The other was blond and familiar.
Lysandra had met Princess Cleo before, when Jonas had foolishly insisted on kidnapping her, believing her to be an asset the king would bargain to retrieve. But plans—especially those made by Jonas—never seemed to work out as expected.
Jonas had been infatuated with this shallow, insipid princess, his head turned by her golden beauty.
Lysandra was sickened to have the princess amongst rebel ranks. And, she had to admit, the way Jonas had looked at Cleo during that week had spiked jealousy in her like nothing ever had before.
But such petty things no longer mattered.
Lysandra looked upward to the balcony to see King Gaius gazing down upon the square. To his right stood Prince Magnus.
She was forced up five steps, the wooden slats creaking beneath her feet, to where the hooded executioner waited. Tarus stood at her side, trembling.
She didn’t care what happened to her anymore. But Tarus . . .
He was only fourteen.
Her throat grew tight at the thought of Tarus dying by her side without having been given the barest chance to live a full life.
She looked down at the people who chanted so enthusiastically for her death. There were a hundred of them, maybe, among the thousands here. She studied one fanatical face after another, finding that they looked much the same as anyone else. Yet these were the people who’d chosen to celebrate, rather than somberly observe, this day. Did they really believe this execution to be a just punishment for their crimes? Did they truly think Gaius Damora was a good, honest king who could do no wrong?
Or were they simply cowards, afraid that the same fate could befall them if they stopped chanting and shouting in support of his decisions?
Something heavy and wet hit Lysandra’s chest and she staggered back a step. A ripe tomato. She looked down at the messy splatter with surprise and dismay.
“Die, rebel!” yelled the man who’d thrown it.
She stared back at him blankly. What a waste of a perfectly good tomato.
The king began to address the crowd, the sound of his voice raking against Lysandra’s skin, each word a tiny dagger dipped in poison
“The two rebels before us are responsible for the deaths of many Auranians and Limerians alike. Do not feel pity as you gaze upon their young faces. They are dangerous insurgents. They are savages, through and through. They must be held accountable for their actions. May their deaths be a reminder that the laws of the land are there for peace. For prosperity. For a bright future, lived out hand in hand with our neighbors.”
Lysandra yearned for that sweet ease of nothingness she’d felt all day, but the king’s words affected her. Her muscles tensed up with hatred and the desire to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until the life left his eyes. She’d wanted to kill him ever since he’d torched her village and killed her parents, ever since he’d enslaved the survivors and forced them to build his precious road.
Such lies he spoke. Yet, looking beyond the fanatics in front, a sweep of the faces in the crowd revealed apathy and distaste. Perhaps these people were no longer willing to swallow the king’s words like wine that would lull them into a false sense of security.
She looked back to the king. How laughable that this monster was once again making her feel a spark of life just moments before he was to order it over.
She tore her gaze from the king and his hateful family to Tarus, whose tearful eyes met her steady ones.
“I’m not afraid,” he said.
“Of course you’re not afraid,” she whispered back. “You’re the bravest kid I’ve ever known.”
He smiled, just as a tear splashed down his cheek. But the smile disappeared at once as a guard curled his mitt of a hand around Lysandra’s arm and jerked her to the side.
He dragged her up the four steps to the stage and forced her down to her knees, shoving her cheek down against a hard wooden block.
“Don’t watch,” she told Tarus, her voice hoarse as the guard yanked her hair to the side to bare her neck. “Please look away.”
But he didn’t. He kept his gaze locked with hers to show he was trying to be strong. For her.
She tried to focus on the dais and on the king who stood watching the proceedings, his expression smug and satisfied. She saw Prince Magnus’s scarred cheek twitch, but otherwise he appeared impassive. Princess Lucia stood still behind him, her beautiful face calm and cold.
Princess Cleo, on the other hand, looked frantic, her gaze darting from Lysandra to Tarus to the crowd as if she were a nervous hummingbird searching for shelter.
As the executioner hoisted his heavy ax above his head, Lysandra finally squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight of the king’s followers, who continued to cheer her impending death loud enough to drown out any protests from the back. There was one thing about which the king had been truthful: This wouldn’t be a torturous death. It would be over swiftly.