Page 78 of Song of the Heart Scale
I sidestepped, barely avoiding the blade, and brought my knee into his gut. He doubled over with a grunt and I drove my dagger into his shoulder, twisting as he screamed.
He fell.
I turned back to the others. One was trying to crawl away, dragging his wounded leg through the mud. The other was unconscious, slumped against a pile of netting.
The air reeked of blood and salt.
I staggered to the edge of the dock and leaned heavily on a post, scanning the skies for any sign of Uncle Bai. Nothing but fog and stars. The wind off the water chilled the sweat on my brow. My side burned.
I needed to move. Reinforcements wouldn’t be far behind. Thorne didn’t send patrols without redundancy.
I stumbled down a side alley, pressing a hand to my wound, and vanished into the shadows.
I didn’t stopuntil I reached the edge of the Southern District and slipped into an abandoned sailmaker’s loft just off the harbor. The place reeked of oil and old canvas, but it was dry and empty.
I collapsed against a barrel and finally let the pain catch up.
“By the Immortals,” I muttered, pulling back my tunic to examine the wound. Deep, but not fatal. I’d had worse.
Still, I needed to stop the bleeding.
I tore a strip of cloth from my cloak and wound it around my torso, gritting my teeth as the pressure sent fire lancing through my ribs.
Voices echoed outside. I froze.
Footsteps passed. Then faded.
I was safe for now.
I leaned back and slowly exhaled, the fog of my breath visible in the cold night air.
Thorne was tightening his grip on Elaria. Patrols. Executions. Parades of power.
But he was still afraid.
That was why he needed the guards. Why he silenced dissenters.
Because somewhere deep down, he knew his reign was built on lies.
And I was going to be the shadow that dragged those lies into the light.
Even if it killed me.
16
ARYA
It was Angie’s idea to go to Melrose.
“You need to see something pretty,” she’d said, shoving a ridiculous floppy hat onto my head that made me resemble a noblewoman who’d lost a war with a sun parasol. “You’ve been cooped up too long.”
“I wasnotcooped up,” I replied with a sniff. “I was refining my art.”
“You painted a very dramatic portrait of Monica burning in a volcano.”
“Exactly.”
So now, we were walking along Melrose Avenue as the sun gleamed off shop windows and graffiti murals like the walls were made of polished jewels. I wore sunglasses the size of a hawk's wingspan and sipped something called an iced matcha latte, which tasted like grass but Angie swore was “refreshing.”
