Kiera's POV
I know something's wrong the second I hear the footsteps.
Two years in Sky's Edge Prison teaches you the rhythm of things. Breakfast comes at dawn when the first light cracks through the sky. But right now, the cell's still dark. The guards' boots echo down the stone hallway hours too early, and my stomach twists.
I sit up on my cot, wings folding tight against my back. In here, you keep your wings close. Less chance someone tries to break them just for fun.
The footsteps stop at my door.
Metal scrapes. Keys jangle. The lock clicks open, and I'm on my feet before the door swings wide.
Two guards step inside. The tall one—Marcus—carries a tray. Actual food, not the usual gray slop. Fresh bread. Fruit. My mouth waters even as my brain screams danger.
"Breakfast," Marcus says, setting the tray on my cot.
I don't move. "It's not dawn."
"Special occasion." The other guard—I don't know his name—smirks. "Two years today, right? Since they brought you in?"
My chest goes tight. Two years since they dragged me through these doors in chains. Two years since I watched them execute my brother Finn in the prison courtyard, his body crumpling as the void-blast tore through his chest.
Two years since I screamed myself hoarse and swore I'd burn this whole rotten system to ash.
"Eat up," Marcus says. "You'll need your strength."
The unnamed guard laughs. It's not a kind sound.
They leave. The door slams shut. The lock clicks.
I stare at the food.
You'll need your strength.
For what?
My hands shake as I pick up the bread. It's warm. Soft. Nothing like the hard chunks they usually throw at us. I tear off a piece and chew slowly, mind racing.
They're moving me. Has to be. Maybe to a worse cell. Maybe to execution.
My wings twitch. Two years of keeping them folded makes them ache, but I haven't flown since the day they locked me up. Can't fly. Can't fight. Can't do anything but wait and rot and remember Finn's last words: Don't let them break you, Kiera. Promise me.
I couldn't save him. Couldn't stop the High Council from calling him a terrorist just for demanding Windborn rights. Couldn't keep them from blaming their failing Skyhearts on "Windborn contamination" instead of their own greed.
The door opens again.
I drop the bread. Four guards this time, and Marcus looks almost sorry when he says, "Hands out."
"Where are we going?"
"Interrogation room. Now."
My heart hammers. I've been questioned before—beaten, threatened, locked in solitary until I couldn't remember my own name. But never after special breakfast. Never with this many guards.
I hold out my wrists. The shackles snap on, cold and heavy.
They march me through corridors I know by heart. Past cells where other Windborn prisoners watch with hollow eyes. Past the courtyard where Finn died. I don't look. Can't look.
We go up instead of down.
That's new. Interrogation rooms are always in the basement. But we're climbing stairs, moving toward the prison's upper levels where I've never been.
The air changes. Gets cleaner. Less like blood and sweat and despair.
We stop at a door. Solid wood, not iron bars. Marcus knocks twice.
"Enter," someone says from inside.
The voice is male. Cultured. Cold as winter wind.
My blood turns to ice.
Marcus opens the door and pushes me forward. I stumble into a room that looks nothing like the prison. Carpet. Real chairs. Windows showing the cracked purple sky outside.
And sitting behind a polished desk, watching me with silver eyes sharp as broken glass, is the man whose research killed my brother.
Davian Silvercrest.
He's younger than I expected. Maybe twenty-seven. White-blonde hair pulled back. No wings—aristocrats bred theirs out generations ago, thinking it made them refined. He wears a dark jacket that probably costs more than my entire childhood home.
He looks at me like I'm a specimen in a jar.
I spit at his feet.
The guards tense, but Davian doesn't flinch. Just pulls a white handkerchief from his pocket and sets it on the desk between us.
"Miss Ashwind," he says. "Sit."
"Go to hell."
"That's where we all are already." His voice stays level. Bored, even. "The question is whether you'd like to leave."
My breath catches. "What?"
"Sit down. I don't have much time, and you have a choice to make."
The door opens again.
I turn, and my heart stops completely.
Because walking into the room, dressed in Council robes with a smile that makes my skin crawl, is Lord Chancellor Aldric Silvercrest.
Davian's father.
The man who ordered Finn's execution.
He looks at me like I'm something stuck to his shoe. "Hello, Miss Ashwind. Thank you for joining us. We have a proposal that will determine whether you live through the next twenty-four hours."
Behind him, the window shows another crack splitting across the sky.
Something in the distance explodes.
And Lord Silvercrest's smile widens.
"Shall we begin?"