Page 3 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

She took another step back, sending more mice scurrying from the hay. This wasn’t right. She was meant to have until tomorrow. Was meant to see her father. Her brother. A pathetic whimper escaped her as panic coiled in her chest. Not at the approaching guards, but at the thought of never seeing her family again. It had never mattered that they weren’t herrealfamily—they were all she had. And she couldn’t die without saying goodbye. Without thanking them for the life they’d given her.

Her back pressed against the cold stone, grazing against the knot on her spine she’d had for as long as she could remember. She reached a hand out to steady herself, her fingers brushing against something slick and slimy, and she fought to steady her breathing.

Two guards stepped into the cell, a third remaining beside the king.They truly think I’m going to harm him.She could try to snatch his sceptre… but she’d never be able to fight off the three guardsandthe king, heaving oaf that he was. And if Kara’s guard had wanted to keep his job, he’d have locked the door to the prison behind him.

But she wouldn’t beg again. Not to him. None of the citizens held much regard for Arnir, but Zylah had seen what a true tyrant he was during her time working in the palace. The brin fruit hadn’t fallen far from the tree with Prince Jesper.

She wiped her hand against the back of her tunic and twined her fingers together to hide her shaking, fighting with the instinct to run. There was nowhere to go. One guard hooked his hand around her arm and tugged her forwards. His warm touch through her tunic brought her right back to Jesper’s quarters, but she shook the thought away.

“Move!” The guard’s voice reverberated in the small cell. The second stood at her other side as she stepped forwards.

They tugged her arms out from behind her, and the first guard locked heavy iron cuffs around her wrists, the chain dragging her hands against her body. No chance of snatching the sceptre now.

King Arnir mumbled something incoherent and stormed off, his personal guard close behind him, his sceptre scraping against every iron bar of every single cell as he left.

“Any sudden movements and we’ve orders to strike you down here and now. Understood?” the guard to Zylah’s left said.

She looked up at his pockmarked face, his broken nose and the large scab on his cheek. He was just like the rest of them, blindly taking orders from their fool of a king.

That was why Zack had joined the guard—he’d wanted to make a difference. She’d trained with her brother every day before he’d joined, could match him blow for blow with a sword—well, a training sword, at least.

Everything he’d learnt, he’d taught her. Sword fighting, archery, how to disarm a man, how to strike him down without a weapon. Zylah ran through everything he’d taught her—any shred of information that might help her get out of this. They’d never coveredhandcuffed and escorted by guards.

If only she had a hairpin, or a needle, anything to work on the cuffs.

She bit back a hysterical laugh. Not that she’d ever be able to pick them anyway.

“Disgusting Fae,” a woman spat as the guards dragged Zylah down the corridor. It was Maren, the woman from earlier who had been begging to leave. Zylah recognised her voice.

“I’m human,” she muttered to no one in particular. It didn’t matter now, no one would believe her—but for killing the prince, they’d branded her as Fae regardless. To make an example, she suspected.

The last of the Fae had been wiped out a little over two decades before when she was a baby. Humans had had enough of their kind—of the power they flaunted, and an uprising had nearly destroyed everything. Everyone fled, for a time, human and faeries alike. It was most likely the reason she’d been dumped in the bushes for her brother to find.

He’d brought her back to their father, days after Zack’s mother had been killed. Their father had taken one look at her and brought her up as his own—maybe it was the grief, maybe it was just because he was a good person, Zylah would never know. But she was just as human as the rest of them. There was no hint of Fae about her—no pointed ears, no powers, no ethereal beauty. Nothing.

And for the first time in her life, she wished she truly was different. Something more.

Something else.

The man beside Maren spat, and the glob of phlegm narrowly missed Zylah’s feet.

“Oi, that’s enough of that,” the guard to her right snapped. She didn’t bother to look at him. He’d only said it because the snot had only just missedhim. It wasn’t for her benefit.

The king and his guard had already disappeared up the stairs, their orblights leaving a ghostly luminescence in their wake.

Pockmark made his way through the door first, and the second guard shoved her towards him, taking up his position at the back of their miserable procession.

Zylah’s breaths felt shorter with each intake of fetid air. Before, she’d somehow found a sense of calm about having one more day, some sense of order to it all. But this was random, the king’s command had come out of nowhere, and it had shattered her self-control. She wasn’t ready to die. She had too much living still to do. She had to see the world beyond Dalstead and her little village, had to discover for herself all the things she’d only ever read about in books.

Tears pressed at the corners of her eyes, but she blinked them back as she shuffled up the stone staircase. The orblights hovered above them as if they had a mind of their own, but Zylah knew there had to be a science behind them, somehow. Some small parts inside them that allowed them to move, an insect, perhaps? She’d never figured it out, never been allowed close enough to one to inspect them. Only the palace had them, the rest of the city used lamps and candles.

The staircase seemed to narrow as they ascended, each turn of the spiral pressing in on Zylah, swallowing all the air that was left in the tiny space. Soon they’d reach the top, reach the corridor at the back of the palace.

She wished she had some besa leaves to dull her panic, dull everything. She could picture them in a jar beside the counter in her father’s apothecary, grey and crumbling in the yellow tinted glass. He’d taught her all he knew about plants—which she could eat raw, which she could cook, which had uses for medicine, for poison. She’d spent every spare moment poring over his textbooks, forgetting her other chores and responsibilities.

Zylah Alyssa Renfall, she could hear her father say.The broth is boiling over again!

He’d named her Zylah after his mother. Alyssa after the alyssina flowers that matched the dark violet of her eyes—eyes she’d learnt to hide from inquisitive people who entered their apothecary.

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