Woven in Moonlight (Woven in Moonlight #1)(11)

And now the damned farmlands.

“ándate a la mierda, Atoc!” Sofía shouts. We whoop in agreement, knowing such words will have to be swallowed in the coming days.

We gallop on, the city materializing on the horizon as dusk settles into darkness, the moon rising, the stars peeking out. Goose bumps mar my skin. The night promises danger.

Luna, give me strength.

We travel through the walnut trees, around the village neighborhood, and past La Ciudad’s outer wall. Now, instead of Illustrians living in the city, it’s the infernal Llacsans. Murals of the usurper and his entourage—particularly of Atoc and his younger sister, Tamaya—besmirch the once white walls. As if Atoc needs to remind everyone who won the war.

We pass a pair of Llacsans huddling on tattered blankets against the city gate. They peer at us with red-rimmed eyes, their noses blotchy and bleeding. These are the unfortunate souls trapped in addiction. Ensnared by the deadly promises of Atoc’s favorite export.

We ride silently, leaving the city walls. As we approach the castillo entrance, I grip the reins tighter and grit my teeth.

“Take a breath,” Sofía murmurs as we ride up the pathway to the iron gates.

The castillo looms ahead of us, its white walls gleaming, simple and austere. The windows are narrow and arched, mere slits. Like prison windows. I can’t imagine what my life will be like living inside. What horrors await me? Images of a dark dungeon buried beneath the castillo swim in my head. Of long, drawn-out days without food and cold nights without any hope of warmth.

My anger morphs into dread.

I’d agreed to this plan and jumped without thinking, the same way I’d jumped at being Catalina’s decoy all those years ago. That impulse brought me to the home of my enemy, where I’ll be scrutinized for any show of weakness. Once inside, I can never be Ximena. What if I mess up and they catch the lie? I clench my eyes and fight to remember why I’m riding toward the ugly and terrifying unknown.

How far am I willing to go for my queen?

I open my eyes again as we reach the front of the path. Tall iron gates block our way. A poster depicting El Lobo hangs from one of the bars. It offers a reward for information regarding the masked vigilante.

I pull back on the reins. And wait. Sofía follows my lead, quiet and alert.

The night hangs heavy and silent, as if hushed by something sinister, lurking on the other side of the castillo walls, like a hidden snare waiting for a fox.

“I see movement,” I whisper to Sofía. “Upper wall. Left of the gates. Damn it, put your weapon away. You’re supposed to be my maid.”

Sofía frowns, but sheaths her sword. “I don’t like this.”

That makes two of us.

I tilt my head back and look up to where I’d seen someone creeping along the edge. Two men squint down from the watchtower. Only the moon and stars illuminate our upturned faces.

“Who are you?”

My heart hammers in my chest. No turning back now.

“The condesa,” I say, loud and clear. “I’m here by At—the king’s demand.”

The sound of a rattling chain slashes the air and slowly the door rises, foot by foot, like the jaws of an anaconda before swallowing its prey whole. I nudge my horse forward, Sofía on my left. Thank Luna I asked her to come. My body is trembling so hard, I’m half amazed I haven’t spooked the damn horse.

The courtyard is as I remembered—only more colorful. I’m expecting a white building, but the exterior walls are painted a vibrant shade of green. Murals depicting the false king wearing a crown of sunflowers sully every inch. The yard is in the shape of a square, with white archways lining each side. Giant potted plants are strewn about and stone benches line the walls. The stables, if memory serves, are off to the right.

A pair of doors blocks the main entrance—tall, formidable, and made of iron, designed to keep intruders out. They swing open and a man around Ana’s age walks out to meet us. He studies me coldly. He’s stocky, wearing amulets at his throat and wrists, and dressed in an eggplant robe that ripples as he approaches. His nostrils flare as he continues his assessment.

“Condesa.” He says the title condescendingly. “I am the priest Sajra.”

My heartbeat thrashes in my ears and I instinctively reach for the handle of my blade. Sofía sucks in a deep breath. This is the man behind the king. The loud shadow responsible for some of Atoc’s most unthinkable edicts. The torturer who uses his blood magic to ruin lives.

He stops in front of my horse and runs an index finger along the horse’s neck. I keep still, my attention on his hands.

“You were supposed to come alone,” he says in a neutral tone.

I clench my jaw, my body coiling tight.

The priest steps away from the horse. A prickle of warning makes the hairs on my forearms stand on end, and a glint of silver arrests my attention, turning it to a darkened window.

I gasp.

Something long and thin blurs past me.

My mouth drops open as the force of an arrow catapults Sofía off her horse. Her head cracks against the ground.

Blood gushes from the hole in her chest, staining the white stone.





CAPíTULO





I keep blinking. My eyes tell me one thing, my head another. This isn’t real. It can’t be.