Chapter 194
Chapter 194
Citlali's POV
Kira stood frozen beyond the silver bars, her carefully painted face a mask that couldn't quite hide the storm beneath.
I watched her throat work as she swallowed, watched her fingers tighten on the ring of keys until her knuckles went white against the crimson silk of her gown.
For a moment—just a heartbeat—I thought she might speak, might explain, might offer some justification for the jeweled combs in her hair and the rouge on her cheeks while the rest of us rotted in cages.
But she didn't.
Instead, she cleared her throat, and when she spoke, her voice was flat, professional, stripped of anything that might betray emotion. "Prince Snow wants to see you. Come with me."
The door swung open with a rusty groan.
Kira stepped aside, her eyes fixed somewhere over my shoulder, refusing to meet my gaze as I shuffled forward on bare feet that were cut and filthy from the stone floor.
"Wait," Layla's voice cracked behind me, and when I glanced back, I saw her pressed against the far wall of the cell, her small body trembling but her chin lifted in defiance. "If you hurt her, I'll—"
"You'll what?" Kira's voice was sharp, cutting, and for a second the mask slipped and I saw something raw in her eyes—guilt, maybe, or shame, or just exhaustion so deep it had carved hollows beneath her carefully applied cosmetics.
"You're nine years old and you weigh less than a sack of grain. What exactly do you think you can do?"
The cruelty of it made me flinch, made anger flare hot in my chest.
But before I could snarl something back, Kira's expression shifted again, smoothing into that terrible blankness. "Just... stay quiet," she said, softer now, and I couldn't tell if she was talking to Layla or to herself. "It'll be easier if you stay quiet."
Then she turned and walked away, and I had no choice but to follow.
---
The corridor stretched ahead of us, lit by oil lamps that cast dancing shadows on walls stained with gods knew what.
The sounds from the other cells followed us like ghosts—a woman's sob, a man's satisfied grunt, the creak of a bed frame that had seen too much use.
Kira walked three paces ahead of me, her spine rigid beneath the silk, her elaborate hairstyle perfect despite the humidity that made my own tangled mess stick to my neck and shoulders.
I studied her as we moved through the warren of passages, noting the way her shoulders tensed whenever we passed another guard, the way her breathing hitched slightly when a particularly loud scream echoed from one of the cells.
She was terrified, I realized with a jolt of surprise.
Beneath the fine dress and the jewelry and the cosmetics that transformed her into something that belonged in a palace rather than a prison, Kira was absolutely terrified.
We turned a corner, and suddenly the corridor changed—the stone walls gave way to plastered surfaces decorated with tapestries, the rough floor became polished wood, the oil lamps were replaced by elegant sconces that cast warm, golden light.
It was like crossing a threshold between two different worlds, and the contrast was so jarring that I stumbled.
My bare feet suddenly became aware of how soft the carpet was beneath them, how different from the cold stone I'd grown used to.
Kira glanced back at me, and for just a second our eyes met.
Something flickered in her expression, something that might have been pity or regret, but it was gone before I could name it, replaced by that careful blankness.
"We're almost there," she said quietly, and I couldn't tell if it was meant as reassurance or warning.
---
The door she stopped at was massive, carved from dark wood and decorated with intricate designs—wolves running beneath a full moon, their forms so lifelike I could almost see them move in the flickering lamplight.
It should have been beautiful, but all I could think was how obscene it was, how these people had stolen our symbols and our stories and twisted them into decoration for the rooms where they violated us.
Kira raised her hand to knock, then hesitated, her knuckles hovering inches from the wood.
"Citlali," she said, so softly I almost didn't hear it, and when I looked at her I saw that her mask had cracked again, just slightly, just enough to let through a glimpse of the girl I'd known back in the pack. "I'm—"
But whatever she was about to say was cut off by a voice from inside the room, smooth and cultured and edged with impatience. "Come in, Kira. Don't keep our guest waiting."
The mask slammed back into place so fast I might have imagined the crack.
Kira pushed the door open and stepped inside, her movements fluid and practiced, and after a moment's hesitation I followed, my chains clinking with each shuffling step.
The room that greeted me was nothing like the cells below.
It was spacious and bright, with tall windows draped in deep blue silk that let in the moonlight, with Persian rugs covering polished wooden floors, with carved furniture that looked like it belonged in a palace.
A fire crackled in an enormous hearth, casting dancing shadows across walls hung with oil paintings and tapestries.
Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with leather-bound volumes, and a massive desk sat near the windows, covered with papers and maps and what looked like official documents.
It was warm here, comfortable, a place designed for living rather than dying, and the contrast with the horror below made my stomach turn.
A man stood by the windows, his back to us, looking out at the night sky.
He was tall and lean, dressed in a deep blue velvet coat embroidered with gold thread.
Kira cleared her throat softly and performed a curtsy that was both graceful and practiced. "Your Highness," she said, her voice carefully modulated, stripped of anything that might be interpreted as disrespect. "I've brought her, as you requested."
The man turned, and I got my first clear look at Prince Snow.
He was younger than I'd expected—twenty-three, maybe twenty-four at most—with the kind of face that belonged on statues or in paintings.
Dark hair fell across his forehead in artful disarray, framing eyes of pale blue-gray that studied me with an intensity that made my skin crawl.
His features were aristocratic—high cheekbones, a straight nose, a mouth that curved in what might have been a smile if it had reached his eyes.
He should have been handsome, I supposed, in the way that predators were beautiful before they struck.
But there was something in his expression that didn't match what I'd been expecting—no cruelty, no hunger, no cold calculation.
Instead, he looked... tired.
Exhausted, even, with shadows under his eyes.
"Thank you, Kira," he said, his voice gentle in a way that made me immediately suspicious. "Please, sit."
He gestured to a chair near the fire, and Kira moved to it with the ease of long familiarity, settling into the cushions like she belonged there.