Page 113 of Song of the Heart Scale
“The riot wasn't planned,” I whispered. “People are starving.”
His expression hardened. “There is no famine in Elaria. Those are only lies spread by those who wish to see me fail before my reign has properly begun.”
I wanted to argue, but my strength was fading. The room tilted dangerously.
“You need a healer,” Thorne muttered, more to himself than to me.
“Maeve,” I croaked. “My maid—they hurt her. She's in the cells.”
Something flickered across his face—perhaps annoyance, perhaps something else entirely.
“I'll send guards for your maid,” he said dismissively.
“Now…” I mumbled, quickly followed by darkness as my knees finally gave out completely. Thorne caught me against his chest, his arms tightening around my broken body.
“You always were dramatic,” he muttered.
The last thing I remembered was the feeling of being lifted into his arms, my head lolling against the imperial insignia embroidered onto his jacket. Then, mercifully, nothing.
22
DAMIEN
The sharp clip of my boots echoed down the marble steps of Uncle Bai’s mansion as I adjusted the cloak over my shoulders. The sun was beginning to dip behind the tiled rooftops of the Northern District, casting long, golden fingers across the cobblestone streets. My mind wasn’t on the dusky beauty of Elaria, though. It was on the meeting ahead.
Tonight, Lord Mercer. Tonight, the Nightwing.
Silent and contemplative, Uncle Bai walked beside me with his hands clasped behind his back in that ever-calculating posture of his. He was dressed in formal garb that was plain enough to avoid attention, but rich enough to command respect if recognized.
“You’re too quiet,” I said, arching a brow.
“I prefer to remain focused when the stakes are high,” he replied. “You could stand to learn the same.”
I slowly exhaled, nodding. I didn’t disagree. My nerves weren’t from doubt—I knew what needed to be said to Lord Mercer. What had to be asked. What had to be done. But there was always the worry about striking the right balance between diplomacy and desperation.
We had just stepped out into the street and turned toward the waiting carriage when the thunder of hooves on stone reached us. I turned on instinct, hand brushing the hilt of my hidden blade.
A rider burst through the alley cloaked in deep navy, his horse lathered with sweat. As he approached, he pulled hard on the reins, the beast skidding to a halt and releasing a sharp whinny. Jacob Ryder jumped down in a frenzy.
“Prince Damien!” he gasped. “It’s Arya!”
My heart turned to ice.Cat.
“What about her?” I snapped, striding forward. “Speak!”
“The marketplace,” he choked. “There was a riot. The grain shipment never arrived and the people... they went mad. Then... the Imperial Guard came. Arya was caught up in it. They took her!”
For a moment, everything stopped.
My breath was ragged. My pulse thundered in my ears.
“Took her?” I repeated, my voice low and deadly. “How? Why weren’t you with her?”
Jacob flinched when I stepped closer, his voice faltering. “We met at the market, like I asked. We kept it discreet—just a quick exchange, and I left right after. I was already past the main gate when the riot started. I saw the guards move in. They were arresting anyone who resisted.”
“And you didn’t go back for her?” I snarled.
His eyes darted to Uncle Bai, then back to me. “I thought she’d be fine! She’s the emperor’s betrothed, isn’t she? No one would dare harm her.”
