Mara’s POV
The cellars always feel colder than they should, as if the stone remembers every humiliation endured in its shadows. The lanterns above hiss and flicker, struggling to stay lit. I sit at a low table surrounded by tarnished coronation platters and cracked goblets—Moonfell’s forgotten treasure.
“Faster,” the guard says, leaning on the post by the door. “You don’t want us reporting laziness.”
“I’m polishing, not weaving miracles,” I mutter.
He snorts. “With your resonance? Miracles aren’t on the table.”
Aster presses up gently, a pulse of warmth.
“Let me breathe. Just to take the edge off their voices.”
No. Patience.
I focus on the platter before me, rubbing the cloth in small circles. My fingers ache. Rainwater drips from the beams overhead, splashing my sleeves.
The cellar door opens with a creak. Seris enters.
“Mara,” she croons, stepping closer, her glass beads chiming. “How are the cellars treating you?”
“Like you treat people,” I say. “Cold and a little moldy.”
Her smile tightens. She picks up one of the tarnished goblets and studies her reflection in it. “You know, I’m practicing,” she says, tapping the rim. “For when I’m Lady. Kade says I should start with disciplining disobedient servants.”
“So why come here?” I ask. “Afraid to practice on someone who matters?”
Her eyes flash. She grips the goblet and slams it back onto the table. “You should be grateful I even remembered your name.”
“I tried forgetting yours,” I say. “Didn’t stick.”
Her hand lifts as if to strike me.
Aster stirs, sharp and ready. “Let me out—just for a second.”
Not here. Not in chains.
Seris hesitates, then drops her hand, smoothing her hair instead. “Tomorrow’s branding will look lovely on you. A perfect reminder of your place.”
I meet her gaze steadily. “Enjoy the spotlight, Seris. You know how fast tides change.”
She huffs, spins on her heel, and storms out. Her beads clatter behind her like mocking laughter.
The guard chuckles. “You’re going to regret that mouth.”
“I regret yours,” I say.
He steps forward, but the second guard blocks him. “Enough. Kade wants her unbroken till morning.”
Lucky me.
Hours pass. The drips from the ceiling form a rhythm—tick, tick, tick. My wrists ache from scrubbing. The silver reflects distorted shapes of lantern-light and my own drawn face.
Aster’s voice comes again, softer this time. “Mara… don’t let them crush you.”
I close my eyes. I won’t.
Voices echo from the stairwell—guards whispering. “…branding in the plaza… big turnout…”
“Warden wants it public. Make her an example.”
A cold shudder rolls through me. Public branding. They want humiliation carved into my skin for all to see.
Aster flares—heat and fury. “We run. We fight. We burn.”
Not yet. But soon.
The lantern above pops, showering faint sparks. The guards grumble and go to replace it.
I breathe slowly. High Tide is tomorrow. High Tide is chaos.
If I move carefully… If Aster stays quiet… I might live.
***
The silence that follows feels alive. Every breath fogs a faint ghost across the metal, a heartbeat of proof that I’m still here.
Drip. Drip.
The ceiling leaks again, this time near the corner where a heap of ceremonial banners lies forgotten. I drag the corner of one closer, tearing a strip to wrap around my raw hands. The fabric smells of incense and old dust.
Moonfell worships perfection, but even their silk bleeds.
The guards murmur near the door. One hums off-key. The other yawns and kicks a crate for rhythm. I count every beat they make.
Aster warms faintly under my ribs. “Why wait? They hate us. You can scorch the air.”
I rub my temples. “Because burning fools never frees you. It just makes more smoke.”
“You used to let me breathe.”
“I used to be stupid.”
Aster sulks, retreating into silence. For a moment, I miss her voice. The loneliness cuts deeper than the cold. I wish I could hold warmth without paying for it.
My stomach growls. Dinner won’t come. Lowlines don’t earn meals the night before their branding. It’s tradition—a hunger test, as if emptying the body somehow humbles the soul. I pick up another platter. The edge slices my thumb; blood blooms bright against dull silver. I wipe it away on my sleeve before the guards notice. The sting reminds me I still bleed red, not ash.
Somewhere far above, thunder grumbles. I imagine the city gleaming under stormlight—lanterns swaying, waves slapping the bridge pillars. The people will be sleeping now, safe and fed, while my name becomes a whisper they’ll toss away by morning.
Mara Ilyas. Lowline. Failure.
I whisper back to no one, “At least they’ll remember it.”
My hands keep moving. Scrub. Turn. Polish. My breath clouds the air. The glow of the lanterns paints everything the color of old honey.
The second guard coughs. “Almost done?”
“Almost free,” I mutter.
“What was that?”
“Almost finished.” My voice doesn’t shake. He hears what he wants to hear.
When I finish the last platter, I line them neatly on the shelf.
I stretch my fingers, sore and swollen. They tremble from the cold. Pain is just the body’s way of saying still alive.
The first guard yawns. “You can stop. It’s not like they’ll shine long.”
I wipe my hands on the cloth. “Everything rusts eventually. Even thrones.”
He doesn’t understand the words. That’s fine. I didn’t say them for him.
The door groans again—someone outside, too heavy-footed for Seris, too impatient for a servant. Both guards straighten, murmuring titles. I catch only fragments—“…inspection… Warden’s orders… keep her ready.”
Keep her ready. The phrase clings. Ready for pain, ready for display, ready to be nothing.
The stranger outside leaves as quickly as he came. The footsteps fade up the stairwell, and the room exhales.
Aster trembles under my skin, restless. “When?”
“When the drums start,” I whisper. “The city will look the other way.”
“They’ll chain you tighter.”
“They already did.” I look down at my wrists. Silver vow-ink glimmers faintly, merging with the bruises. My hands don’t even feel like mine anymore, but the ache in them—that’s me. That’s all me.
Rain starts again. It leaks through the stone roof and hits the floor in tiny explosions. I think of how hopeful to be free I was years ago. But every year, Moonfell built another wall, and I grew smaller inside it.
“Still think you can get out?” the first guard says suddenly. He’s looking at me, grin lazy, eyes half-lidded. “You’ve got that look. The kind that thinks she’s special.”
“I’m not special,” I answer. “I’m patient.”
He laughs, but there’s unease in it. Good.
Aster hums, pleased. “Patience is just hunger with a spine.”
“Then I’m starving,” I whisper back.
The lantern wavers again, its wick too short, too tired. The flame sputters and steadies, a stubborn little pulse of light fighting the dark. I stare at it until my eyes burn. “We’re the same,” I tell it softly. “They’ll try to snuff us out, but we don’t go easy.”
The guard scoffs. “Talking to fire now?”
“Better company,” I say.
The second guard snickers. “Careful. Fire listens.”
“Good,” I murmur. “Maybe it’ll remember me.”
They exchange glances, muttering about madness. Let them. Madness frightens men more than strength ever could.
Another hour passes. Or ten. The cellars don’t keep time; they just stretch it thin.
“Mara,” Aster whispers. “The tide turns tomorrow.”
“I know,” I breathe. “We turn with it.”
A spark of warmth licks my ribs in answer, faint but alive. Outside, thunder murmurs like a secret. I hold that sound in my chest until it becomes a promise.
If I move carefully.
If I keep my voice steady.
If I wait one heartbeat longer than fear—
I might live.
And if not… I’ll burn bright enough to be remembered.