Page 5 of A Dance of Lies

The breadth of it.

I’d forgotten what it was to use all my senses at once.

To see everything at once.

Feel everything at once.

Tears burn the backs of my eyes.

I’d forgotten what it was to want to bealive.

A breeze slips through the window, stippling gooseflesh along my arms and legs. And as I breathe the crisp, wet scent of petrichor, I vow to myself that no, I willnotreturn to my cell.

Even if I must steal a guard’s weapon.

Even if I must run Illian through myself.

Chapter Two

The King of West Miridran lounges at his gilded desk, its thick, four-pronged legs digging into the carpet like claws.

He does not bother to glance up. Not even as I’m ushered inside and Brigitte turns to leave, the door clicking shut behind her.

His brows are furrowed, his black quill gliding against parchment in smooth, steady strokes.

I take the moment to study him.

He is just as I remember. Young, nearing thirty. Only a handful of years older than I am. Strong shoulders, jaw still angular and sharp as a scythe, though his dark curls are shorter now, trimmed over his ears.

I draw in an uneasy breath, a spark of anger simmering in my belly.

There he is—my defender, my protector. The king who’d gaze upon me as if I were his most precious gem. The savior who’d offered me the world, so long as I came and danced only for him.

The liar who’d promised me refuge and opulence in the comfort of his court, only to abandon me to the rats.

I still can’t understand why it happened, why he had punished me for a murder he knows I didn’t—couldn’t—commit. Had hegrown bored with me? Had I done something wrong? Or had he discovered who I really was or where I came from? But no, that couldn’t be; I’d left my old life behind with no tracks.

Over time, I’d realized the answer didn’t matter. He could simply do whatever he wanted.

I’d thought I was special to him, but what is a single jewel to a king who has thousands?

I drag my gaze away, allowing my eyes to drift over the room. Low-hanging lanterns throw fragmented light across the walls, the ceiling, the ominous statue behind his desk.

The Fate of Morta.

Courtesan of Death, Reaper of Souls.

She stands tall, crafted from gold-threaded marble. An intricate hood shrouds her eyes, her nose, revealing only her famous full-lipped smirk. Her hair, long and flowing, drips down her gown like oil. King Illian always found her fascinating—perhaps because he’s obsessed with beauty.

Lore tells us she offers every soul a chance to return to their life among the living, but she’s so beautiful that no one can resist her, so alluring that refusing death is impossible. Some say she changes forms, or perhaps your perception, because everyone takes her hand.

Everyone accepts their death and is led willingly to Morta’s Lair.Death’sLair. Everyone but me, because I never had the chance.

I waited and waited, but she never came.

King Illian releases a sigh, finally dropping his quill. Then his attention drifts up, slowly, as if time lags in his presence. His eyes crawl over me, pausing at my legs, my waist, my shoulders, before meeting my gaze. I want to shrink away. I feel like a fallen star—a once glittering gem now dragged through the mud.

He is still so elegant and I . . . I have withered away.