Cove- Unknown

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EPIGRAPH

Never doubt that you are valuable and

powerful and deserving of every

chance and opportunity in the world to pur-

sue and achieve your own dreams.

— HRC

MAP

CONTENTS

Epigraph

Map

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

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Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-One

Twenty-Two

Twenty-Three

Twenty-Four

Twenty-Five

Twenty-Six

Twenty-Seven

Twenty-Eight

Twenty-Nine

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Back Ads

About the Author

Books by Victoria Aveyard

Credits

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About the Publisher

ONE

Mare

I rise to my feet when he lets me.

The chain jerks me up, pulling on the

thorned collar at my throat. Its points dig in,

not enough to draw blood—not yet. But I’m

already bleeding from the wrists. Slow

wounds, worn from days of unconscious cap-

tivity in rough, ripping manacles. The color

stains my white sleeves dark crimson and

bright scarlet, fading from old blood to new

in a testament to my ordeal. To show

Maven’s court how much I’ve suffered

already.

He stands over me, his expression un-

readable. The tips of his father’s crown make

him seem taller, as if the iron is growing out

of his skull. It gleams, each point a curling

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flame of black metal shot with bronze and

silver. I focus on the bitterly familiar thing so

I don’t have to look into Maven’s eyes. He

draws me in anyway, tugging on another

chain I can’t see. Only feel.

One white hand circles my wounded

wrist, somehow gentle. In spite of myself, my

eyes snap to his face, unable to stay away.

His smile is anything but kind. Slim and

sharp as a razor, biting at me with every

tooth. And his eyes are worst of all. Her eyes,

Elara’s eyes. Once I thought them cold, made

of living ice. Now I know better. The hottest

fires burn blue, and his eyes are no

exception.

The shadow of the flame. He is certainly

ablaze, but darkness eats at his edges.

Bruise-like splotches of black and blue sur-

round eyes bloodshot with silver veins. He

has not slept. He’s thinner than I remember,

leaner, crueler. His hair, black as a void, has

reached his ears, curling at the ends, and his

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cheeks are still smooth. Sometimes I forget

how young he is. How young we both are.

Beneath my shift dress, the M brand on my collarbone stings.

Maven turns quickly, my chain tight in

his fist, forcing me to move with him. A

moon circling a planet.

“Bear witness to this prisoner, this vic-

tory,” he says, squaring his shoulders to the

vast audience before us. Three hundred Sil-

vers at least, nobles and civilians, guards and

officers. I’m painfully aware of the Sentinels

on the edge of my vision, their fiery robes a

constant reminder of my quickly shrinking

cage. My Arven guards are never out of sight

either, their white uniforms blinding, their

silencing ability suffocating. I might choke

on the pressure of their presence.

The king’s voice echoes across the opu-

lent stretches of Caesar’s Square, reverberat-

ing through a crowd that responds in kind.

There must be microphones and speakers

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somewhere, to carry the king’s bitter words

throughout the city, and no doubt the rest of

the kingdom.

“Here is the leader of the Scarlet Guard,

Mare Barrow.” In spite of my predicament, I

almost snort. Leader. His mother’s death has not stemmed his lies. “A murderer, a terrorist, a great enemy to our kingdom. And now

she kneels before us, bare to her blood.”

The chain jerks again, sending me scut-

tling forward, arms outstretched to catch my

balance. I react dully, eyes downcast. So

much pageantry. Anger and shame curl

through me as I realize the amount of dam-

age this simple act will do to the Scarlet

Guard. Reds across Norta will watch me

dance on Maven’s strings and think us weak,

defeated, unworthy of their attention, effort,

or hope. Nothing could be further from the

truth. But there isn’t anything I can do, not

now, not here, standing on the knife edge of

Maven’s mercy. I wonder about Corvium, the

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military city we saw burning on our way to

the Choke. There was rioting after my broad-

cast message. Was it the first gasp of revolu-

tion—or the last? I have no way of knowing.

And I doubt anyone will bother to bring me a

newspaper.

Cal warned me against the threat of civil

war a long time ago, before his father died,

before he was left with nothing but a tempes-

tuous lightning girl. Rebellion on both sides, he said. But standing here, leashed before

Maven’s court and his Silver kingdom, I see

no division. Even though I showed them,

told them of Maven’s prison, of their loved

ones taken away, of their trust betrayed by a

king and his mother—I am still the enemy

here. It makes me want to scream, but I

know better. Maven’s voice will always be

louder than mine.

Are Mom and Dad watching? The

thought of it brings a fresh wave of sorrow,

and I bite hard against my lip to keep more

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tears at bay. I know there are video cameras

nearby, focused on my face. Even if I can’t

feel them anymore, I know. Maven would

not miss the opportunity to immortalize my

downfall.

Are they about to see me die?

The collar tells me no. Why bother with

this spectacle if