Thorns of the Court

Smoke billows past the treetops like a living thing—thick and black and hungry. It smells like burning meat and wood and fear, and I taste it in the back of my throat as I run.

“Sylara!” Mama’s voice cuts through the chaos, high and sharp like a bird cry. “In here—come here, now!”

My legs trip over themselves as I sprint toward her. She’s by the hearth, already shoving the rug aside. Papa’s in the corner with his bow, fingers shaking as he notches an arrow, yelling something I can’t hear over the screaming. “The floorboards,” Mama says, pushing aside a loose plank. Her hands tremble. “Go. Now. Don’t make a sound. No matter what.”

“But—” I start, but her hands are already on my shoulders, shoving me down, down, into the narrow crawlspace. It’s cold. It smells like dirt and damp. “You stay here,” she whispers. Her breath catches. “Don’t come out. No matter what happens, Sylara. Do you understand me?”

I nod, but my whole body is shaking. I don’t want to understand. I want her to come with me. I want Papa to stop shouting. I want everything to stop. The floorboard slides back into place, sealing me in darkness.

And then the door crashes open.

I press my hands to my mouth to keep from screaming. Boots thunder across the floor. I hear Papa’s voice—furious, desperate—and then a horrible crack, like wood splintering. A crash. Something falls hard.

“Get off me!” Mama screams. Light spills through the slats in the boards above me as someone kicks the rug aside. I see shadows move. The heel of a boot. A red cloak. And then—

Mama.

They’re dragging her away. She’s fighting and screaming my father’s name. I twist in the tiny space, pressing my eye to a knot in the wood. I see him. The man who ends everything. He stands in the center of our home like it’s his throne. His hair is dark. His eyes are colder than the river in winter. And his sword is red. Papa is on his knees. Bleeding. He looks up—defiant, even then—and the man smiles. Then he slits his throat.

I bite down on my hand to keep from screaming. The taste of blood fills my mouth. The floor shakes as Mama kicks and sobs, and I can hear her begging now, for mercy.

The man turns away as they drag her out the door, her screams echoing through the smoke. I watch his cloak sweep over the blood-soaked floor.

And then they’re gone.