Page 87 of Song of the Heart Scale
“Do you need to ask?” I pointed to his window. “It hasn’t rained since his enthronement, the crops in Dragon Valley are dying, and the fish in the sea are disappearing. Soon, a famine unlike any other will hit Elaria… all because of Thorne. I need to know where you stand, Jacob. Because things are about to change, and I need to know if you’re with me.”
“With you on what?” He looked away, his jaw clenched. “You’re asking me to go against my own family. Against our father!”
“No, I’m asking you to stand for what’s right.”
He didn’t answer right away, but he didn’t say no, either.
“We don’t have much time,” I said. “So think fast.”
There was a knock at the door. Maeve’s voice floated through, tense and urgent. “My lady, we need to leave.Now.”
Jacob stood, panic flashing in his eyes. “He’s coming!”
I rose to my feet. “Then don’t say anything. Not yet. Just... think about it. You can help stop this madness. You can save the people.”
He gave a curt nod and I turned to go. As I stepped back into the corridor, Maeve already had the way clear.
We didn’t run. But we walked like hell.
Because I had just poked the hornet's nest.
And I didn’t know how many stingers it had left.
We slipped through the back corridors of the Ryder residence, Maeve stuck to my side like the ever-faithful shadow she was. The halls were quiet—too quiet for a home filled with noble pretension and secrets tucked into every corner like forgotten cobwebs. It took everything in me to keep the meeting with Jacob civil, though guilt crawled beneath my skin like a rash. Lying to him was easy. Living with it was something else entirely.
“The servants’ entrance is just past the kitchens,” Maeve whispered, her eyes sharp and alert. Her hands were tucked inside her cloak.
We were only a few steps from the exit when the low click of boots against the stone floor stopped us in our tracks. I slowly turned, my stomach already clenching with dread.
Gianna.
She stood poised in the hallway like a delicate piece of art, but I knew better now. The days of her playing the sweet, wide-eyed older sister were over. Whatever softness she'd once possessed had curdled into something bitter. Her pale blue gown shimmered in the torchlight, but her expression was all fire and frost.
“Running off again, Arya? Or should I say... whoever youreallyare?” she drawled, each word laced with venom and satisfaction.
Maeve tensed beside me, but I lifted a hand to stop her. I stepped forward, every inch the woman who'd once faced down a Taliban insurgent with a broken rifle and a mouth full of sass.
“Gianna,” I said, my voice sweet and bright, “shouldn’t you be upstairs with your dolls and lace ribbons? Or did they finally run out of patience with your whining, too?”
She flinched, but her smirk swiftly returned. “Still pretending to be my sister, are you? It's exhausting, isn’t it? Keeping up the charade. You should've taken better care to hide that...thingon your arm.”
I didn’t glance down at the tattoo sleeve hidden beneath my coat. The one that had set all this in motion. She’d seen me taking a bath and I couldn’t hide my tattoos fast enough. It was a monumental error on my part. “Yeah, well, some of us don’t have the luxury of pretending to be sugar and spice when we’re really poison in porcelain.”
“I wouldn’t be like this if it weren’t for you!” she snarled. “Youmademe this way!”
I tsked and wagged a finger at her. “Now, now, let’s not play the blame game. I’m just some chick from Los Angeles whose got no skin in the game.”
Gianna scoffed and looked away. “Who are you, anyway?”
I smirked. “Catalina… Cat for short. Nice to formally meet you.”
“I would say the pleasure is all mine, but it’s not. You ruined my life!” she shouted, slamming a hand on her chest for emphasis.
My eyes widened. “Well… that’s a pretty serious accusation. I wouldn’t necessarily sayruined. Maybe jostled… But you know, tomato, tomah-toe.”
Gianna took a step closer and lowered her voice. “He was mine, you know. For ten years, Damien courted me. Letters, dances, sweet nothings whispered every third Sunday when he could come onto the mainland. And thenyoushowed up, looking like Arya but talking like a drunken merchant’s wife, and suddenly he forgot I existed.”
“Maybe,” I tilted my head, “you are just that forgettable.”
