“Julian’s alive.” I don’t know where the words come from, but suddenly they’re hanging in the air, fragile as snowflakes.

Cal’s head jerks up, his eyes suddenly bright. The prospect of his uncle still breathing cheers him almost as much as freedom. “Who told you that?”

“The Colonel.”

Now it’s Cal’s turn to “hmph.”

“I think I believe him.” That earns a disparaging glare, but I press on. “The Colonel thinks Julian was part of Maven’s trap, another Silver to betray me. It’s why he doesn’t believe in the list.”

Cal nods, his eyes faraway. “The ones like you.”

“Farley calls them—us—newbloods.”

“Well,” he sighs, “the only thing they’ll be called is dead if you don’t get out of here soon. Maven will hunt them all.”

Blunt but true. “For revenge?”

To my surprise, he shakes his head. “He’s a new king following a murdered father. Not the most stable place to start his reign. The High Houses, Samos and Iral especially, would leap at a chance to weaken him. And the discovery of newbloods, after he publicly denounced you, would certainly do that.”

Though Cal was raised to be a soldier, trained in the barracks of a living war, he was also born to be a king. He might not be so conniving as Maven, but he understands statecraft better than most.

“So every person we save will hurt him, not just on the battlefield, but on the throne.”

He smirks crookedly, leaning his head back against the wall. “You’re throwing ‘we’ around quite a bit.”

“Does that bother you?” I ask, testing the waters. If I can rope Cal into tracking down the newbloods with me, we might actually have a chance of outpacing Maven.

A muscle in his cheek twitches, the only indication of his indecision. He doesn’t get a chance to answer before the now familiar march of boots cuts him off. Cal groans to himself, annoyed at the Colonel’s return. When he starts to rise, my hand shoots out, pushing him back into his seat.

“Don’t stand for him,” I mutter, leaning back in my own chair.

Cal does as he’s told and settles in, arms crossed over his broad chest. Now instead of beating against the window and tossing tables at the walls, he looks stoic, serene, a boulder of flesh waiting to crush whoever comes too close. If only he could. But for the Silent Stone, he would be a blazing inferno, burning hotter and brighter than the sun. And I would be a storm. Instead, we’re reduced to our bones, to two teenagers grumbling in a cage.

I do my best to keep still when the Colonel appears in the window. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction of my anger, but when Kilorn appears at his shoulder, his expression cold and stern, my body jolts. Now it’s Cal’s turn to hold me back, his hand a slight pressure on my thigh, keeping me seated.

The Colonel stares for a moment, as if memorizing the sight of the prince and the lightning girl imprisoned. I’m seized by the urge to spit on the bloodstained glass but refrain. Then he turns away from us, gesturing with long, crooked fingers. They twitch once, twice, beckoning for someone to step forward. Or be brought forth.

She fights like a lion, forcing the Colonel’s bodyguards to hold her clean off the ground. Farley’s fist catches one of them in the jaw, sending him sprawling, breaking his grip on her arm. She slams the other into the passage wall, crushing his neck between her elbow and the window of another cell. Her blows are brutal, meant to inflict as much damage as she can, and I can see purple bruises already blooming on her captors. But the bodyguards are careful not to hurt her, doing their best to keep her merely restrained.

Colonel’s orders, I suppose. He’ll give his daughter a cell, but not bruises.

To my dismay, Kilorn doesn’t stand idle. When the guards get her up against a wall, each one bracing a shoulder and leg, the Colonel gestures to the fish boy. With shaking hands, he pulls out a dull gray box. Syringes gleam within.

I can’t hear her voice through the glass, but it’s easy to read her lips. No. Don’t.

“Kilorn, stop it!” The window is suddenly cold and smooth beneath my hand. I beat against it, trying to catch his attention. “Kilorn!”

But he squares his shoulders, turning his back so I can’t see his face. The Colonel does the opposite, staring at me instead of the syringe plunging into his daughter’s neck. Something strange flickers deep in his good eye—regret, maybe? No, this is not a man with doubts. He’ll do whatever he must, to whoever he must.

Kilorn pulls back after doing the deed, the empty syringe sharp in his hand. He waits, watching Farley thrash against her captors. But her movements slow and her eyelids droop as the drugs take hold. Finally she sags against the Lakelander guards, unconscious, and they drag her to the cell across from mine. They lay her down before locking the door, shutting her in just like Cal—just like me.

When her door clangs shut, the lock in mine clicks open.

“Redecorating?” the Colonel says with a sniff, eyeing the dented table as he enters. Kilorn follows, tucking the box of syringes back into his coat, in warning. For you, if you step out of line. He avoids my stare, busying himself with the box while the door locks behind them, leaving the two guards to man the passage on the other side.

Cal glares from his seat, his expression murderous. I don’t doubt he’s thinking about all the ways he could kill the Colonel, and which would hurt the most. The Colonel knows that too, and draws a short but lethal pistol from its holster. It idles in his hand, a coiled snake waiting to strike.