiers. I can see Duke Malachai standing near the throne, his face cold and calculating.
And sitting on Valdris's blood-stained throne, dressed in black armor with ice-blue eyes that could freeze your soul
The Warlord himself.
The soldier shoves me forward. Walk.
I walk through those doors on shaking legs, my torn dress barely covering my whip-marked back, my face dirty with three days of cellar grime.
Every eye in the room turns to look at me.
The Warlord leans forward slightly, those terrible blue eyes examining me like I'm an insect.
Duke Malachi smiles. It's not a kind smile.
My lord Warlord, the Duke says smoothly, his voice echoing through the silent throne room. Allow me to present your bride.
What?
The word doesn't make sense. Bride? Me?
The Warlord's eyes narrow.
And in that moment, as I stand there shaking and confused and terrified in front of the monster who conquered my kingdom, I realize something with absolute certainty:
Whatever the Duke is planning, it's going to destroy me.