The Inquisitors yank harder on my arms, forcing me to stumble forward. “Keep moving, girl,” one of them snaps at me, faceless under his hood.
Then we’re stepping out of the tower, and for an instant, the world vanishes into blinding white. I squint. We must be in the central market square. Through my tearing vision, I make out an ocean of people, all of whom have come out to see me executed. The sky is a beautiful, annoying blue, the clouds blinding in their brightness. Off in the distance, a stake of black iron looms in the center of a raised wooden platform, upon which a line of Inquisitors wait. Even from here, I can see their circular emblems shining on their breastplates, their gloved hands resting on their sword hilts. I try harder to drag my feet.
Boos and angry shouts come from the crowd as the Inquisitors lead me closer to the execution platform. Some throw rotten fruit at me, while others spit insults and curses at my face. They wear rags, torn shoes, and dirty frocks. So many poor and desperate, come to see me suffer in order to distract themselves from their own hungry lives. I keep my gaze down. The world is a blur, and I cannot think. Before me, the stake that looked so far away now draws steadily nearer.
“Demon!” someone yells at me.
I’m hit in the face with something small and sharp. A pebble, I think. “She’s a creature of evil!”
“Bringer of bad fortune!”
“Monster!”
“Abomination!”
I keep my eye closed as tightly as I can, but in my mind, everyone in the square looks like my father and they all have his voice. I hate you all. I imagine my hands at their throats, choking, silencing them, one by one. I want peace and quiet. Something stirs inside me—I try to grab at it—but the energy disappears immediately. My breath starts to come in ragged gasps.
I don’t know how long it takes for us to reach the platform, but it startles me when we do. I’m so weak at this point that I can’t go up the stairs. One of the Inquisitors finally picks me up and swings me roughly over his shoulder. He sets me down at the top of the platform, and then forces me toward the iron stake.
The stake is made of black iron, a dozen times as thick as a man’s arm, and a noose hangs from its top. Chains for hands and feet dangle from the stake’s sides. Piles of wood hide the bottom from view. I see it all in a cloudy haze.
They shove me against the stake—they clap the chains onto my wrists and ankles, and loop the noose around my neck. Some in the crowd continue to chant curses at me. Others throw rocks. I glance uneasily at the roofs that surround the square. The chains feel cold against my skin. I reach out in vain, again and again, in an attempt to call on something that can save me. My chains rattle from my trembling.
As I look at the other Inquisitors, my gaze settles on the youngest of them. He stands front and center on the platform, his shoulders squared and chin high, his hands folded behind his back. All I can see of his face is his profile.
“Master Teren Santoro,” one of the other Inquisitors now introduces him with formal flair. “Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra.”
Master Teren Santoro? I look at him again. The Lead Inquisitor of Kenettra has come to see me die?
Teren approaches me now with calm, confident steps. I shrink away from him until my back is pressed solidly against the iron stake. My chains clink against each other. He lowers his head to meet my gaze. His white robes are embellished with more gold than the others I’ve seen, definitely clothing befitting his status, and an elaborate chain of gold winds from shoulder to shoulder. He’s surprisingly young. His hair is the color of wheat, pale for a Kenettran, and cut in a stylish fashion I haven’t seen much in southern Kenettra—shorter on the sides, fuller on the top, with a slender tail wrapped in gold metal trailing down the nape of his neck. His face is lean and chiseled as if from marble, handsome in its coldness, and his eyes are pale blue. Very pale blue. So pale that they seem colorless in the light. Something about them sends a chill down my spine. There is madness in those eyes, something violent and savage.
He uses one delicately gloved hand to brush bloody strands of my hair from my face, and then lifts my chin. He studies my scar. The edges of his mouth tilt up into a strange, nearly sympathetic grin.
“What a shame,” he says. “You would have been a pretty little thing.”
I jerk my chin out of his grasp.
“A temperamental one too.” His words drip with pity. “You don’t have to be afraid.” Then quietly, his face close to mine, “You will find your redemption in the Underworld.”
He steps away from me, turns to the crowd, and raises his arms to call for silence. “Settle now, my friends! I’m sure we’re all excited.” When the crowd’s noise fades to a hush, he straightens, then clears his throat. His words ring out across the square. “Some of you may have noticed a recent rash of crimes on our streets. Crimes committed by people—twisted imitations of people—that feel more than . . . human. Some of you have taken to calling these new outlaws ‘Young Elites,’ as if they’re exceptional, worth something. I’ve come here today to remind you all that they are dangerous and demonic. They are murderers, eager to kill their own loved ones. They have no regard for law and order.”
Teren glances back at me. The square has fallen deathly silent now. “Let me reassure you: When we find these demons, we bring them to justice. Evil must be punished.” He scans the crowd. “The Inquisition is here to protect you. Let this be a warning to you all.”
I struggle feebly against my chains. My legs are shaking violently. I want to hide my body from all of these people, hide my flaws from their curious eyes. Is Violetta somewhere in this crowd? I scan the faces for her, then look up toward the sky. It’s such a beautiful day—how can the sky possibly be this blue? Something wet rolls down my cheek. My lip quivers.