Page 54 of Captive of the Stolen Empire

A young boy with fair skin and dark hair, no more than six cycles, stood among tree trunks smattered with maroon and green moss. A short-sleeved tunic and dark pants decorated with golden thread hung from his skinny form. Small boots of polished leather hugged his feet, sinking into the loamy ground.

My brows drew together. Gabriel didn’t have a son.

The boy’s high-pitched voice called out for his father, his uncle.Ah, that’s who he is to Gabriel, a nephew.

Gabriel twisted around at the voice. “Bastien…” Just as quickly, he turned his back on the boy. “It’s not him!” he shouted at me. Despite his denial, his posture stiffened, hands tugging harshly against the ropes. It was him, at least the memory of him.

I glanced past the angry man to the illusion beyond. Familiar grey eyes stared straight back through the man whose thoughts and memories conjured him. Then I saw it. A mark on the boy’s right arm. Dark. Shaped like a star. Twin to my own.

The world spun. Breath flew from my chest like a solid punch to the gut, one that sent me stumbling back a step. The illusion wavered, like a ripple over a still pond, before solidifying.

It can’t be.

My body shuddered. Heavy breaths heaved in and out of my lungs as I struggled to keep the illusion intact.A trick. It has to be.Gabriel had witnessed his friend’s torment. Perhaps he’d found a way to summon his own horrific image to counteract my magic. It was the only thing that made sense.

What Ilya had told me… I searched the crowd for her. She sat pale and straight, her eyes glued to me as men and women around her jumped at the sound of wolves howling—more of the illusion.

Had she found a way to communicate with her friend? To thread little bits of information into her interactions with him that could threaten to bring me to my knees?

I shivered despite the fires heating my armor and the sweat rising to the surface of my now clammy skin. I’d consider it later, when so many eyes weren’t on me and the scene my magic wrought. The effort of it tugged at my center, a reminder to focus despite the distraction.

A second howl followed the first, shrill and eager. Then a third.

The illusion boy ran through the trees, nearing Gabriel as the man spun around toward the scene.

“Papa! Uncle!” the boy cried, before tripping over a tree branch and falling into a pile of leaves and loamy underbrush.

Gabriel started toward him as the boy rose, scrapes marring his pale arms. “I’m here,” he called. The boy rushed ahead, just out of his grasp. The rope jerked tight, drawing Gabriel to a sudden stop that wrenched a cry from his lips as rope bit into his skin.

A wolf bounded into the ring of fire. The boy sprawled backward onto the ground, away from the beast whose grey hair rose along his back as a growl rumbled from its throat. It wasn’t just any wolf, but a hulking beast from the mountains north of Trale. The soiled, matted fur and inflamed jaws marked it a diseased animal—crazed.

Another appeared from behind a tree to pace near the boy.

Gabriel struggled against the bindings, straining toward the child just out of his reach.

It didn’t take the blessing of magic to know where this fear would lead. I glanced away, back toward the woman who never failed to draw my attention. She sat stiff as a board watching the illusion play out, arms tight against her sides. My fingers twitched. Something tugged at my chest, urging me to go to her, but I couldn’t.

“Please, no more!” Gabriel begged. The cry pulled my attention back to the illusion.

A wolf lunged. High-pitched screams erupted. The other animal paced and snapped before bounding into the fray.

Torn cloth. Blood. Mangy fur.

Screams turned to gargled cries.

Then silence.

I tugged at my magic, willing an end to the gruesome display that turned my stomach.

The scene faded, leaving Gabriel collapsed on his knees, head and shoulders hunched in defeat.

The crowd was deathly silent in the wake of the two vicious scenes. The punishment my emperor dealt affected not only his victims but all in attendance. All except himself, it seemed, as he rose to stand in his box and turned toward the attendees, spreading his arms wide. Emperor Ryszard’s frame held no emotion, only cold indifference as he scanned the audience.

The emperor never led his troops on the front lines in battle—that was my task—but he was no coward. No torment I’d ever conjured, real or imagined, moved him. In my youth he’d been different. Supportive. Encouraging. Eager to see our new skills. As the empire grew so did his detachment. Whatever thoughts and feelings floated behind his high cheekbones and fine wrinkles, he kept them locked safely away.

“Let us not forget the terrors we try to put behind us,” his voice boomed across the crowd, strong and clear. “And one last reminder for our friends that treason is not without cost.”

I retreated through a break in the flames, tasting the bile in my throat as Brishon stepped forward. Mental torment was not enough to please our ruler. He’d requested one more punishment as well, a physical one, though it would fade with time.

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