Amélie Wen Zhao

She’d crossed the room before she could think. The knife was cold and sleek in her hand, made to cut only butter and other soft things, but it didn’t matter. Better than nothing.

Her gaze darted around the room, assessing every nook and cranny—the scarlet loveseat, the altar table, the locked glass windows overlooking a black, sightless night.

In the end, she positioned herself in the center of the room, knife hidden in her sleeve. Whatever came, she would face it head-on.

Donnaron J. Tarley,” the soldier continued with a mock bow. “General Donnaron J. Tarley. I must say, I do appreciate the hunt you took me on. I don’t like women who make it too easy.”

“Bet you don’t like it when women say no either.” The words somehow slipped out of Lan’s mouth, smooth and sharp, if not accented. This was it, this was one of the moments that would come to define her life, and she would no longer beg or cower.

She shouted again and, with extreme difficulty, pried back a hand and slapped the boy’s cheek.

His eyes snapped open.

Lan’s blood froze.

It felt as though she were staring into an inhuman face; so glacial was his expression that it might have belonged to one of those Elantian marble statues of gods and angels. The careful, courteous boy she’d spoken to earlier was gone.

And his eyes—they were completely, utterly black