The Villain

The sun had disappeared beyond the horizon, but the night sky seemed to almost be mocking him with its brightness, teeming as it was with stars.

The guards had dragged him from the dungeon, his limbs like sandbags thanks to the magical cuffs sapping his strength. He’d maintained his will thanks to one irrefutable truth, repeated like a mantra these last few days.

Sage is not dead.

The king had to be lying to torment him—a valiant effort, Trystan had to admit. But Benedict hadn’t factored in that he and Sage were irrevocably linked by a gold ink bargain: an employment tool that was originally supposed to ensure loyalty from his new assistant but had instead become a way to monitor her safety. Though Sage was still under the impression the inked gold band around her pinkie finger would kill her if she betrayed him, he quietly vowed to tell her the truth when he saw her again.

And he would see her again.

It would be a disaster, of course. The way he would take perverse delight in her face flushing with anger and her nose scrunching. How she’d yell at him, and then the flush would go all the way down her chest, dipping below her bodice, at which time, naturally, he’d be distracted by it and stop listening. She’d notice and yell at him some more.

He couldn’t wait.

The chains at his wrists were long enough that they dragged to the floor, which was appallingly filthy and sticky with grime—even his dungeons weren’t this vile. But there were windows, and he could see, and at least the chains no longer bound him to the wall, so all in all, lovely upgraded accommodations.

“Could I get a corner cell?” he asked the guards through the bars. He’d

barely spoken in the last however many days had passed, and one could hear it when the words croaked out, like sandpaper against stone.

“Shut it, you lout! I hope the king guts and hangs you after the unmasking.” The guard on his left pulled on one of his chains, and he stumbled.

“Will you be unmasking as well?” Trystan asked gruffly.

The guard lifted his helmet to expose his gaunt face and what Trystan assumed was an eternally scowling expression. Did Trystan look like that when he scowled?

“I’m not wearing a mask,” the guard said. He sighed. “Pity.”

The guard’s face twisted with rage as he raised a fist. “You godsdamn—” But the man was stopped by the guard to Trystan’s right. “Stay your hand,

Sir Seymore, and worry not. I will be the one to bring him into the ballroom for the unmasking.” This new guard’s deep voice sounded oddly familiar, but his face was covered, only his green eyes visible.

Had he seen those eyes before?

While Trystan was contemplating that possibility, his own eyes drifted toward the end of the hall. His vision was still blurry and strained from so long without light, but he could make out the brown door, slightly ajar. His tongue pressed to the roof of his mouth—an escape route. Was he to be taken to the unmasking immediately? The open door should’ve looked like doom, but all he saw was freedom. He simply needed a good enough distraction and a way to remove the magically suppressing cuffs cutting off the blood supply to his wrists…

His gaze roamed over a larger window beyond the bars, and the night sky blinked back at him. Of course, he knew it was irrational to wish, but as the star out the window twinkled, daring him to—as it had once before—he found himself doing it anyway.

He wished to find Sage.

He wished to tell her he was sorry.

He wished to be better about revealing how he felt, bit by bit.

And perhaps, most importantly—he wished to have a godsforsaken tea party with her little sister, Lyssa.

It felt ridiculous, but it was that thought that somehow energized his languid limbs as he heard the green-eyed guard unlocking his cage.

Not yet. Not yet. NOW.

He sprinted through the open door, the chains dragging behind him, the metal biting into his hands as he gripped it. The muscles in his legs burned as he ran, but he couldn’t stop—the exit was so close. His breaths were coming in uneven pants, his sock-clad feet making him slide against the stone. Gods knew where his boots had disappeared to.

Mildly mortifying, he thought through breathless gasps, how hard I fought to keep them. They’d been a gift from Sage.

Nearly to the door, he could hear the guards yelling behind him. The loudest voice belonged to the green-eyed knight, who was begging him to halt. The pure desperation—and was that a hint of fear?—in his voice made Trystan pause as he put a hand on the door.

“Don’t go in there, Mr. Maverine. You’ll regret it, I swear.” Ah, Benedict had finally revealed Trystan’s true name to the Valiant Guards. It would no doubt spread to the kingdom next, the Maverine name damned, his family ruined.

Intolerable.

Not that they would be affected—but that he cared.

He pushed on the door and heard Benedict’s satisfied voice from behind him. He should’ve paused, should have listened to the warning bells in his head, but his mind and body had gone haywire; he couldn’t trust his instincts any longer. They were as good as a broken compass.

This was why he could ignore the malicious subtext in Benedict’s order. “No, men. Let. Him. Go. Let him see.”

Trystan didn’t wait, just exited the hall and sprinted to what was hopefully a stairwell but—no. It wasn’t a stairwell; it was a small room.

And what he saw inside proved once and for all that wishes were not made for people like him.

Only horror.