SILENCE RANG THROUGH THE courtyard as the lethal curve of the purging knife glinted in the space between them. A knife that had stolen not only Nan’s life, but hundreds of others.
Rune expected it to burn her when she took it. But as Laila placed it in her hands, both the hilt and the steel were cold to the touch. Rune hoped her trembling didn’t give her away.
What am I going to do?
If she refused to kill the witch before her, she’d reveal the truth to every single one of her enemies. Rune was surrounded. There weren’t only Laila and the other Blood Guard soldiers to contend with. There was the Good Commander himself, not to mention the hundreds of patriots seated at tables, and the thousands of guards beyond, patrolling the halls of the palace.
Cold panic hummed in Rune’s blood. She was trapped.
The Commander signaled to the musicians to begin. This was the sickest part of private purgings: the music. As if slitting the throat of a girl and watching her bleed out over the floor weren’t butchery or murder, but refined art.
Rune’s fingers tightened around the knife hilt.
Laila retreated, moving toward the levers. In a moment, she’d pull them, and the chains would snap, yanking Seraphine’s feet out from under her and drawing her toward the sky, to hang upside down. Like a cow to be slaughtered.
Rune and Seraphine were momentarily alone on the platform.
She could cast a spell. But to do that, she’d have to pull the blood vial from her pocket, uncork it, and draw the spellmarks. Someone would realize what she was doing and stop her before she could finish.
I could nick my finger with this knife, she thought. Just the fingertip.
And use the blood to draw a spellmark on my palm.
But what spell would be quick enough? What wouldn’t require much blood or draw much attention?
And the silvery scar she’d be left with would damn her.
Maybe that was the price she needed to pay, to save Seraphine. To fulfill her grandmother’s last request.
The music still played as Laila grabbed hold of the levers.
“You disgust me.” Seraphine spat. The spittle hit Rune’s cheek, startling her and drawing her attention back to the witch. “Kestrel would be ashamed of you.”
Beneath the grime of too many nights spent in a disgusting cell, Seraphine was fine-boned and pretty. She reminded Rune of a sparrow.
“You don’t deserve the Winters name.” The witch’s eyes burned like black fire. As if, were their positions reversed, Seraphine would have already cut Rune’s throat.
I went to find you, Rune wanted to say. I’ve been trying to save you.
With so many people listening, she didn’t dare.
“Do you have nothing to say to me?” Seraphine’s voice shook—out of hatred for Rune, or grief over Kestrel, or possibly the knowledge that she was about to die.
What they needed was a distraction. Something to put the room into a panic.
A fire would be good. Rune could cause utter chaos with a fire. But summoning actual fire was a complex spell that required a lot of fresh blood, and not only did Rune not know the marks, she didn’t have the blood.
But the illusion of a fire … that she might manage.
Laila pulled the lever. There was an awful clinking sound of metal straining against metal. Rune knew what came next. So did everyone else.
The chains yanked Seraphine’s feet out from under her. She flipped in the air, and her body swung helplessly as she was hauled skyward.
With no other choice, Rune decided to risk the casting scar.
She was about to touch the knife’s sharp steel to the tip of her finger and press down hard, when the acrid tang of smoke burned in the air.
“Fire!” someone yelled.
What? Rune hadn’t even drawn blood yet. “FIRE!” More people took up the call.
Rune lowered the knife and glanced up. Black smoke thickened the air, drawing her gaze to the column of fire rising on the far side of the courtyard. Instead of red flames, these were black. Just like Seraphine’s eyes.
Spellfire.
This isn’t my spell, she realized.
She remembered the murderous look in Seraphine’s eyes.
Is it hers?
Suddenly, the column moved. Fast. Snaking toward the purging platform. Heading straight for Rune. Realizing it, she inhaled sharply, and the sting of smoke burned down her throat.
Rune erupted in a fit of coughing and her eyes burned with tears, making it hard to see.
Help Seraphine.
As she stumbled through the smoke, someone called Rune’s name— Verity?—but she didn’t glance toward the sound. She needed to get Seraphine down before the spellfire devoured them both.
Black fire crackled around them. Its fiery heat curled up Rune’s back and singed her hair. The knife hilt grew hot in her hands, burning her skin. She dropped it.
Before she could lunge for Seraphine, the dark flames snaked between them. The witch vanished, leaving Rune alone, trapped in the spellfire.
On some invisible command, the fiery circle constricted, closing in on
her.
As if it intended to burn her alive.
