The Woman Who Murdered Tomorrow

The first time Lady Aurelia Veyne murdered a prince, she did it to save his life.

No one believed her, which was understandable.

Dead men rarely made convincing witnesses.

The bells of Saint Orienne rang seven times as Aurelia climbed the steps to her execution.

Once for treason.

Once for regicide.

Once for conspiracy against the Imperial Crown.

The remaining four, she assumed, were simply for spectacle.

Rain had fallen during the night, leaving Concord Square black beneath her bare feet. By morning the clouds had broken, and sunlight spilled over the white towers of the capital with almost insulting beauty.

A fine day to die.

Thousands had gathered to watch.

They filled balconies and rooftops, crowded windows and pressed against the barricades surrounding the scaffold. Merchants stood beside beggars. Noblemen hid beneath dark cloaks while their servants openly stared.

Everyone wanted to see Aurelia Veyne die.

The traitor.

The Kingslayer.

The Black Commander.

She had collected an impressive number of names in twenty-six years.

“Keep moving.”

The guard behind her shoved her shoulder.

Aurelia stopped.

The four soldiers escorting her stiffened.

She looked back. The young guard couldn’t have been older than nineteen. His crimson-and-gold uniform belonged to the Imperial Guard, though his sword belt sat too low and his right hand hovered nervously near the hilt.

Once, men wearing that uniform had saluted her.

Now this one was trying not to tremble.

“If you’re going to draw it,” Aurelia said, “use your left.”

He blinked. “What?”

“Your right wrist is injured.”

His face changed.

Aurelia continued up the stairs.

Nine steps remained.

She counted automatically.

The executioner was right-handed, with an old injury in his left knee. Five archers watched from the surrounding roofs. The nearest guard had failed to secure his dagger. The southern alley was unguarded.

Sixteen seconds.

Perhaps eighteen with the chains.

That was how long she estimated it would take to escape Concord Square.

She glanced at the executioner’s axe.

Maybe fifteen.

Ten years ago, she would have been proud of that calculation.

Today it merely made her tired.

When Aurelia reached the scaffold, the crowd erupted.

“Murderer!”

“Traitor!”

“Kingslayer!”

Something rotten burst beside her feet.

Aurelia looked down.

Pear.

How wasteful. The harvest had been poor this year.

Another object struck her shoulder. She didn’t move.

Almost all of them had once cheered her name.

After Kozar Bridge, flowers had been thrown beneath her horse. After the northern campaign, children chased her carriage through these same streets carrying wooden swords painted black.

Now a woman near the front screamed that Aurelia should burn.

Aurelia recognized her.

Her husband had served in the Third Battalion. Aurelia herself had carried what remained of him from the battlefield so his wife could bury him.

She looked away.

Perhaps hatred was easier than grief.

“Aurelia Veyne.”

The Minister of Justice stepped forward, his voice amplified across the square.

“You stand convicted before the Imperial Court of conspiracy, treason against His Majesty, unlawful command of imperial forces, and the deaths of one thousand seven hundred and twelve imperial soldiers—”

Aurelia stopped listening.

Numbers.

They always liked numbers.

Numbers made death tidy.

One thousand seven hundred and twelve soldiers. Four ministers. Two dukes.

One prince.

Her hands tightened behind her back.

Caelan.

Golden hair beneath sunlight. That ridiculous smile. White ceremonial robes soaked red beneath the ruined observatory dome.

His fingers wrapped around hers.

Her sword between them.

“Aurelia.”

She shut her eyes.

Bad memory.

Why him, now?

“…and the murder of His Imperial Highness Crown Prince Caelan Aster Edrienne.”

Silence.

Even dead, his name could quiet them.

The Minister turned to her. “Imperial law grants you one final word.”

Aurelia looked toward the palace.

Its highest tower still carried the imperial banner at half-mast.

For Caelan.

Three months dead.

“Lady Aurelia?”

“I have nothing to say.”

Anger rippled through the crowd.

The Minister stared. “Nothing?”

She almost smiled.

Apparently dying quietly was considered impolite.

“You have been accused of bringing the empire to the edge of destruction.”

“I noticed.”

“And you offer no defense?”

“I had one.”

“Then speak it.”

“They executed most of it.”

Someone behind the officials coughed suspiciously.

The Minister flushed.

Aurelia’s gaze moved past him and settled on the Crown of Concord beneath the imperial pavilion.

Seven pale arches. Seven gemstones.

Seven kingdoms.

Seven promises.

One empire.

Every child knew the story.

Caelan had worn the Crown once, ceremonially, and complained about its weight for an entire week.

Her chest hurt.

Ridiculous.

She had endured arrows with greater dignity.

“Proceed.”

Aurelia knelt.

Black hair spilled over one shoulder, exposing the pale streak hidden beneath it. Her mother had always hated that streak.

Lucien had once convinced Aurelia it meant moon spirits had exchanged her at birth.

Lucien.

Her breath caught.

Dead at twenty-nine.

Theron at twenty-four.

Mother—

Aurelia closed her eyes.

Perhaps that was the cruelest part of death.

Remembering everyone who had reached it before you.

“Place your head down,” the executioner murmured.

His voice was unexpectedly gentle.

Aurelia obeyed.

Behind her, metal scraped against leather.

Slow inhale.

Shift of weight.

Both hands on the axe.

He was nervous.

“If you strike too close to the shoulder,” Aurelia said quietly, “you’ll need a second swing.”

The executioner paused.

“Lady Veyne.”

“Three inches higher.”

Another pause.

“Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Perhaps she really had lost her mind. The axe rose, Aurelia breathed in. And remembered. Caelan beneath the observatory. His bloody hand around hers. His forehead touching hers. His voice barely more than a whisper.

“When the Crown opens its ey--”

The memory fractured. Aurelia frowned.

What?

She had remembered that night thousands of times.

Caelan had never said--

When the Crown opens its eyes, don’t look away.

Her eyes snapped open.

The axe fell.

Aurelia moved.

Instinct.

Her body twisted aside. The axe buried itself in the block.

Before anyone understood what had happened, Aurelia rolled, swept her chained hands beneath her legs and caught the executioner’s wrist.

A heartbeat later, the enormous man was on his knees.

And Aurelia was holding the axe.

Concord Square went silent. That was unfortunate. Six guards rushed the scaffold. She could take them.

First man’s throat. Second man’s knee. Third man’s sword---

Stop.

Aurelia released the axe. It struck the wood.

“I apologize,” she told the executioner.

He stared.

“Reflex.”

The first guard reached her. His gauntlet struck her face. Pain flashed white. Aurelia hit the scaffold, and the crowd erupted. Someone kicked her ribs before the Minister shouted for them to stop. Guards dragged her upright. Blood ran from Aurelia’s split lip and fell from her chin. One drop landed on black velvet.

Aurelia looked down.

The Crown of Concord had been knocked from its pavilion.

Her blood rested on its central gemstone.

For one heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then the gemstone blinked.

Aurelia stopped breathing.

The crystal opened.

Like an eye.

Ruby light swallowed the square. A battlefield beneath a black sun. A woman kneeling before seven empty thrones. Children singing in a language Aurelia didn’t understand. Eight figures standing in a circle. Seven blades raised. One crown falling.

WITNESS.

Aurelia screamed. Her family’s gift answered without permission. Gold drowned beneath crimson in her eyes.

Witness usually gave her fragments---intentions clinging to blood.

Protect. Flee. Lie. Kill. Never this. Voices crashed through her.

Hundreds. Thousands.

WE SHALL WITNESS

Her mother. Caelan laughing. Lucien screaming her name across a battlefield.

WHAT OTHERS REFUSE

Theron’s hand going cold in hers.

TO SEE.

Then a voice Aurelia had never heard whispered directly behind her.

And when the world forgets us--

Darkness swallowed everything. Aurelia woke with a weapon in her hand. She struck first and someone screamed. The blade stopped an inch from a young woman’s throat.

Aurelia froze...it was not a blade but a silver dinner knife. The maid beside her bed had gone completely white.

“M-My lady?”

Aurelia stared. Lavender. Fresh linen. Beeswax. No blood. No rain. No scaffold. She knew this room. Blue curtains. Walnut bedposts. The old hunting mural above the fireplace.

Her bedroom at Veyne Manor.

No.

She looked at her hands. Smooth with no scars.

She tore back the blankets.

The arrow scar on her thigh was gone.

So was the wound at her side.

Aurelia stumbled toward the mirror.

A girl stared back. Seventeen. Long black hair. Softer cheeks. The pale streak almost completely hidden beneath darker strands. Golden eyes.

Aurelia touched the mirror.

“No.”

“My lady, should I call the physician?”

Execution. The Crown. Caelan. Seven voices.

No!

Eight.

The door flew open.

“Aurelia?”

She turned.

And forgot how to breathe. Lucien stood in the doorway with his morning coat half-buttoned and his hair a disaster.

Alive.

“Lucien.”

He frowned. “Who else would it be?”

Aurelia crossed the room and collided with him.

“What in---”

She wrapped both arms around him. His heart beat beneath her ear.

Alive. 

“Aurelia, you’re crushing me.”

She held tighter. “Right. Apparently we’re doing this.”

His arms came around her. “Did you have another nightmare?”

Aurelia remembered his body in the snow. Thirty-seven yards. That was how far she had dragged him before her feet started turning black from the cold.

“Don’t die,” she whispered.

Lucien went still. Then he laughed softly. “That wasn’t on my schedule.”

Aurelia stepped back, wiping her face. Somewhere downstairs, a clock chimed. Seven times.

“What date is it?”

Lucien’s eyebrows rose.

“Aurelia---”

“The date.”

“Third of Solenne.” Her stomach turned. Before she could ask the year, another familiar voice shouted from the corridor.

“If she dies before breakfast, I’m eating her pastries!”

Aurelia closed her eyes.

Theron. Alive. A laugh escaped her. Lucien stared at her strangely. Then came the sound of horses outside.

Several.

Lucien glanced toward the window.

“That’ll be the palace delegation.”

Every instinct inside Aurelia sharpened.

“What delegation?”

“You really did hit your head.”

“Lucien.”

“The Crown Prince.”

The room became very quiet.

Aurelia walked toward the balcony.

Below, three imperial carriages waited before Veyne Manor.

White-and-gold knights surrounded them.

And beside the fountain stood a young man Aurelia had already buried once.

Sunlight caught pale golden hair. He wore ivory beneath a fitted navy coat, a sword resting naturally at his hip.

Eighteen. Alive and well... As though sensing her stare, Crown Prince Caelan looked up.

Green-gold eyes met hers. Nine years from now, those eyes would lose their light while she held him. Here, they glittered with amusement.

Caelan smiled.

Oh God... She had forgotten that smile. Or perhaps she had spent nine years trying to. He raised one gloved hand.

“Lady Aurelia.”

Even from below, she heard the laughter hiding in his voice.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

Aurelia stared at the dead man smiling beneath her window.

For the first time in her life, she had absolutely no idea what to do next.