he’s letting on. “We’ve had a tenuous relationship with the priests for a while, but they’ve been too long without one of us keeping an eye on them.” The atmosphere in the room is heavy, and I’m reminded that he’s much older than the rest of us. Wearily, he continues, his voice grave as he shakes his head.
“This has been building for a while. For years, the priests and the mages would keep an eye on each other, make sure that the other doesn’t get too powerful. That was how the Mother intended it. However, with the war as it is, all of the high mages have been required to help on the front lines or at the academy. It’s only recently, when Grayson returned here and started reporting back, that we realised how out of control the priests had become.”
“What does this mean?” I ask with a frown, not really understanding. The four magicians look at each other, their expressions grave. After a couple of moments of silent discourse, Grayson stands and makes his way over to me, holding out his hand in an offer to assist me to my feet.
“It means things are going to change around here.”
Something tickles my arm, like a drop of water trailing its way down my skin, leaving a dampness behind that pulls me from my slumber. Yawning, I open my eyes and stare up at the ceiling. Fatigue pulls at my limbs. I didn’t sleep well, dreams of watching the queen’s slaughter playing over and over in my head. That sticky wetness tickles my arm again, and I raise it up to see what’s causing the feeling, only to jerk back in shock. Scrambling to sit upright, I look at my hand, horrified to find it’s coated in dark, sticky blood, clumps of it stuck under my fingernails. I want to vomit, the sensation rising within me as I lean over the side of the bed, retching. My throat burns, my stomach is empty, and my eyes water as I wait for the nausea to fade.
Sitting back up, I use my clean hand to wipe my mouth, my breathing rapid. With dread, I look back at my left hand, the one coated with blood. Movement catches my eye, so I quickly glance to my left, and on the spare side of the bed, staring back at me, is the corpse of Slave 879. I want to scream, but I can’t, my throat closing up as I gawk at her body. Her throat is wide open and her blood soaks into my sheets.
This can’t be happening. This can’t be real.
“You did this,” 879 hisses at me, making my terror rise. I must be dreaming, I have to be. This isn’t possible.
“It’s your fault we’re dead,” she hisses, moving her body stiffly as she pushes up from the mattress, grabbing my arm.
“It’s your fault.”
A bang makes me shoot up bed, sleep clinging to me as I look around my room in panic. A dream, it was all a dream. Sobs climb their way out of my throat, and I can’t stop them from taking over my body as I try to regain control. The weight of the sheets clinging to me is too much, and I hurriedly push them off, needing to feel the air on my skin. I stumble from the bed, running over to the large windows, and throw them open. The bitterly cold winter wind is freezing against my damp skin, but it helps ground me.
The whispered words of what I now realise was a nightmare are still echoing through my mind, making me feel sick. Standing in front of the window in only my thin nightgown, I wrap my arms around my chest and focus on my breathing. “I’m safe. I’m awake. I’m in Grayson’s rooms. I’m safe,” I repeat, hoping I’ll start believing it the more I say the mantra.
“Clarissa?” Jayne’s concerned voice startles me as I spin around, eyes wide. It takes me a couple of seconds to realise it’s her, but once my brain connects, I instantly feel better.
“Oh, Jayne, it’s you,” I ramble, wiping at my face to hide my tears. “Sorry. I had a nightmare. I needed some fresh air.”
Her expression turns into one of sympathy as she takes in the state I’m in, seeing right through my attempts to appear in control. I realise then that it must have been her who made the banging noise. Her arms are full of folded sheets and