ELARA'S POV
The first rock hit my shoulder before we even left the palace gates.
I stumbled but didn't fall. The chains around my wrists were so heavy I could barely lift my arms. The barbs dug deeper with every step, making my hands slick with blood.
"Monster!" someone screamed from the crowd.
"Murderer!"
"Let her rot!"
The guards dragged me into the main street, and I saw what they'd done. Thousands of people lined both sides of the road—not to say goodbye, but to watch me suffer. They'd turned my execution march into entertainment.
A rotten tomato exploded against my cheek. Then an egg. Then something worse that I didn't want to identify. The crowd roared with laughter.
I kept my head up. Kept walking. If I was going to die, I'd die with dignity.
But then I saw little Sarah.
She was only seven years old. Three months ago, she'd been dying from plague fever. I'd stayed awake for two days straight, using every bit of my healing magic to save her life. Her mother had cried and thanked me, calling me an angel.
Now Sarah stood at the front of the crowd with her mother, holding a handful of mud.
Our eyes met. For a second, I thought she recognized me. Thought she'd remember.
Then her mother whispered something in her ear and pushed her forward.
Sarah threw the mud. It hit me square in the face.
"Bad lady!" Sarah shouted, and the crowd cheered.
Something cold settled in my chest. Not sadness anymore. Not even anger.
Just emptiness.
These people didn't care about truth. They cared about having someone to blame. Someone to hate. And I was convenient.
"Keep moving," the head guard growled, shoving me forward.
I walked. One foot in front of the other. Blood dripped from my wrists. My dress—the beautiful blue one I'd worn to my birthday party—was torn and filthy. My feet were bare because someone had stolen my shoes while I slept in the cell.
Every step on the rough cobblestones felt like walking on knives.
We passed the fountain where Daemon had once proposed to me. Five years ago, he'd gotten down on one knee and promised to love me forever. I'd been so happy I'd cried.
What a fool I'd been.
"Look up there," someone beside me whispered.
I lifted my eyes to the palace balcony. And there they were.
Daemon and Celeste, standing side by side like king and queen. He had his arm around her waist. She was wearing a gorgeous red dress—and my grandmother's pearl necklace. The family heirloom that was supposed to be mine.
But what made my stomach turn was the ring on her finger. My engagement ring, catching the morning sunlight. She held it up deliberately, making sure I could see it. Making sure it would hurt.
Then she did something that stopped my breath.
She kissed Daemon. Right there in front of everyone. A long, deep kiss that said "mine."
When they pulled apart, Daemon looked straight at me. And smiled.
The crowd went wild, cheering for the "perfect couple."
I felt nothing. I was hollow inside, like they'd scooped out everything that made me human and left only an empty shell.
Good, I thought. Let the emptiness in. Sadness makes you weak. But rage?
Rage keeps you strong.
The road turned upward, starting the climb toward the mountain. The crowd thinned as we left the city behind. Soon it was just me, the guards, and two priests walking ahead with their holy books.
The mountain path was steep and rocky. My bleeding feet left red prints on the white stones. The barbed chains grew heavier with each step, like they were filling with my pain.
Hours passed. The sun climbed higher. I got dizzy from blood loss and hunger, but I didn't stop. Didn't complain. Didn't cry.
"She's tougher than she looks," I heard one guard mutter.
"Daemon said she'd break before we reached the first rest stop," another replied. "Guess he was wrong."
A bitter laugh tried to escape my throat, but I swallowed it down. Daemon thought he knew me. Thought I was weak and easy to destroy.
He was going to learn exactly how wrong he was.
If I somehow survived this—if there was any possible way—I would make them all regret what they'd done. Every single one of them.
The thought kept me moving even when my legs wanted to give out.
By the time we reached the halfway point, the sun was setting. We stopped at a small clearing where the guards set up camp for the night. They tied me to a tree at the edge of camp, still in the burning chains.
"No food for the corrupted," the head guard said. "High Priestess's orders."
I didn't answer. Didn't beg. Just closed my eyes and tried to ignore the pain.
But I couldn't ignore the voices.
The guards sat around their fire, eating and talking. They thought I couldn't hear them. Or maybe they didn't care.
"Do you really think she caused the plague?" one asked quietly.
"Does it matter?" another replied. "The High Priestess says she did. Prince Daemon confirmed it. That's enough."
"But I heard rumors that temple priests were seen near the slums right before the plague started. And they were carrying strange bottles—"
"Shut up." The head guard's voice was sharp. "You want to be investigated for corruption? Don't ask questions. Just do your job."
Silence fell over the camp.
But I'd heard enough.
Temple priests. Strange bottles. Right before the plague started.
My mind raced even through the fog of pain. Lavinia. The High Priestess who'd been so eager to declare me corrupted. Who'd looked excited instead of sad.
What if she was the one who created the plague? What if she'd needed someone to blame, and I was the perfect target—beloved healer, engaged to the prince, trusted by everyone?
But why? What did she gain from thousands of deaths and my execution?
The chains suddenly burned hotter, jerking me out of my thoughts. I bit my lip to keep from screaming. The priests had said these chains were "blessed," but they felt more like a curse. Like something dark was inside the metal, feeding on my pain.
Dark magic.
My eyes flew open.
What if the chains themselves were proof? The High Priestess gave me chains that burned with dark magic, while claiming I was the corrupted one. That didn't make sense unless—
Unless she wanted me in pain. Wanted me weak and suffering when I reached the mountain.
But why?
"Sleep while you can," the head guard called to me. "Tomorrow we reach the summit. Tomorrow you meet your god."
The Death God. Morven. The divine being who supposedly sent the plague as punishment.
What if that was a lie too? What if Lavinia had created the plague, blamed the Death God, and now she was sending me as a sacrifice to cover up her crimes?
Or... what if she wanted something else entirely? Something that required a sacrifice bound in dark magic chains, bleeding and broken, delivered to a god's altar?
Ice ran down my spine despite the burning chains.
I was being used. Not just executed—used for something bigger. Something terrible.
And I was walking straight into it with no way to escape.
The mountain loomed above us, its peak hidden in storm clouds. Somewhere up there, the Death God waited.
Whatever Lavinia had planned, I'd find out tomorrow.
If I lived that long.