Page 43 of Of Masks and Fury

One of the guards stepped toward me, a man with iron-gray hair. “Are you ready to leave, Your Highness?”

“Yes.” I kept my voice pleasant, the sweet princess grateful for her father’s consideration. “I appreciate you taking time from your duties, kind sirs.”

His expression didn’t change. “His Majesty insists on your safety.”

“How thoughtful of him.” I smoothed my skirts, a nervous gesture the old Amarissa would’ve made.

As we stepped through the castle doors into early afternoon sunlight that felt too bright and cheerful for what lay ahead, the guards formed a box around me with two in front and two behind. Trew positioned himself at my right shoulder. After leaving the grounds, we walked down the main road toward the marketplace.

When we passed the center where the Day of Mercy was held, I made myself look. And I made a promise to my people that no one would ever die in this place from ashwine again.

We continued until we reached the marketplace bustling with people both buying things and hawking their wares, plus shops with colorful streamers dangling from the roofs. The wind caught them, feathering them out in a rainbow.

As we walked through, the usual noise dimmed. People stopped what they were doing to watch me pass.

They bowed. Murmured, “Your Highness” with the appropriate deference. But their faces held something I’d never noticed before or perhaps had avoided acknowledging.

Wariness.

Not of me specifically, but of what I represented. The crown. The power. The bone-white mask I wore while presiding over executions.

In Syllavar, people had smiled at Trew and called out greetings. Teased him about the camellias in his garden or asked about Gavelle’s health. They’d loved him because he’d earned it. He protected them. He saw them as people rather than subjects to be managed.

Here, they looked at me and saw the executioner’s daughter.

Shame burned through me. These were my people. I should’ve fought harder for them. Challenged our laws. There must’ve been a way to stop the executions.

Instead, I’d made small rebellions and hoped they’d be enough.

How could I atone for the years I’d stood silent?

We’d passed the fountain at the market’s center when I saw the first notice, cream parchment nailed to a wooden post, bold black letters announcing the Day of Mercy.

Twenty-three names.

I stopped walking as horror ripped through me.

The guards shifted, their hands tightening on their weapons. Trew moved closer, angling his body to shield me from whatever threat he thought I’d spotted. But the only threat was the truth written on that parchment.

I forced myself to read the names. To see them. To acknowledge what would happen if I failed.

Elory Billins, the grain merchant who’d slipped extra flour to families who couldn’t pay. I’d bought bread from his shop after my mother passed.

Tara Whitley, a seamstress accused of animating her daughter’s toys with tiny sparks of magic.

Tom Courd, Justin Vess, Allen Marlon. All names I recognized from my rare visits beyond the castle walls.

Twenty-three people were scheduled to die because my father believed their magic was a crime.

As I stared, a passing villager brushed close, her breath hot against my ear.

“Please, Your Highness, save them. My brother’s on that list.” She hurried away before I could respond, her plea hanging like a weight while the guards’ eyes bored into me. I wanted to tear down the notice, rip it to shreds, and scatter the pieces across the cobblestones. End the meaningless cruelty it represented. But that wouldn’t stop anything. Another notice would appear. The executions would proceed as planned.

Destroying evidence of evil didn’t eliminate the evil itself.

I needed a permanent solution, a way to dismantle the entire system that made these murders possible. I just didn’t know what that solution was yet.

“Your Highness?” The head guard’s voice held a note of impatience. “Is something wrong?”