Page 129 of The Jasad Crown

The Commander wasn’t here. No matter—Sefa needed to bury this Awaleen-forsaken ring before she tried to find him.

Elbowing through the thick of soldiers, Sefa headed for the ruby obelisk. The guards at the gates had seen her leave with Vaidaplenty of times; they wouldn’t pay her any mind, especially not with the influx of strangers flooding the Ivory Palace.

“Sefa!”

The world froze.

Sefa knew that voice. Its owner was etched in the tapestry of her soul.

When she whirled around, she had almost convinced herself it was a trick. An illusion by the Ivory Palace to toy with her.

Golden hair ruffled around Marek’s petrified face. He was dressed in a Nizahl soldier’s uniform. The sight of him summoned the spirits of his brothers so powerfully that Sefa wassureit was an illusion and she was back in Nizahl, back at the Lazur house, watching Marek hug his older siblings tightly at the door.

“You found me,” she mouthed.

He kept his promise.

Marek’s gaze flew past Sefa, and the suddenness with which he sprang into motion bowled over several of his fellow soldiers. “Run!” he bellowed, trying to force through the crowd. “Sefa, run!”

Arms like barrels wound around Sefa. Her feet left the ground as her struggling body was lifted with complete ease.

They swung her around, and Sefa confronted a dozen armed Lukubi guards.

The one in front eyed her dispassionately.

“Take her to the Traitors’ Wells,” he said. “But first, cut the Sultana’s ring out of her skirts.”

CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

MAREK

Several hundred pounds of soldier sat on Marek’s back, holding him to the ground while he thrashed.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” Zane flipped Marek around, revealing a ring of bewildered Nizahl soldiers hovering over him. The tree trunk of a recruit kept Marek pinned like he was little more than a disagreeable kitten. “Attacking Lukubi guards where everyone can see! The Commander is at his holding a mere mile away—if he hears about this, he’ll throw you into a cell!”

“Get off me!” Marek growled. Hadn’t they seen the guards picking up Sefa? Cutting at her skirts until afingerfell out? Marek had no idea what she had gotten herself involved in, but he knew where they would be taking her. “I need to go to the Traitors’ Wells!”

“If you free one of the Sultana’s prisoners, you will be executed!” A scrawny recruit crouched beside Marek. The Almerour boy. “The Commander will have no choice but to hand you to the Sultana to punish as she sees fit.”

“I don’tcare! I don’t care about the Sultana or the Commander or any of these tombs-damned royals! Get off me, Zane, or I swear on Sirauk—”

The giant rolled off of him immediately. Wearing a Nizahlan uniform hadn’t culled the superstitious lower villager in Zane.

“Go get help,” Zane clipped to Almerour, but Marek was already sprinting in the direction he’d seen the guards carry Sefa.

What had Sefa been thinking, taking the Sultana’s ring? As for the severed finger—it couldn’t have been Sefa. Not his Sefa, who had followed stray cats into barns to feed them despite being a vagrant herself, who’d thrown up the first time she saw a butcher slit a chicken’s neck and drop the thrashing body into a barrel.

None of the Lukubi guards paid Marek much attention as he shoved his way through the gates, but the other Nizahl soldiers cast him various irritated and questioning glances. As guests of Lukub, they were meant to be on their best behavior. Sedain was tomorrow, and despite the closure of Orban’s trade routes, thousands upon thousands of visitors from the other kingdoms had arrived to celebrate. The last thing anyone wanted was a fresh Nizahl recruit making a spectacle of himself.

Marek gripped the hilt of the sword buckled at his waist and wished he could discard it. Running with it strapped to his hip would only slow him down, but he might need it against whichever guards were tasked with overseeing the Traitors’ Wells.

The din of the festivities faded behind Marek as he jogged away from the glaring eye of the ruby obelisk. He steered himself into Essam to avoid running along the side of the heavily trafficked road.

A little over a mile later, Marek heard it. The special symphony of Vaida’s reign.

Wailing from the Traitors’ Wells.

Marek veered toward the sound and immediately tripped over a rotted log. The woods blurred as he rolled down a short hill, brambles and spindly roots crunching beneath him.

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