Chapter 1: Paedyn CHAPTER 1 Paedyn A drop of blood splatters onto the floor, marring the pristine marble beneath my shaking legs. I stare at the scarlet splotch, ears ringing and vision blurring. Honey. It''s just honey. Rivers of red twine down my leg, their currents swift enough to have me rocking on my heels. Or maybe it''s the slow realization of my fate that has this throne room spinning like the band of steel that chokes my thumb. I blink at the shiny floor, staring at the shell of a girl reflected up at me. Her face is streaked with dirt, eyes haunted by a future she hasn''t yet seen and never thought she would.
Silver hair dusts her shoulders, as pale as the sweaty face it sticks to. She sways, like one might on the shoes of a loved one. Hands are cuffed behind her back, blood leaking from tattered skin. She is shambles. She is haunted. She is to be a bride. But that can''t be true. I took his everything from him.
And he is going to kill me for it. He has to. My chest is suddenly too tight, breath catching in my throat beside the flood of words I''m swallowing back. Because death is the fate I''ve been preparing for my whole life--the destiny I deserve. I feel it on the stained fingertips that will forever drip with the blood of others, in the O carved atop my sputtering heart to brand me a weakness. Death is the only constant in my life, like an old friend who hones every one of my dark secrets into a weapon. He calls me weak and all I hear is Ordinary. He calls me doomed and all I hear is an earnest promise.
His is the hand my bloody fingers reach for because there is comfort in his imminence. Now there is nothing but the ringing in my ears and this deafening quiet of the unknown. "Paedyn." I stiffen at the same moment the looming figures around me do. He might as well have called me a traitor. A murderer. An Ordinary weakening our Elite kingdom. Because those are the only names this court knows me by.
The only names the entirety of Ilya spit as I was paraded to their king. Simply, they sum up the insignificance of my short existence. My eyes slowly climb from the pattern my blood has painted atop the floor. Honey. It''s only honey. Polished shoes crowd my vision, their black shine bleeding into equally dark pant legs. My gaze slides up the slim-fitting stretch of fabric and every seam concealing the strong body beneath. I urge my perusal upward, and my eyes collide with his belt buckle before skipping to the box resting innocently in his raised palm.
I know what sits within that velvet case, can see it glinting out of the corner of my eye. And yet, I don''t spare it a glance, as if that could stop the sparkling shackle from inevitably slipping onto my finger. Higher still is his wrinkled shirt. I trail every button until my gaze settles at the base of his throat and the collar encircling it. I have yet to look him fully in the face since my sentence rolled off his tongue. "You are to be my bride." It''s as though I''ve been thrown back to the Trials and the equally challenging game of pretend that accompanied them. I couldn''t bear to look at him then, not unless I wished to see the king staring back.
But I killed the man I once saw reflected in his son''s green gaze. Edric Azer haunts me only in the fragments of my mind and the matching broken heart he carved into. I made sure of that. And yet, I still cannot bring myself to look at this Kitt. My throat burns. I may have created something far worse than his father. "Paedyn." His voice is startlingly soft, reminding me of a time when that wouldn''t have been shocking.
"Look at me." This isn''t the first time he''s said those words in response to my pointed avoidance of his gaze. But there is now so much more keeping my eyes from his, a past far more ruinous than the resemblance to a king who had my father killed. There is betrayal. There is hurt. And history is not easily forgotten by the kings who write it. But that hint of familiarity in his voice has my chin lifting, my eyes gliding from that crumpled collar to crash into his. Green.
Just as they were, and just as they always will be. He looks at me, and I look at him. A criminal without a father, and a son forever trying to please his. Just as we were, and just as we always will be. And for the first time since that battle in the Bowl, we truly see each other. His lips twitch into something too sinister for a smile, too soft for a scowl. As though he wears formidability itself. "The future queen of Ilya bows her head to no one.
" My mouth dries at his words while the entire court leans in to hear them. Their disbelief is palpable, mingling with the collective cloud of confusion that hangs thickly over our heads. Dozens of eyes prickle my skin, tracing the scar down my neck and the blood staining my skin. They take in this new version of the Silver Savior, the one who cut off the very thing that gave her the title. My short hair does little to conceal the brokenness I now bear so blatantly on my body. The court gawks at what it is they glean from my appearance. I am a Psychic who is nothing of the sort. An Ordinary who somehow survived their Purging Trials, committed treason, killed their king, and is still standing here before them, alive against all odds.
That is when I hear Death''s whisper echoing from the darkest corner of my mind. The part of me that had accepted my imminent doom the moment I learned what it meant to be powerless in this kingdom. Now he calls me queen, and all I hear is laughter. Because this fate may prove to be worse than Death himself. "Uncuff her," the king commands casually. My breath catches at the brush of calluses against my skin. Kai. My head whips around, unable to stop myself.
Unable to focus on anything but the burning need to look at him. But it''s not his gray gaze I crash into. No, this one is brown, murky with blatant hatred. These are not the eyes I search for in every crowd. Not the eyes that rake over me with a reverence I revel in. Not the eyes that have counted every freckle dotting my nose, every shiver of my body. My breath grows shaky before the Imperial who had carelessly cut that cuff from my ankle in the poppy field. He is to blame for every drop of my tainted blood marring this marble floor.
His movements are as rough as the hands that carelessly yank at the chain encircling my wrists, further tearing the skin beneath. Tears prick my eyes, and I blink, forcing them back. I shake my head slightly in defiance to the growing weakness within me and bite the quivering lip that portrays it. My gaze scans the room, body shuddering in pain as I search for him. I''m frantic, eyes fumbling over unfamiliar faces. Damn the pretending. Damn the hiding. Damn everything but him and us and this moment where I need him.
But he''s nowhere to be found. And for the first time since stealing those silvers from him on Loot Alley, I feel utterly alone. The lock clicks. The cuffs spring open. They fall to the floor, clanking against stone and smearing blood. The sound rings through the ornate throne room, sounding of finality. Of freedom that comes at a price. "Much better.
" I tear my eyes from the gaping crowd to find the king smiling pleasantly. Rubbing my raw wrists, I watch as Kitt extends the hand not currently cupped around that little black box I''m avoiding. I blink at his palm, his gesture of goodwill. This single touch separates a traitor from a future queen. When my gaze flicks up to the king, he offers a single reassuring nod. But the look he wears is laced with a reminder--I have no say in any of this. So, when my dirt-streaked hand meets his ink-stained one, I let him pull me closer. I wonder if he can hardly bear to hold the hand that drove a sword through his beloved father''s chest, let alone slip a ring onto the finger that once dripped with his blood.
As if in response to my racing thoughts, he gives me a gentle squeeze. The action is meant to comfort, though it alarms me far more than any threat. "We Ilyans believe to have conquered the Plague many decades ago." Kitt''s voice carries across the throne room, deliberate and domineering in that familiar way I know he learned from his father. "Yes, our powers are a gift from the Plague, but they are also a spit in its face. Because it is Elites who came out stronger on the other side of a sickness meant to kill us. Elites who protected our weak kingdom from conquerors. Elites who showcase their strength in the Purging Trials.
" Murmurs of agreement flutter throughout the room, followed by a wave of prideful nods. I bite my tongue, anger rising until it stains my cheeks with a flush. I am nothing more than their Ordinary entertainment, their example of weakness. I''ve been put on a pedestal to be poked and prodded, degraded and shamed. "But Elites weren''t the only ones who survived the Plague, were we?" His question has the rage cooling on my tongue, leaving my mouth dry. Time seems to slow as I turn my face to him and hang on every unspoken implication. "No, there were also the Ordinaries," he continues evenly. "The Ilyans who managed to stay alive, and yet, did not obtain abilities.
And after years of coexistence with the Elites, they were banished and continually hunted for their lack.