Page 17 of Nocturn

The Warlord took the end of the chain still attached to my collar and mounted. He tapped the back of his riding boot into the horse’s hind and the horse trotted forward.

The collar banded into my throat, and I staggered after him, struggling to keep pace.

“My lord.” My ankle gave out, cutting off my words. I tripped, and the metal digging into my throat choked off my breath. Spots danced across my eyes.

I bounced against the horse’s side and used the momentum to get to my feet.

Gasping in a breath, I tucked my fingers between the collar and my neck, then grabbed hold, using all my strength to keep my grip. It offered my throat a respite. I could breathe. Then my foot gave out as he trotted up an incline. I had a flash of iron gates, and I lost my footing. I fell onto my side with a hard thud, and stone rubbed against me.

I kicked my foot out, thrashing like a fish on a line as my gown tore. He didn’t stop. My fingers weren’t enough to keep me from choking when my knuckles dug into the soft flesh.

If I did not get myself upright, I would not survive this. Springing into motion, I kicked my slipper into the ground, and a rock sliced into it, shredding into the bottom of my foot.

A whimper left my lips, but I took hold of the side strap of the saddle, pulling myself up with all the strength in my body. My grip slipped, and I tumbled to the ground with a cry. I’m going to die.

No! I shoved my bare feet against the ground, my thighs burning. Grabbing hold of the saddle once more, I squeezed with all my might. My arms shaking in pain, but I knew if I let go, my neck would break.

Breaths sawed from my throat. The Warlord didn’t even peer at me. I was nothing to him. Nothing but a filthy redblood. I cinched my eyes tightly closed, reaching for that part inside my mind where I floated. Where everything turned numb.

I would survive this.

Everything that had been placed in my path, I survived . . . but doubt crept in. No one would save me from this fate.

I just had to find a way. There has to be a way.

The trotting slowed.

Thank Saints—with everything in my being—Thank Saints.

Abrax stopped with a whinny, and I could no longer hold on. I gave in to my trembling arms and let go, landing on my side. Breath left my lungs in an explosive gust.

Every bit of my body ached. I took in my shredded legs. Cuts sliced across the skirt of my sleeping gown and spread to expose the scratches running up to my bloody knees. One of my shoes was gone, and the other was sliced across the bottom.

I tried to stand, and a sharp sting stopped me.

Sweat beaded at my temples, and the tendrils that escaped my braid clung to the nape of my neck. The Warlord dismounted, and a stable boy appeared, taking the reins.

The black stone structure was larger than where we’d come from. Much, much larger. Pillars held the structure upright, their surfaces glinting in the dawnlight.

Gritting my teeth, I dragged myself upright, hunching to one side at the discomfort. He was already ahead of me, and I limped after him, the black tile cold against my bare feet. Blood dripped from my legs, making my steps slippery.

At the top of the stairs, the rounded archway opened into the Hall. My focus went to the onyx throne at the end. I slowed, studying the robed figures kneeling along the pathway leading to the throne. They didn’t look up.

If not for the carpet leading down the path, I think my feet would have fallen off. Fleurlets adorned the fabric I walked upon; the curving petals made it easy for me to identify the poisonous plant.

As I shuffled after the Warlord, I put as much strength as I could muster to keep up. My throat couldn’t bear much more abuse. The varied darkness of the chamber enhanced my feeling of dread. The black stone of the walls reflected the dawnlight spilling through the curved windows on both sides of the throne at the end of the pathway. The entire Grand Hall was frighteningly bare.

As we neared the line of hooded men, I counted twelve of them, all different shades and sizes. Twelve men who made up the council. The most powerful individuals across the realm if not taking into consideration the Warlord King. They all donned robes with the hoods down around their shoulders.

Avarice glinted in the eyes of the stocky, white-haired man. I lowered my gaze and hurried toward the Warlord, attempting to smooth down the front of my torn sleeping gown. Each step caused the slices to flutter, exposing my skin.

My face burned.

I had been ruined since the Sigil appeared . . . decorum no longer applied to me. As I climbed the steps to the raised platform holding the throne, the rug ended.

The Warlord dropped onto the throne with feline grace, his legs wide and hands on the arms. He did not spare me a glance as I moved to the side, my feet turning icy on the polished tile. I shuffled a few more steps back, using the throne as a shield.

“Lord Horveau,” he said, and his voice boomed across the cavernous hall. I hurried until I could slide beside the column framing his throne.