No fear—not now, not here. I scan the desktop once more in desperation, the sound of laughter coming from just beyond the door. They’re right outside—
A letter, tucked under a heavy iron paperweight in the shape of a wildflower. I grab the letter without pausing to consider what it is and dive for the balcony, boots swishing across the stone floor. One breath after I’m outside, after the curtain flutters back into place, one breath after they would’ve seen my shadow flicker on the stone, the door opens, and voices barrel toward us.
Finn peers through the slit between the curtains, holding up his hand, flashing fingers to tell me how many he sees. Five soldiers. Two servants. Four nobles.
He drops his eyes to the paper in my hand and nods me along, half his focus on the conversation behind the curtain.
I shift in my crouch across from him and take deep, calming breaths before staring at the paper. My hands stop shaking enough that I can hold it in the slit of firelight.
Report: To all Spring Officials
Work Camp Population Statistics
Abril Camp: 469
Bikendi Camp: 141
Zoreon Camp: 564
Edurne Camp: 476
The document goes on to describe how many deaths, how many births, what things were built by what camps. But my hands are shaking again, and I can’t focus on the words.
These are the Winterian statistics in Spring’s work camps. The numbers are … people.
I touch the numbers, my fingers trembling. Such small amounts. Did we know it was this bad? I suspected it was—Sir’s lessons on the fall of Winter are graphic. The way he described how Angra planned the attack, as if he knew Winter would fall on that day, how he stationed every soldier he had throughout Winter, moving them in secret until everything exploded in one unavoidable sweep of destruction. There was nowhere to run—Angra blocked off any retreat into Autumn, or the Klaryns, or the northern Feni River. He barricaded us in our own kingdom, and when he broke the locket, when our soldiers had no magic-given strength to help them stand against Angra, we fell. Only twenty-five of us managed to escape.
I feel the weight of that now. Seeing the statistics proved what Sir has been saying for years—every day, we’re teetering on the edge of Winterians being nothing more than memories.
“I trust my king, I do,” a voice booms within the room. I snap my head up, all the adrenaline and fear warping into anger. Finn tightens his lips in warning, and I thrust the paper at him in response.
“And I know it was scheduled to be here longer,” the voice continues. “But I want it out of my city. Tonight. Before any more Winterian scum descends upon us.”
The city master. I exhale. The locket half is still here—we haven’t lost it yet. My relief is short lived when Finn scans the paper, looks back up at me, and the expression he gives isn’t fear or shock—it’s just pain. Regret.
My eyes widen. Did you know how bad it is? I mouth.
He tucks the paper into his belt and bobs his head once. Yes, he knew. Everyone in camp probably knows. It’s just one of the things they don’t talk about, one of the too painful parts of our past. And I knew too—I just didn’t have exact numbers in my head to fuel my rage.
Herod laughs, and my nerves flare higher. Killing him is going to feel so good.
“Calm yourself. It will be gone within the hour.”
“It’s safe here.” A different voice. Probably one of Lynia’s councilmen. “I don’t care if the Winterians know it’s here. Lynia can keep it protected far better than any other city—”
“Silence!” the city master shouts.
But Herod chuckles. “Ambitious, your man.”
“Not ambitious,” the councilman corrects. I hear a rustling as someone walks across the room. My heart ricochets around my ribs—they’re going to the desk. Will they notice that the paper is gone? “Certain. The safe we built for it—it’s perfect. The Keep above—”
Perfect: the exact location of the locket half. Sir was right—it’s under the Keep.
A harsh movement from within is followed by the crack of the councilman’s face meeting Herod’s fist. Bodies move, chairs fall, and amidst the ruckus Herod’s voice rises.
“Do not speak of its location! That was our arrangement—you hide it and never breathe a word of the location. It isn’t safe so long as that boy breathes.”
I bristle. Mather will keep breathing so long as I am breathing, you murderer.
But the councilman doesn’t react. Something shuffles, and I realizes it’s papers on the desktop, the thunk of a paperweight. I widen my eyes at Finn, who grimaces before the councilman even speaks.
“The—” he starts, clearly confused. “Something’s missing.”