Something heavy and wet hit Lysandra’s chest and she staggered back a step. A ripe tomato. She looked down at the messy splatter with surprise and dismay.

“Die, rebel!” yelled the man who’d thrown it.

She stared back at him blankly. What a waste of a perfectly good tomato.

The king began to address the crowd, the sound of his voice raking against Lysandra’s skin, each word a tiny dagger dipped in poison

“The two rebels before us are responsible for the deaths of many Auranians and Limerians alike. Do not feel pity as you gaze upon their young faces. They are dangerous insurgents. They are savages, through and through. They must be held accountable for their actions. May their deaths be a reminder that the laws of the land are there for peace. For prosperity. For a bright future, lived out hand in hand with our neighbors.”

Lysandra yearned for that sweet ease of nothingness she’d felt all day, but the king’s words affected her. Her muscles tensed up with hatred and the desire to wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until the life left his eyes. She’d wanted to kill him ever since he’d torched her village and killed her parents, ever since he’d enslaved the survivors and forced them to build his precious road.

Such lies he spoke. Yet, looking beyond the fanatics in front, a sweep of the faces in the crowd revealed apathy and distaste. Perhaps these people were no longer willing to swallow the king’s words like wine that would lull them into a false sense of security.

She looked back to the king. How laughable that this monster was once again making her feel a spark of life just moments before he was to order it over.

She tore her gaze from the king and his hateful family to Tarus, whose tearful eyes met her steady ones.

“I’m not afraid,” he said.

“Of course you’re not afraid,” she whispered back. “You’re the bravest kid I’ve ever known.”

He smiled, just as a tear splashed down his cheek. But the smile disappeared at once as a guard curled his mitt of a hand around Lysandra’s arm and jerked her to the side.

He dragged her up the four steps to the stage and forced her down to her knees, shoving her cheek down against a hard wooden block.

“Don’t watch,” she told Tarus, her voice hoarse as the guard yanked her hair to the side to bare her neck. “Please look away.”

But he didn’t. He kept his gaze locked with hers to show he was trying to be strong. For her.

She tried to focus on the dais and on the king who stood watching the proceedings, his expression smug and satisfied. She saw Prince Magnus’s scarred cheek twitch, but otherwise he appeared impassive. Princess Lucia stood still behind him, her beautiful face calm and cold.

Princess Cleo, on the other hand, looked frantic, her gaze darting from Lysandra to Tarus to the crowd as if she were a nervous hummingbird searching for shelter.

As the executioner hoisted his heavy ax above his head, Lysandra finally squeezed her eyes shut to block out the sight of the king’s followers, who continued to cheer her impending death loud enough to drown out any protests from the back. There was one thing about which the king had been truthful: This wouldn’t be a torturous death. It would be over swiftly.

She had no deity to pray to and no faith in the goddesses of other lands, so she thought of her parents and of Gregor and, lastly, of Jonas.

I love you all.

Just as she exhaled one long, last breath, an explosion rocked the stage. Lysandra’s eyes snapped back open and she saw a plume of orange flame rise up before her. A dagger flew through the air and caught the executioner in his throat, forcing him to stagger backward and drop hard to the floor. Beneath his hooded mask, Lysandra saw that his dead eyes were still open and filled with shock.

Another explosion bloomed to the left, crashing directly in the center of King Gaius’s supporters. Bodies and debris flew through the air, catching fire, the carnage extending into the rest of the audience, who began to scatter in all directions. Now they screamed for their own lives instead of Lysandra’s head.

Stunned, Gregor’s warning echoed in Lysandra’s ears: “When the sorceress’s blood is spilled, they will finally rise. And the world will burn.”

If Lysandra wasn’t mistaken, the world was burning right now.

“Lys! Help!” Tarus yelled. A guard was hauling the boy backward toward the dungeon, away from the sudden chaos.

She didn’t hesitate. She lunged toward the fallen executioner and turned to slice through her bindings with his discarded ax. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the royals being ushered away toward the safety of the palace by a flank of red-uniformed guards who stepped over bodies strewn on the ground below the dais.

Lysandra jumped down from the stage, shoving and punching anyone in her path as she tried to get to Tarus.

An iron bar of an arm came around her throat from behind. She clawed at it, fighting and kicking. A man had fallen to the ground nearby, screaming, his body ablaze.

“Let go of me!” she shouted.

“Why? Do you have somewhere else you need to be?”

She froze. The firm arm was clad in the hateful red uniform, but as soon as she heard him speak, she stopped fighting.

Her captor loosened his hold just enough for her to spin around and confirm his identity.

“Jonas!” The word was nothing more than a throaty rasp.

He didn’t greet her with a smile, not even a smug, self-satisfied one. He didn’t even look at her; his gaze was fixed on the crowd, his expression deadly serious.