Gild (The Plated Prisoner #1) - Raven Kennedy Page 0,53

snap it closed when I notice that all the guards have their swords out, facing the people who have come out onto the streets. Who witnessed me giving out gold coins right out in the open, enough money to fight for. To kill for.

The ragged, hungry, desperate looking men and women dare to step closer, roving eyes on the gilded edges of the carriages, the fine armor of the guards, probably tallying how much they could buy with just a single piece.

But then their eyes fall to me. To my hair, my face. I realize too late that I didn’t put my hood back on.

“The king’s favored.”

“That’s the gold-touched woman.”

“She’s Midas’s gilded pet!”

They keep edging nearer, despite the halting warnings of the guards, and guilt and worry curls in my stomach. Stupid. This was stupid.

The tension is thick in the air, like the people are just a second away from snapping, from deciding to take their chances and attack the armed soldiers for a chance at some of Midas’s gold.

Digby’s hand lands on my arm, spurring me into action. “Go.”

I quickly follow Digby’s order and hurry toward the carriage as the people’s voices get louder, their steps closer.

And then, right before I make it to the carriage step, one of them launches forward, racing right for me. I scream as he snarls at me, screaming about taking some of my golden hair, hands curled like the talons of a hawk, ready to snatch its prey.

Digby is there in a heartbeat, between me and the crazed man. Digby sends a well-aimed shoulder into his gut, sending the man sprawling, splashing into a half-frozen puddle.

“Get back!” Digby growls, holding his sword, pointing it at the crowd like a warning. The creeping, gathering crowd pauses, but they don’t back down, they don’t leave.

The moment I scramble into the carriage, Digby is there, slamming the door shut behind me, and we’re lurching forward, the sound of guards shouting orders and threats ringing out.

A nearby fight makes me jump, the sound of fists against fists, people hurling insults at me as we go, spitting on the carriages, cursing the king.

I’m too afraid to look out the window as we go, so I sit ramrod straight on the cushion, cursing myself for my stupidity.

I know better than to flash wealth around in the poor parts of a city. But seeing those kids...it was like looking in a mirror of my past. I wasn’t thinking straight.

When the shouting grows louder, the horses move faster, as fast as they dare in the slogged and muddy street. I pray that no one attacks, over and over again, I beg the starry goddesses to hold them at bay.

Not because I fear for myself, certainly not because of what they could steal. But because I don’t want the guards to be forced to hurt them. These people have been hurt enough.

Poverty like this is a wound. A wound that King Midas has let fester and infect. It’s not their fault, this desperation, this weighed decision of whether or not to attack for the chance at a meal, at a blanket, at medicine. It’s survival. And all of us, every single one, would do the same in their position, would battle with that burdensome “what if.”

But luckily, no one attacks. Luckily, the guards sheathe their swords. But relief doesn’t find me. Only guilt. Guilt that I dangled that carrot in front of the starving and then snatched it so callously away.

The gold castle sitting on the mountain in the distance must be like a thorn in their sides. A constant reminder of a horizon they can’t reach.

I wish the sun would come up sooner. I wish that my pouch had held more coins. That I could’ve bathed the street in gold. But under the chilling cover of night, helplessness weighs on my spirit as our party moves on without further incident, until the last of the decrepit buildings are past, the last haunting face disappearing from view.

And it’s a sad, bitter realization that settles in my bones. Because if even the city ruled by a golden king is as impoverished as this, then what hope does the rest of Orea have?

Chapter Eighteen

I thought that after the ramshackle shanties, the view outside couldn’t get any worse.

I was wrong.

As we make our way to the edge of the city’s boundaries, my eyes squint, trying to see in the distance, past the outpost’s burning torches.

“What…” My question is unheard and unfinished, but the carriage comes