The door closed behind them with a whisper of finality as he moved to the window. In the reflection of the glass, Maximus’s lips curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. Greyson’s weakness might actually prove useful to him for once.

He stared out at the city, at the perfect concentric rings that divided the worthy from the worthless, all oblivious to the machinations unfolding in its highest tower.

For now, at least, the balance of power remained unchanged. And Maximus Serel intended to keep it that way, no matter the cost.

Chapter nineKill Me Instead

Shadera’s world narrowed to a coffin made of iron and rot.

Time was something that happened on the outside; inside the cell, it pooled and curdled like stagnant water, collecting in her lungs, her muscles, her skull. Moisture wept down the metal walls and gathered around the cots’ legs, painting everything in filth. The other prisoners looked like they’d been born there—skin mottled and thin, eyes gone sallow from lack of sun and food.

She sat on her cot against the wall, knees drawn up, forearms dangling over them, trying to breathe slow enough that the tremors surfacing in her chest every time she drew in oxygen did not betray her.

She’d definitely broken at least two ribs, the stab wound in her side pulsed hot and her collarbone was fucked. She was also sure she’d torn some vital muscle in her back by the pain that radiated there every time she moved. But she didn’t flinch. Not a single muscle on Shadera’s face twitched as she sat in silence.

It was never dark. The lights above flickered with the rhythm of a failing heart, and she counted the seconds between beats to keep herself awake. First rule in any lockup: never sleep unless you trust the person next to you.

Shadera trusted no one.

She wasn’t alone in the cell, seven others—four women, three men—were crammed inside with her, huddled in various states of collapse. All of them wore the same red tunics, the numbers of their crimes stenciled in black on their sleeves. Shadera looked down at her left hand, at the new tattoo that sat across each of her knuckles. Four numbers, one for each finger. 9758. She’d woken with it when she finally came to in the cell.

Names didn’t matter in this hellhole, Shadera knew that. Knew that here, inside the system, she was prisoner 9758 crime number 00.

Double zero. The worst crime you can commit.

Murder of the Heart’s elite.

Those two numbers gave her comfort. At least if she were to die, she would die with one less Serel in the world. Would die knowing Maximus Serel had no more male heirs.

The woman next to her—prisoner 3421 according to her knuckles, crime 17 according to her sleeve—had been beaten so badly her left eye had swollen shut, the bruising spread down her collapsed cheek like spilled ink. Her breathing came in shallow gasps that suggested broken ribs, maybe worse. She couldn’t have been older than twenty, but the Heart’s cruelty had aged her into something haggard.

Across from them, an older man sat with his back pressed to the bars, arms wrapped around legs that ended in stumps below the knee. The cauterized flesh told Shadera everything she needed to know about Veyra interrogation techniques.

His crime: number 23—unlawful assembly.

They’d taken his legs for gathering with friends.

These people were starving. Actually starving. Their cheekbones cut sharp angles in faces that’d been stripped of everything soft, everything human. The Heart fed them just enough to keep them breathing until their execution date, and never enough to give them strength. Even here, in their own fucking prison, they made sure the outer rings suffered.

Rage bloomed hot in Shadera’s chest as she watched a young man—barely eighteen by the look of him—try to distribute the thin gruel they’d been given. His hands shook with the effort of holding the metal cup, but he made sure everyone got a spoonful before taking any for himself. Crime number 31: theft of food. He’d probably stolen bread for his family.

The fury built behind her shattered ribs like steam in a sealed pipe. These weren’t criminals. They were people who’d dared to be human in a city that demanded they be livestock.

“What’s your story?”

The voice startled Shadera from her thoughts. The woman with the swollen eye was looking at her, curiosity flickering in the one good iris. The others turned their attention to her, waiting for an answer.

Shadera met each of their gazes in turn, seeing the hope they tried to hide. Hope that maybe, just maybe, someone in there might have done something that mattered.

“I tried to kill Greyson Serel,” she stated with no emotion.

A collective gasp rippled through the cell, followed by a stunned silence that seemed to suck all the air from the prison. Then, it started. A murmur began to build—whispers at first, then rising to a fevered pitch as the prisoners processed what Shadera had just said.

“You tried to kill him?” the man with the missing legs leaned forward, eyes wide with a mix of awe and disbelief. “The Executioner himself?”

Shadera nodded once, jaw tight.

The man was yelling before she could stop him, spreading the word throughout the rest of the cells. “She tried to kill the Executioner!”

Voices began to grow throughout the prison in response. Inmates yelling out questions, some cheering, others praying she’d succeeded.

The woman beside Shadera leaned closer, the shift in her position almost desperate. “Is he dead?”

Shadera swallowed hard, the memory of Greyson’s unmasked face flashing behind her eyes. The way he’d looked at her in that final moment, resigned and almost . . . relieved.

“I don’t know,” she answered honestly. “I shot him, but was taken before I could watch him die.”

The woman nodded, something like understanding passing over her bruised features. “Even if he lives, you hurt him. You made him bleed.” A small smile flickered over her lips. “That is all that matters. That is fuel to the rebellion.”

“I didn’t do this as an act of rebellion, I didn’t do this for the cause,” Shadera snapped back. She didn’t need them thinking she was some rebel savior. “I’m not a rebel, I’m a Daggermouth, and he was just another name on a contract.”

The last part was a lie, but Shadera wouldn’t tell them that. Wouldn’t tell them that it was personal, that she would’ve tried to kill him one day with or without a contract.

“This will change everything,” the older man said, his shoulders squaring as his chin lifted. “Contract or not, when you pulled that trigger, you told the rings the Serels aren’t untouchable.”

Shouts of agreement rose from the surrounding cells, a ripple of defiance passing through the broken bodies. For a heartbeat, Shadera saw a flicker of the spirit the Heart tried so hard to crush—the unbreakable will of those who had suffered too much to ever fully submit.

Heavy boots thudded down the corridor, accompanied by the crackle of shock batons.

“Quiet!” a Veyra officer snarled, slamming his baton against the bars. Sparks flew, illuminating the mask that suctioned to his face. “Or I’ll come in there and shut you up myself.”

But the prisoners only grew louder, their voices rising in a ragged chorus of rebellion. They pounded their fists against the bars, stomping their feet and screaming profanities at the guards until the very air seemed to tremble with the force of their rage.

Shadera opened her mouth to speak, but the words died in her throat as a Veyra officer stopped in front of her cell.

“9758,” the guard barked. “On your feet.”

Shadera didn’t move, didn’t so much as blink, just stared back at him with a defiant tilt to her chin.

“I said, on your feet!”

Still Shadera remained sitting as the chanting from the inmates grew louder. The cell door swung open with a rusty shriek and three guards entered, batons and guns drawn.