Page 44 of War Hour

“And that same testimony will make her a target for people in the capital. She should be where I can protect her.”

I press my ear against the door.

Torryn had not warned me of enemies I could make here, only of the ones I would now have back in Falland. Now I knowwhat he meant by him giving me my dagger and saying not to trust anyone.

“Well, then, it’s good she has you among others to look out for her,” Lord Gennady says with a tone of finality.

Their voices get quieter, accompanied by soft footsteps.

Leaning back against the wall near the door, I sag and run my hands across my face.

Tomorrow will be . . . something.

Chapter 18

Iwatch the sun crest the horizon and chase away the night from my curled-up position in bed. Tucked tightly between silk sheets and a soft down blanket, I stare blankly into the distance, ignoring the signs of morning’s call to rise.

Sleep had taken me early in the night, exhaustion dragging me under with little fight. But the slumber was only restful for so long before Lord Drytas plagued my dreams, tormenting me with the decision I made and the lives at stake.

I hoped I’d feel reassured once sharing the war looming in the distance. By spreading the burden across more qualified hands, I wouldn’t carry the crushing weight of what was at risk. Desiring some comfort, I chose the best path.

A fear lingers in my heart that I left Falland out of self-preservation, allowing myself to act under the guise of it being what was necessary to save the Untrialed. Deep down, all I wanted to hear from these people was that I had done the right thing.

But the Crowns had listened to my words with biased minds and incredulous stares, unwilling to hear the truth about one of their own. I don’t fault them for wanting proof, but their indecision could cost people their lives.

It’s like I’m Untrialed once again, starving on the streets, while members of the Guard look at us like rats in the sewer, mocking our desire to survive.

The hours I could have spent sleeping were instead filled with my anxiety playing out every scenario. What if Drytas never showed for the judgment hearing? For all we know, he’s preparing the Guard and the Untrialed for an attack, using the absence of the court’s rulers as opportunity for his invasion. The very thing meant to bring his actions under examination may prove to be what allows him to rise to greater power.

Dreary eyed and hopeless, I turn into my pillow, shoving my face deeper into the fabric, to scream into it. It muffles my anguish, but it can’t conceal the tear stains soaked into its surface. I throw it across the room and hear it hit the wall before flopping to the floor.

A delicate knocking breaks me from my trance, and my heart leaps in my chest. I glance at the dagger resting on my nightstand, which glints in the sun’s early rays.

Getting to my feet, I grab the knife and tuck it into my sleeve before creeping to the door.

Lord Gennady mentioned he would send someone to me in the morning, but I thought I’d have hours till they arrived. Either they came early, or the person at my door is not my escort. Torryn’s warning words echo in my mind.

Not everyone in the capital can be trusted.

When the person knocks again, a soft voice accompanies it.

“Lysta, it’s Sar.”

I breathe a sigh of relief, pulling the door open, and concealing my body behind it at the sight of her perfectly styled hair and brand-new dress. I’d fallen asleep in my clothes after realizing I had no belongings, deeming it a problem for my future self.

Sar smiles at the sight of me before holding up a large stack of clothing. “I figured you might like to face the capital a little fresher than yesterday.”

Every stepwe take is scrutinized in our trek toward the Court of Self’s tower of the capital. By whom, I can only assume, are staff and court members flooding in and out of rooms we pass.

Sar interlocks my arm in hers as we walk, keeping my hands from smoothing out my dress for the umpteenth time.

The soft satin fabric gliding across my skin is a foreign sensation, and I desperately long for my pants. But even I understand the importance of blending in when our entrance yesterday already managed to single me out. I just can’t shake the feeling that dressing like this only makes me stand out more. Like an impostor. As if I’m a fool who has donned a disguise, albeit a beautiful one, and made everyone believe I’m something I’m not.

Black satin comprises the majority of the dress, save for lace panels in the bodice. While the low neck leaves my upper arms and shoulders bare, the low sweeping sleeves cover not only my Trial marks but the Kadara’s bite.

The capital doesn’t deserve to see my struggle etched so plainly on my skin. Not after they denied it ever happening to my face.

The only remotely practical thing on me is the garter strapped to my leg, currently holding my dagger. Accessible from a slit that travels up the side of the skirt, landing mid-thigh, but hidden away in the fabric.

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