I will never forgive you for this!
ChapterThree
After the execution, the guards lead me back to my crumbling cottage. Nobody speaks to me. Nobody cares that they callously took Malachi’s life.
To the Bloodstone people, I am nothing. No. I am less than nothing. They will only use me and discard me.
My surcoat lashes against my legs as I pace the small space between the lumpy mattress and the wall. The more I walk, the more my anger fumes inside me.
Malachi didn’t have to die.
Hector just wanted an excuse to wound me so deeply I never recover. I slam my thumbnail into my left palm, wishing it was Hector I was driving my thumb into. His neck would be a good spot.
I stop and study the door. I will run. They will have to kill me to stop me.
If they do, so be it. At least, I would be with Mother again, and the Bloodstone wouldn’t be able to use me to regain their dark magic.
I take a deep breath. I need a plan. Any kind of plan. Or maybe, I should just start running and see how long they take to strike my body with arrows.
I eye the terracotta basin and pitcher for a beat before rising and moving to the washing stand. Determination guides me as I pick up the pitcher and slam it into the stone floor, shattering the pottery into jagged pieces.
My heart races as I grab a smaller fragment and use it to saw through the rope binding my hands together. Quicker and quicker, I cut until the threads break. My heart pounds even harder as the door creaks open. I hold the rope against my body, keeping it secured, and hide the fragment in my fist as the red-haired guard peers inside my room.
“What happened?”
“I’m such a clumsy fool.” I let out an embarrassed laugh. “I was trying to pour water, and I accidentally dropped my pitcher.
He glances between me and the remnants of the terracotta pitcher.
Nerves thrum against the base of my throat as I smile at him. “Would you be so kind as to help me pick up the pieces? I don’t want to cut myself.”
Indecision grips his features as he shifts his weight. “I shouldn’t.”
“Please,” I say, my words meek, innocent. “I wouldn’t want to wound myself and make you have to fetch a healer.”
“You’re right.”
He moves to the broken pottery and kneels. Sunlight breaks through the window and bounces off the guard as he scoops up the fragmented pieces.
It’s now or never.
I react, lurching forward to grab his hair and yank his head back. With a quick slice, I slash his throat with the pottery. He groans and sinks to the floor.
I’m sorry.
Instantly, I slam the thought away. The Bloodstone weren’t apologetic when they murdered Malachi. Besides, I cannot be sorry if I’m going to escape.
I clutch the makeshift weapon tighter in my fist and move to stand behind the door. “Come quickly. Something has happened.”
As the second guard approaches, I draw in a deep breath and will the nerves to dissipate. He appears in the doorway, and I attack from behind, slashing his throat the way I did with the red-haired man. His eyes widen in horror as he reaches for his bloody neck.
With trembling hands, I drop the jagged pottery and yank a dagger from his weapon belt and run—right through the door, right toward escape. Faster and faster, I run by the second set of guards, who don’t react until I’m already past them. They shout my name, but I ignore them.
They cannot make me stop.
Nobody can.
Well, not until the Bloodstone barbarians kill me. Then everything will stop. My life. My dreams. My hopes.
