What am I going to do?
I can’t let my brother kill Saga and Vil. I can’t let him killBallast. I can’t, can’t, can’t. But how am I supposed to stop him? If I had my magic, maybe I could—what, subdue him and the fifty Iljaria who answer to him? VioletLord, who do I think I am?
Gulla’s words spell out in my mind:You need to figure out where your loyalties truly lie. You need to figure out what is buried within your own heart.
Wheredomy loyalties lie?
With my family, with my people. Of course they do. Of course.
But.
My father, forging me into a tool, locking my magic away, sending me into the den of a lion without a backward glance. I was just a sacrifice. A useful sacrifice, and a willing one.
But a sacrifice all the same.
Did he ever think about me, after he sent me away? Did he hope I was doing well? Or was he just impatient for news of the Yellow Lord? He didn’t send the ambassador more than once.
I am Iljaria. I must be faithful to my people.
But.
The Iljaria are pacifists. We don’t believe in war, in death. It is not our way.
Except our history is steeped in war and death. The entire nation of Skaanda fled Iljaria to escape it. To cover our shame, we built a barrier of magic and hid in the haven of power and privilege we created while the rest of the world destroyed one another. And now Iljaria has emerged again, to seize more power and remake the world according to our whims.
To Brandr this is justice. Retribution. He has no qualms at all in sacrificing two peoples to accomplish his purpose.
I can’t accept that.
Saga, trusting me to carry her through the snow. Trusting me in the caves, even when she woke to find her worst enemy there with us. Saga, bursting with joy when we met up with the Skaandan army. Pulling me out of my nightmares. Trusting me, always trusting me, even as I plotted to betray her.
Vil, befriending me, making me feel safe, reminding me what it should be like to have a family. Dreaming of bigger and better thingsfor the country he so loves. Offering his heart, even though I found myself unable to take it.
And Ballast. There on the cliff when my sister died, there in the great hall when his father locked me in an iron cage. There in his childhood bedroom, bringing me food and books, giving me the precious gift of light and companionship to hold back the horror of the dark. There in the caves by a rushing river, his mouth on mine and his fingers in my hair. There in his father’s prison cell, reviling me, burns on his neck where the collar bound him.
I can’t let my brother kill him. I can’t let him kill any of them.
I refuse.
My throat hurts. Kallias’s blood is stiff and dried on my hand now. I try not to think about him, slumped and dead in the cage. I told him I would be free, when he was dead. But I’m not.
If I don’t do something, and do somethingnow, that will be Saga and Vil, very soon. That will be Ballast.
Gulla’s fingers flash in my memory, spelling out a truth I wasn’t quite ready for:You need to figure out what is buried within your own heart.
I take a breath.
I think you already know.
She’s right.
I do.
I should stop to scrub my hands, to change my gown, before I go back to Gulla’s room, but I don’t. When I drop down from the vent, Gulla, Rute, Finnur, and a few other of the older children are waiting for me. The younger ones are asleep in the big bed, their dreams making them whimper.
Gulla and the others look at me, and I see the truth of what I’ve done reflected in their eyes. I don’t know why, but I feel dirty, ashamed,like Kallias’s blood has seeped through my skin and into my heart. I am a monster now—isn’t that what Kallias said I would become? My cheek is raw and tender where I gnawed on it. I bite down again, because I don’t have time to cry anymore.
You have decided,Gulla signs to me.
