Page 4 of A Legacy of Storms and Starlight

Since the other children had branded her as different, she had quickly learnt how to make herself invisible. They all knew her brother and father weren’t her true family, and she didn’t want to draw further attention to herself. So she’d taught herself to be small, to shrink in a crowd or to be silent at a gathering, to go unheard and unseen in plain sight.

She could outrun anyone; it had always been her and Zack’s secret weapon as children stealing brin fruit from carts. He’d distract the stall owners and she’d swipe the goods and run. No one could ever catch her. But she’d soon learnt not to outrun the other children. She taught herself to stumble, to huff and puff the way they did. To pretend she’d twisted an ankle or simply couldn’t keep up with the rest.

But her stumble on the last step up into the palace was no charade, and the guard behind her yanked at her tunic to right her, shoving her the rest of the way. She would never see Zack and her father again. Never hear her father call her name. An acid taste coated her tongue, and if she’d had anything left to bring up, she’d have heaved all over the guard in front of her. She choked back a gagging cough instead.

“Don’t you hurl your bloody guts up on me,” Pockmark barked. “I only got this uniform last week.”

The guard behind her laughed. “Just like a piece of shit Fae to ruin a good uniform.”

If she’d thought she could open her mouth without being sick, Zylah would have snapped back with an objection. But she didn’t have it in her. They were marching her straight to the gallows. No one would listen to her cries for help.

A noise echoed off the walls, one she wondered if only she could hear, a thumping, rhythmic sound that matched her quickening heartbeat. The chains rattled with the shake of her hands. The sweat at the back of her neck sent a chill down her spine. There was so much she had wanted to do still. So much to see. So many new plants and remedies to discover. The last shreds of composure she’d found over the past few days seemed to fall away from her with each shuffle forwards.

The palace was a blur in the glow of the orblights, her feet pressing into the plush golden carpet. She’d expected the guards to lead her through the back corridors and down to the river where the gallows were, but instead, they were heading for the front of the palace. Zylah imagined maids running in the moment they left, burning the carpet she’d walked on and replacing it with something new and equally garish. Gods, she truly did stink. The thumping grew louder, so loud Zylah couldn’t feel her heartbeat anymore.

Pockmark pushed open the doors to the great hall, and Zylah turned away from the assault of light. Her cuffed hands were too heavy to raise to her face; all she could do was let her eyes slowly adjust. The hall was lined with great windows, a winding staircase rose on either side, lavish purple drapes and pictures three times as tall as her lining the walls—though most things were taller than her, she’d found.

It was a spectacular entrance, precisely the kind of grandiose display she’d expected the first time she’d set foot in the palace, dripping with privilege and echoing with the sound of cheers and clapping from outside. That explained the thumping.

It was just like Arnir to turn the event into a spectacle.

A spicy aroma filled the room, saffa spice mixed with besa leaves, Zylah guessed, presumably to hide the stench of prison she carried with her. Up ahead, King Arnir watched her approach, as if he were waiting just for her.

“Now,” he commanded, and more guards threw open the doors, the sound of the city erupting into the palace.

Half the city had come out to watch. The roar of the crowd seemed to shake even the ground beneath Zylah’s feet. They’d come to witness her death, to watch the one who had killed their prince hang on the gallows like the murderer they all thought she was. She stopped, but the second guard shoved her forwards into Pockmark, and he spun around and sneered.

She felt as if the world was tilting, as if the air was being sucked from everything and already she couldn’t breathe. Already she was gone.

Her father had told her once that the dead look over us, that our purpose was to give them something to watch. That we are their legacy. Zylah had never agreed. She’d always thought her purpose was to live. To exist. To experience everything she could, for no one but herself. She came into the world alone, and now she would leave it that way, with no legacy and nothing to leave behind but her name.

Pockmark shoved her through the palace doors, the crowd erupting into cheers. Gallows had been built halfway down the steps, and Zylah knew precisely why. So the king could tower over them all as she hanged before his citizens.

She was dragged down a dozen stone steps, her feet refusing to obey her, and shoved straight onto the wooden planks of the gallows. Pockmark positioned her over the trapdoor, and a rough rope was thrown over her head and angled behind her. Zylah barely registered it. She was searching the crowd for her father and brother, even though she knew there was little chance of finding them.

Instead, she caught sight of brown curls and a delicate face, eyes bright with tears.Kara. Kara met her gaze, her hands clasped over her mouth, shoulders shaking. Zylah bit her lip, tried to keep her resolve, but the sight of her friend was almost too much to bear.

Look away, Zylah mouthed. But Kara wouldn’t, her shoulders still shaking as she sobbed.

“Look away,” Zylah called out, her throat hoarse, her own tears streaming freely down her cheeks.

“Zylah!” A voice cried out from the crowd. Her father.

She searched for him among the faces staring back at her, and his eyes found hers.

“My girl! Zylah!” His eyes were glassy with tears as he fought his way through the throng towards her.

Arnir was saying something, but Zylah focused on her father’s face as he called her name. He’d come for her, and the thought knocked the last of the breath from her in a pained gasp.

She heard the crank of the lever, the hinges of the trap doors opening beneath her, and then she was falling, the rope burning against her skin, the crowd cheering, her throat tightening, death approaching.

And then it all spiralled away from her, like water down a drain.

Chapter Three

Zylah had expected death would be cold, but she hadn’t expected it to be so windy. Her throat ached from the burn of the rope, and she dragged a hand through something cold and wet as she reached out to grasp it.

Only she couldn’t because they were handcuffed.

---