Page 34 of Between Smoke and Shadow
I don’t pause before entering the access code, terrified I’ll back out if I hesitate. At the last number, I suck in a thick breath and hold it. My lungs relax when a high-pitchedpingradiates from the doorknob. No blaring alarm or poisoned arrow or flock of guards…not yet, anyway.
I slip into the room, trembling against the door once it closes. The center lights whir to life, revealing the viewing room and the training arena beyond it. The door to the arena hangs open, but the adjacent office is closed. I move slowly through the room, eyes jetting from one corner to the next.
When I finally reach the door, the tension in my chest loosens. There’s no keypad, no place for a thumb print. I’ll be able to slip inside, search for anything useful and get out within a few minutes. I lift my hand to the doorknob, only to pause.
I can’t explain why, but I find myself staring at the arena’s gaping entryway. The heavy black mats, the cold gray walls, the rows upon rows of weapons. Sharp-edged swords and heavy rods and daggers and rings. The most powerful weapons in all of Savoa, left carelessly under-protected in this room.
I move away from the office and creep into the doorway of the arena. I don’t step into the room, but it lights up anyway. There are shoe marks on the mats and blood stains along the walls. From where I stand, I can see the tiles one guard used to fight the siblings. They’re smaller than the palm of my hand, tiny enough that I could hide a stack of them in my coveralls. I might do it, if they weren’t streaked with red.
What a difference our fight would be, if we had even a fraction of this magic.
I walk into the room, pausing again. Still no alarms, arrows, or guards. I keep my hands clasped in front of me as I walk, surveying the options. I’m almost back to the viewing room when I see a long sword propped against the wall. It’s not hung like the other weapons, and it appears to be made of solid metal. Not even the softest shade of red touches it.
I glance over my shoulder, triple checking I’m not being watched. Then, I step closer, only stopping when my feet frame the sword’s handle. I stare at it, trying to imagine its weight, whether I’d feel powerful or foolish holding it.
I lunge without thinking, clenching my breath as I pull the sword into my hands. There’s no burn, no sign it’s touched by magic. It is heavier than it looks though, and I have to use both hands to balance it. The handle, rough and bulky, feels like power for the taking. I suddenly hold a million revenge fantasies in my hands, and I raise the sword higher, struggling with the lopsided weight. The tip of the sword stretches two feet from me, bobbing at even the slightest movement.
I could hurt someone with this. I couldkillthem. The thought should scare me, but it’s delicious instead.
I carry the sword into the center of the arena, arms trembling, and pretend Viana stands before me. I imagine her beautiful dark hair, her delicate mask, her elaborate green gown, streaked with red. And that angry, violent expression she gets, right before she hits me.
With a sharp grunt, I swing as hard as I can. The blade slices through the air—and through imaginary Viana’s throat—but there’s no time to celebrate. The weight of the sword throws me more than I expect, and it flings from my grasp. It skitters across the mat, and I’m a second behind it, landing on my stomach.
After taking an unsteady breath, I curl toward the mat. Any feeling of power is gone, replaced with a fresh wave of humiliation.
What was I thinking, that I’d pick up a sword and transform from feeble servant to heroic warrior? As ifanythingin my life had ever gone so smoothly.
I clench my teeth and force myself to my knees. Pathetic. Absolutely pathetic. Not only wasting time but also damaging weapons. If there’s even a scratch on that blade, someone will know. I crawl toward it, and then freeze.
Red boots and slacks stand beside the handle. And I realize I am far worse than pathetic—I’m about to be dead.
I move my eyes up slowly, not sure who I’m hoping for. The Architect will kill me swiftly, I think. Prince Malek slowly, for the pure enjoyment of it. And Prince Harrick…I imagine he’ll use me as an example. He’ll show some form of mercy in front of a crowd, something that looks like a gentle sentencing that will actually be worse than death.
I swallow when my eyes meet Prince Harrick’s. He’s not wearing his crown, but he looks no less terrifying. Jaw set, lips turned down. There’s even a red tinge to his face, like he’s about to lose control like Viana so often does.
Vale will be disgusted if he ever learnshowI failed. He won’t understand why I got distracted from the mission, why I risked so much to play pretend.
I don’t understand it myself.
My lips part, but I can’t force myself to speak. If they’re going to kill Caleah for stealing a vial of magic, I can’t imagine how I’ll suffer forthis.
“Rune Ealde,” he says. His voice is smooth and deep, but his tone is eerily flat. “What are you doing here?”
Somewhere, in the recesses of my mind, I’m surprised he remembers my name. But my mouth still isn’t working, and it really doesn’t matter whether he thinks my name is Luna or Rain or Rune. A heavy tremor shakes through my body, harder than any earthquake I’ve ever felt. I’m going to pass out. I can feel the blackness pinching my eyes, the fogginess swarming my skull.
“Take a breath,” he says. He looks away from me to grab the sword, plucking it from the ground as if it’s weightless. “I’ve already vowed not to harm you.”
I nod, even though I don’t believe him. Vows, words, mean nothing at all—especially when that person is armed.
“You were holding it wrong,” he says, stepping toward me.
I scramble to my feet, moving backward as he comes forward. He stops then, eyebrows scrunching as he frowns atme. Still holding the sword in one hand, Harrick digs through his coat pocket and removes his red handkerchief. The same one he’d lent me for a mask.
“I understand that you fear me, Rune, but it’s not necessary,” he says. As he speaks, he lowers the sword, propping it against his side. He twists the blindfold over his eyes, tying it tightly around his head. When I suck in an audible breath, his lips tick, just slightly. It almost looks like he’s smirking.
“What are you doing?” I ask. These are the first words I manage, and they’re so quiet, even I barely hear them.
“Showing that I have no interest in hurting you,” he says simply. With the handkerchief over his eyes, he brings the sword back to his hand. “I have questions of you, Rune. Some suspicions too. I think that’s fair. But if you’re going to do something as wild and forbidden as brandishing a weapon, you should at least know how to hold it. It’d be a shame for you to cut yourself in half without anyone to stop the bleeding.”
