Bonds of Brass (The Bloodright Trilogy #1) - Emily Skrutskie Page 0,75

the information we carry, you’ll treat her as one of us.”

Gal’s shoulders stiffen.

The woman looks skeptical, and Wen’s obvious state isn’t helping. I don’t blame the soldier. She’s sworn to an uprising based on seven years of hurt, and she doesn’t have time for kids playing games.

I remember one of my earliest lessons. The last-ditch way to save a crumbling ruse. I kick out another wall inside me—one of the old, stalwart things that stands between me and my younger self. I let the desperation show in my eyes. “Please,” I say, my voice a tad hoarser than it needs to be. I drum my fingers against my palms, tapping out the triumph rhythm I’ve kept buried under my skin for seven years. “Rana was my homeworld. If there’s even the slightest chance we can restore it, I want to do everything I can.”

The soldiers soften. Sympathetic smiles creep onto the corners of a few mouths. The woman at the fore keeps herself in check, but there’s something dangerously close to pride in her eyes. “We’ll escort you to a holding cell,” she says. “Once we get clearance from the higher-ups, we’ll see what we can do.”

I nod. The relief I show is genuine. But as the soldiers flank us and lead us off the tarmac and toward one of the squat granite buildings, Gal catches my eye. His face is set with an unfamiliar look—or at least, one I’ve never seen directed at me.

He looks furious. But worse than that, he looks suspicious.

* * *

—

In the cell, I lose track of time. We wait in silence, unsure whether the room is bugged. Gal simmers with pursed lips, Wen leans against the wall for support, and I pace until finally the door opens. Four soldiers beckon us out and escort us down the hall to a narrow interrogation room. Three chairs wait on one side of the table, and a bare bulb illuminates the space, casting everything in sharp relief. Wen’s eyes are still blown out, and Gal helps her into a chair, making sure she’s steady before he sits.

I stay standing, thinking. Three chairs—none bolted down. The door has the sort of handle that could be jammed by one of them. The glass on the two-way mirror is probably reinforced, but the ceiling tiles are accessible if we stack a chair on the table. A slight smile twists my lips as I remember the day Hanji realized she could disappear from the restrooms via the dropped ceiling and reappear a few rooms over to the terror of everyone inside. Looks like the same trick might apply here.

Only once I’m confident I know the way to escape this room do I sink into the chair on Gal’s other side. I don’t miss that he’s taken the middle seat, placing himself at the center of this negotiation. He’s not giving me a chance to take the lead again.

He’s an imperial, and he’s born for control. In the face of his enemy, he can’t forget it.

But when the door opens to admit a walking ghost, control goes out the window. I jolt backward, Gal nearly stands, and Wen outs herself as a Corinthian by simply blinking.

He’s tall and broad, the kind of man you imagine when history mentions a great general. His olive skin is weathered but unscarred, and he wears his hair long—longer than I remember—and bound back in braids. His uniform is trim and fitted, betraying his heavily muscled frame with every movement.

And he’s supposed to be dead.

“General Iral,” I whisper.

Maxo Iral gives us an enigmatic smile as he closes the door behind him. “In the flesh, against all odds,” he says, approaching the table. Even in this cramped room, his voice resonates like the thunder of an imperial skin drum. “Don’t believe everything you see on the news.”

Five years ago, Iral’s execution was broadcast across the entire galaxy. It was the most spectacle surrounding an execution since the Archon imperials ascended the Umber citadel, and for the people of Archon, it matched the devastation of Knightfall. Once again—inevitably, it seemed—we lost our heroes. I was two weeks into my placement