The Archshade

Thirty-Nine

My years spent as a thrall come rushing back to me in one back-breaking afternoon. My freshly blistered hands, cricked back, and sore shoulders only serve to fan the flame of escape in my chest, and my victory pushes the pain from my mind.

            As the fading twilight filters in through the palace windows, I pad softly down the corridors, a protective arm around the front of my kurti. Beneath the fabric, snug against my body, a stolen kitchen cloth is secured around my waist, forming a pouch. Scraps of dried meat from the smoker, a handful of nuts from the storeroom, a hunk of cheese from the larder, an empty goatskin water bag—my bounty is even more than I could've hoped. With years of experience stealing scraps with Baden, my fingers worked fast and stowed the stolen bits beneath my kurti before any could see. Not that anyone would notice in the frenzy of preparing for tomorrow's coronation feast.

            I do my best to conceal the smile behind my eyes as I pass servants lighting the evening torches. Hope refreshes my gait and eases the gnawing dread in my chest. The provisions beneath my clothes are a lifeline, a rope thrown to me just before sliding underwater. It won't last long, but all we need is a few days. Just a chance.

            I approach the door to Daynar's chambers, but the lightness in my chest disappears as soon as I cross over the threshold.

            The chamber is dark. No flickering candles. No glowing lanterns. Only a small shred of wavering gold light emanates from the kitchen alcove. From the small bit of illumination it casts, I see a trail of dark splotches on the marble floor.

            Blood.

            Silently, I stow my stolen provisions beneath a chair in the lounging chamber before moving towards the kitchen alcove. My ears pick up the hushed rustle of whispers, but I don't hesitate.

            As I round the corner, I call into the darkness: "Daynar?"

            The scene that meets me is far from what I expected.

            Aria is seated at the table, her eyes wide as I enter the room. Across from her, an older man who I've never seen before sits gripping the wood of the chair as Aria presses a rag to the bleeding wound on his forearm. Between them, providing just enough light to see, a shining ball hangs in the air, suspended by nothing. I only catch a glimpse of the scene before the shining ball snaps out of existence, plunging everything into darkness. I put my hand on the doorframe to ground myself in my unexpected blindness.

            "Ari—!"

            A sudden hand wraps around my throat. I gasp for air as I'm shoved backwards and slammed against the doorframe. Sharp pain stabs into my back and the base of my skull.

            "No! Munir, no!"

I claw and tear at the invisible hand, but the grip is too tight. My lungs start to burn. The darkness grows thicker. From the animal part of my mind, there's an incensed refusal to give in. Not now. Not when freedom is so close!

Sliding my hands past the taut wrists of my attacker, I grope along the skin of the forearm until I feel it—the wet warmth of fresh blood. Without hesitating, I plunge my fingers into the wound, pressing hard and twisting.

The kitchen alcove echoes with a visceral howl. The grip on my throat disappears. I stumble out of the doorway.

Disoriented by darkness and choking on the rush of fresh air in my lungs, I stagger and fall to my knees in the hallway. The cold of the marble floor snaps a bit of my sluggish mind back to life, and I crawl towards the chamber door, using the stone floor to guide me. I only make it a few steps from the doorway when I feel a hand on my shoulder.