I've never really thought about it before, but the moon moves.

If I think about it, this is obvious; of course the moon moves. The moon orbits the earth, it has done since our creation. Since however it started, and however we got here.

In spite of every break of my pathetic heart, in spite of the catastrophic loss of my brother, in spite of everything in my life that burned, it's still there. It moves, just like it did before. It carries on. It's one of the only things that was the same from before, to now. Everything is different, but not the moon.

I remember thinking, one night on the rooftop in London with Emilio, that it was amazing how far it could work its way across the sky. The high rise buildings, the trees, the clouds try to block it out, poised like invisible fingers trying to pull it down. The world down here on this rotten earth was trying to take the only beautiful thing left.

Watching the moon that night was like watching the sea. I think about the sea outside the palace at home, looking out across the cove. I can hardly recall the image, but it's like I can feel it. It's blue, which sounds so obvious, but it's a shade of blue like nothing else. It isn't like the sky, at any time of day. The sea is opaque, but transparent, and green and purple and blue and black. It's everything, it's endless.

I ache to see the sea.

There's something different about the sky though. There's lots of seas. They all have their own names and lead to different places on this big spinning globe of water.

The sky is always constant. Not the moon, no the moon moves. But the sky doesn't. The stars are different. My father loved astronomy when I was little, and we'd gotten pretty good at spotting the clusters and constellations whenever he had time to lay down in the garden with me after a long day to look at them.

The sky is the same, it's the same universe. Somehow.

It makes me wonder, if somewhere far away, someone else is looking at the sky. Not that I, or they will ever know, but I wonder who might be looking at the sky with me. Is it morning somewhere sunny, and there's a little kid eating Cornflakes and making shapes out of clouds? Is it raining and someone can't help but curse the grey above them? I don't know. But it makes me feel a little bit less alone.

Right now, I can't see the sky. But the sky sees me.

I'm drowned for three days before I see the sky again.

'Are you ready to talk yet, Your Highness?'

I cough as the last remnants of liquid hit my face, a mixture of equal parts needing oxygen in my lungs, and trying not to swallow any more water. My eyes are burning and there's a pulsing beat behind them, as blood pushes through the blockages to my brain. I gasp, trying to wrestle my hands free to claw at my chest, hoping to tear it open just to breathe a little easier.

I haven't seen the sky in three days, and I can't remember the shape of the moon. I tried to think about the sea, or the sky, or the moon, but nothing beats out the pain. It is constant and endless, and sometimes, so consuming that I wonder if anything exists outside of this abandoned house, or if anything will ever exist again.

I hear footsteps moving away beside me, and I take from experience the brief relief I have whenever they have to refill their bucket. I don't know if they get it from a truck, or from a well, but it's never warm, and never fresh enough to be considered any kind of gift.

For three days, Loki and Titus have held a cloth to my face, pinched together a nose that's so cold it no longer feels like part of my face, and poured water so far down into my lungs that it takes me a while to wake back up sometimes.

I know there's a word for this, but even the thought scares me. I can't name many cases of waterboarding that have ever ended very well.

The cloth over my face is so heavy from being damp that even when they leave me alone, there's never enough oxygen swimming around my body that by now, must be so close to giving up on me, if it hasn't a few times already.

I wish I could see the sky. At first, I just wanted to look up, just to be able to understand what time was passing me by, to know how many nights I had struggled through, and how many mornings had broken, with no idea as to which might be my last. But for the last few days, there's been a rope burning my eyes closed and keeping me permanently in the dark.

If I had to guess, I'd say it's been three days. It's hard to make my brain remember, but there's been three periods of time when the room has been silent, and the fire has burned itself out. I have to think that my capturers are sleeping, and it's only then that I let myself drown in my situation.

I'm drowned during the day by a bucket and a vengeance, and I drown at night with the weight of my regret.

I've cried once, only once, when I was sure it was nighttime and there didn't seem to be anyone around me. I cried because even the most basic parts of my death had been taken from me. I wanted to know what day I was killed; was it a Tuesday? Was it the anniversary of when I'd arrived in London? I wanted to look up at the sky and close my eyes. I wanted a death with some dignity. I know now that there's no point hoping for that anymore.

I've given up on Charlie. When they first snapped the back of the wooden chair and laid me down, pinning my arms so tightly that I haven't moved my fingers in days, I indulged myself in the false hope that maybe Charlie had a back-up plan, that maybe he'd come and help me. But it's been too long now, and I've accepted that I've seen the last of my big brother.

And Asher - Asher too.

I feel a sting of regret for not properly saying goodbye. I won't have to live with it, but he will. I don't remember the last thing he said before he fell asleep. I've lost the image of him sleeping in Charlie's bedroom. I wish I'd left him a letter. I wish I had told him what I now know to be the closest thing I have to absolute truth. I wish I had told him that I loved him.

I think back to when I had accepted that I was going to die. It was peaceful, there was no fight left in me. Now, I'd wrestle and kick and scream for everything just to be over already. I'd fight to the death, just to die a little faster than this agonising pain.

Since I asked for Pandora, I've been in darkness. I think they were worried the room had given them away, but they don't know what I know. They don't know who I know. I realised pretty quickly that they didn't even know who I was talking about. The name didn't ring a bell, it's been kept so quiet that even her own agents only refer to her as 'The King'.

I guess that's why Loki never told me her name before. Or maybe he did it to get me here. I haven't seen him in three days, but he's drowned me, and punched me and broken me too many times to count, and I know that no matter what he's feeling - he can never take that back. He might be my friend, but that doesn't count for anything right now.

Loki and Titus left for a while after I said her name, and made some calls. I heard the ringtones from outside, I heard their defensive voices, somehow they're in trouble for this. But then they came back, and I wished I'd never said anything. For three days, with a shoulder that was snapped at the same time as the chair, I've laid down and swallowed water that was pushed down my throat when I wouldn't answer their questions.

How do you know about Pandora?

Who told you?

What else do you know?

Where is your brother?

I caught on quite fast that Titus was worse when I tried to argue with him. I don't know if some part of his dead soul found more difficulty in drowning a pathetic, broken body than the times I told him where to shove his questions, but it helped. And any simple improvement, I was desperate for.

I'm desperate, I'm lonely. And I don't want to die like this.

For the first time, I count my younger self lucky. The last time I was kidnapped, and every time before I'd been accompanied by Christopher, or Charlie. Once, there was even a palace security guard with us. I hated seeing my brothers in pain, I hated that they endured these memories. But I couldn't help but think it - at least I wasn't lonely.

Somehow, I find myself slightly jealous of Christopher. He didn't have to die by himself.

But there's no room for jealousy, no room for hope, no room for redemption. When you're being drowned every second of an existence that is already damned, water swirling in your stomach, your lungs, your entire body drowning in water, and craving oxygen, there's no dignity. There's nothing left to pray for, but for it to end.

There's a clatter from beside me, metal hitting the floor, and a splash. I've heard this enough times to know that they're back, and know what's coming. I know it well enough to know that the pain is going to return any second. A hand rests on my thigh and I notice just how damp all of my clothes are. I'm so cold that I almost don't feel it there.

'You're tough, I'll give you that.'

It's Loki.

He started out shouting, and kicking, and screaming, and swearing. But I'm tired, and so is he, and so he just talks to me now. He sits beside me, and asks me questions that I won't answer, and then, as if it's a burden, he fills my lungs with so much water that I wonder if there's any possible way I can keep surviving.

Somehow, it's all become quite civilised. Without any violence or aggression, he pours water down my throat slowly enough that time stops and I can feel every droplet entering every crevice of my lungs and backing up to fill my mouth. He never apologises, but I can tell he's always glad when the bucket is empty, and I'm still alive enough to ignore his questions.

'Please.' I whisper.

When I first started to beg, I wanted him to stop, and to let me go. Now, I'm just asking for him to be done. I'm asking him to let me go, but not the way in which I get to go home. Now, I just want to be out of this room no matter how.

'I'll stop, I promise.' Loki repeats, an empty promise of unanswered cries in the night when no one can hear me, 'Just tell me how you knew about Pandora.'

'I just figured it out.' I say, words sounding so unfamiliar that I'm not sure if I'm even saying them right. My throat is raw and so swollen that there are times that it feels as though the only thing I'm ever able to breathe in is pain.

'You're really not going to tell me?' He asks, 'Still?'

'Please.' I repeat, my lips chapped and sore beneath the cloth. It's so defeated that I'm surprised he can ever hear me.

'You've left me no choice.' He says, removing his hand from my leg and standing up.

I know what's coming now.

It won't help at all, but I squeeze my eyes closed tightly, and twist my hands together, trying to force my body to feel something, anything other than the pain, no matter how small or insignificant. There's another clang from the bucket as he picks it up, and I feel Titus' hands clamp around my face to hold me down in a way that he's perfected over recent days.

Then the water comes.

Loki doesn't pour it all at once, some splashing shock of cold water. No, he holds it so close to my face that he can make it last longer. The water engulfs my mouth, and by now, it's got a free track down my throat and into my lungs - there's no energy in my muscles to constrict, there's nothing in me to try anymore.

Without my brain telling it to do so, my body begins to convulse, thrashing and burning and twisting at my broken shoulder. There's water filling me up, from my toes to the crown of my head, and I kick out my legs to swim out into oxygen that I can't guarantee is coming. My muscles are fighting for every last bit of air, pushing it around my body to my brain so that my legs go numb and my brain starts to cloud.

I'm in an invisible prison, bars on the windows, gates twisting shut and pipes pumping in water. My hands are free to cling to one another, and my arms can rattle against the chair, they're not in any danger. I can kick my legs, I can stretch out my fingers. My body is free from water, all except for my lungs. Any life is being pushed out of me, out through my eyes, and out of my ears. I imagine the taunting feeling of bursting up, out of the water, but it never comes. My throat burns and my lungs restrict and a thousand needles simultaneously move into my ribcage.

This time it's different, this time feels like only twice before. It happens before I can fully think it through. My mind is getting smaller. I stop moving my legs, and my fingers relax. My lungs collapse in on themselves and I can't hear the splashing anymore. For the third time since Loki began pouring water down my throat three days ago, I can feel myself dying.

'Stop.'

I almost don't hear the voice, but my brain manages to respond when the water is pulled back. I throw my chest upwards, forsaking the pain that radiates from my shoulder, broken so badly that I'm sure bone must be protruding from my back, and gasp outward for air. There's a ringing in my ears and a weightlessness to my body as it pushes oxygen back through the parts of my brain that were permanently abandoning me.

The voice is calm, but there's so much authority that Loki drops the bucket beside me and neither boy touches me anymore. I can't see, and my heart is pounding so loudly behind my eyes, and out of my ears that I can't hear anything other than my pathetic attempts to breathe through the sodden cloth.

'Untie her.' The voice says again.

I lean my head back, wondering quite who it is that has come to save me. There's no gunfire, there's no shouting. It's completely calm. And yet, Loki does as he's told anyway. For the first time in three days, the ropes around my hands are dropped, and instinctively, I reach up and yank away the cloth.

I burst into oxygen, like coming up from a heavy time underwater, taking the first proper breath in the longest time. I keep my hands tightly clutching my neck, letting my chest heave up and down with air that I've never before considered a gift. I cough until I'm hoarse, freeing my airways of water, gargling from prolonged submersion.

After a second, the ties around my legs are loosened, and finally, the tie around my eyes drops to the floor. I revel in the feeling, knowing that even if they're moving me, or burying me, I'm glad to let my body curl into itself protectively, relishing that in spite of everything, I'm still alive.

I open my eyes a slit, and I'm grateful when it's dark. The fire opposite burns into my retinas, and takes a while to remind me that I can see again. Everything is blurry, and I can't tell whether it's because I haven't had my eyes open in three days, or whether my brain is still trying to claw back some normality.

Like I did at the hospital, I force myself to look at the light, something to focus on. I rest my head on my chest and contract the muscles in my stomach to sit me upright. My back cracks painfully and I become even more aware that it's the only part of me that I can feel any warmth in. It's infected - there's no other explanation.

If they don't kill me soon, I'm sure gangrene will.

I reach my right hand up to my left shoulder, feeling around at the broken bone and sighing when the pain from my lungs subsides, and is overtaken by my shoulder. There's never not pain, there's no second of existence where my body is at peace. It's always fighting, it's always bleeding.

I was right about my grave injury, I can feel a lump beneath my jacket which is undoubtedly the bone protruding from skin that it shouldn't. I drop my hand to avoid hurting it more, and cradle my arm to relieve the pressure and pain that gravity causes.

I don't care who I'm about to look up to, I don't care whose face I see. I revel in the sensation of autonomy, something I thought I'd lost, and look up. Tears well in my eyes and I bite the inside of my cheek to keep myself from sobbing out loud.

I can see the sky.

'Give her a towel.'

I hear the voice again, but it's still faint, like I'm still underwater. Even though I'm not, the mere memory sends chills along my skin and I flinch, the expectation of pain constant and terrifying. I lower my neck, stiff and feel the cracking of dried blood from the base of my hair.

Then I see him.

Asher.

- No, Ezekiel. It must be.

He's so much like Asher that it's difficult to look at him and see hatred in his eyes. I realise that no matter how much I thought Asher's eyes used to narrow in on me back at Thorne Academy, glaring with the darkness to them when I had annoyed him, there was never any malice. I know malice now, I can see it for myself.

He's not wearing the same clothes as the others. He's not bothered with the heavy padding, and by the looks of it, he's not staying as long or sleeping rough - he's wearing a tight fitting black shirt, with a trench coat around his shoulders. He looks like a caricature of a mafia mob boss. I want to laugh, but I don't think my body still owns the capability on its hard drive.

He's got darker hair than Asher's, and although I'm sure it wasn't a chance of sunlight, I wonder if the shadows he's lived in his whole life have worked their way into his appearance. There's more structure to his face, like he's drained of everything human, with a sunken tiredness to his features and I notice a scar above his eyebrow.

He's got eyes that make me wonder how many people he's killed, and a glint within them that makes me think that he's probably lost count.

And yet, somehow I'm relieved that he's here. Maybe I'll finally get answers, or maybe for just a second, I'll be able to breathe properly. I shouldn't, but for a brief blink, I'm grateful he came here tonight.

Loki and Titus leave my side, and disappear back through the hole in the wall. I try to listen, and I think I hear the sound of a car door slamming, but I can't trust my own ears, I can't trust myself not to imagine a way home. In the worst three days of my life, I've not been able to avoid hope, I've not stopped my brain from imagining myself going home. It's painful, but it's comforting. I can't trust my judgement, but it doesn't mean I can't enjoy the idea.

It leaves just Ezekiel and I in the room, opposite one another, just staring. I'm so tired that my eyes droop to the point that I have to fight to keep them open, and focus on him. He's the spitting image of Asher, and I have to remind my stomach that it isn't him - I shouldn't want to hold this boy, but he looks so much like his brother that I do anyway.

'Why?' I croak, unable to find any reason as to why Ezekiel would untie me, and offer me a kindness.

'I don't want a bad review on Yelp.' He shrugs, nonchalantly. His voice is smooth, like fine whiskey but there's an edge like a poison submerged within the silky liquer. He's got the poise of a man who knows exactly how to hurt someone, and the peace within himself to allow him to do it and not pinch a nerve.

'Well you're getting one.' I say, trying hard to make my voice sound worth the words, 'There was no hot water, and your bellboy was rude.'

'I'm sorry to hear of your complaints.' He says, putting a hand on his chest and grinning. I'm sure my mind is playing tricks on me, but he's so snake-like that I almost imagine his tongue darting out, unable to resist the urge to hurt me, 'I like to treat all of my guests with some respect.'

'I'd pass the memo along to your patrons.' I say, dragging my eyes down to my lap, and trying to work out the best way to improve my situation with however long I have before they tie me back to the broken wood, and continue to drown me. Even though Ezekiel ordered it, Loki hasn't brought back a towel and so I reposition myself to better support the aches radiating around my body.

I start with my shoulder, crossing up a knee to combat the never-ending pull of gravity. It helps, but barely. Then I reach up a hand, applying a little pressure to the back of my neck. In spite of everything, it seems to be healing better than anything else. I don't touch my back. I'm sure, by some grace of God that the stitches have held together, but I know there's an infection brewing there that could easily be fatal.

I want to remind myself to thank Niklaus for his handiwork when I go home, but I have to swallow down the realisation that there is no going home for me.

'I apologise if they didn't treat you well.' Ezekiel says, sitting down on the broken sofa to the side of me. It gives me a clear view of the fire, that's too far away to be of any help, and I look at it longingly, 'See, they just wanted some information from you. I've never been one for brute force.'

'So you're here to ask nicely?' I spit, 'Good cop, bad cop?'

'I prefer bad cop, corrupt cop. It's much more realistic.' He grins, showing a flash of teeth that are pearly white and perfect, 'I'm just going to talk it out of you instead.'

'You know I won't say anything.' I say. I can feel some basic strength coming back to my chest. My limbs still hang uselessly, and there's pain radiating in pulses with their new-found-freedom. But with the ability to sit myself up, and hold my head high, I feel part of myself coming back to me.

I close my eyes, and breathe in, relishing in the completely basic feeling of breath. A whistle of wind blows through the barren building, and I lean into the cold. For a second, I wonder if it's Christopher coming to help me however he can. But then I remember last night, and I bite my lip again to block the tears, for the first time, a little unsure of my brother.

I can't think about that now. For the first time in three days, there is hope, real hope. I am sitting up, I can see the sky, and no matter what happens from here, I'm grateful for at least this.

'You never know.' Ezekiel tells me, removing a cigarette from his jacket pocket and lighting it with a lighter that he produces. I'm so cold that the tiny burning flame looks so appealing, 'You should be the first to know that anything's possible.'

'I'd rather die.' I tell him, honestly.

'From what Loki tells me, you already have.' Ezekiel shrugs, as if this fact isn't completely earth shattering.

I close my eyes and let the news run over me, if only for a second. I knew this, or I at least suspected - there's no certainty in this house. I hold my chest a little tighter, thankful that by whatever grace of mercy, there's still life inside. I swallow down the realisation that I was right, because I don't want to think about what that means.

I don't want to think about the fact that there was nothing on the other side. No Christopher, no light.

I won't go to that nothingness. I look at Ezekiel, and feel a fire burning within my damp body. I won't let him win this.

'But see, I'm very angry with Loki.' Ezekiel continues on, ignoring the fact that my whole world just collapsed in on me, 'Because I need you alive.'

I look at him, and let the pain in my bones fuel my anger. I'm going to end this, I'm going to kill him. I release my self-pity, I abandon any futile thought of some heaven that's going to carry me home. This doesn't end in grace, this ends in blood, and it sure as hell won't be mine.

'I have to admit, you're sending me mixed messages here.' I tell him.

'Why is that?' He cocks his head as if I'm amusing him.

'Well, your family has been systematically hunting down and killing my family members for over two hundred years now.' I shrug with the shoulder that's still in its socket, 'Forgive me if I don't know why I'm the break in the chain.'

I don't tell him that I plan to be the one who blows the cage wide open.

'See, it's very interesting that you say that.' He grins. His eyes glow golden when his cigarette comes up to his lips, like the fire burns within his mind, like mine does in my stomach. I hate those eyes, they're too like the ones I fell in love with, and it scares me.

'Say what?' I bite.

'Family.' He retorts.

'Don't you know the word?' I patronise Ezekiel, for knowing something so far from family that it makes Asher look like the luckiest kid in the world. Maybe what Asher said was right, maybe escaping this family was the best luck he could've had.

'I know the word. I know the concept.' Ezekiel says, leaning forward. From the hole in the wall, Loki reappears, carrying a towel that doesn't look remotely clean, but at least for the most part looks dry enough. He hands it to me with as little familiarity as he can, as if we might get caught out for the simple way in which he passes something to me, 'I know about my family, but how do you?'

Loki doesn't dare look at me, but I make a point to stare straight into his face. He doesn't get to drown me, and kill me, and take away any belief I had in something more than this shitty existence, and then not get to face me. I want Ezekiel to know what he's done, I will him to put together the pieces of broken friendship that Loki and I once pretended we had.

'You're asking me how I figured it out?' I ask Ezekiel, and notice Loki stiffen beside me. He didn't contribute a name, or a motive, or anything fucking helpful in these past four years, but any information that I built upon, came straight from this bastard.

'I'm asking you how you know.' Ezekiel leans forward, cocky in his knowledge that they're undiscoverable. He thinks the only way I could've found him was if someone told me. He doesn't know that it was his own family that helped me to know his name, 'If there's one thing we pride ourselves on, it's our ability to be discreet. So then, how do you know my mother's name?'

'So I'm right then?' I grin, confirming what I already know, the smallest triumph, 'You're the Thorne heir?'

'I'm the Van Doren hier.' He hisses back.

Loki looks between us and I wonder for a second why he's still standing there. Then I realise that he's not been dismissed yet. He's followed orders his entire life, and it takes everything in me to quieten my fury, and not mock this little boy for his obedience, even to the extent of murder.

'There is no Van Doren heir.' I snarl, turning my attention back to Ezekiel. He already knows whether or not he's going to kill me, there's nothing I can say to anger him any further. He was born for this, he has been trained for this conversation his whole life, 'There is no honorary place designated for you in our society. You don't matter.'

'Funny,' He smiles, widely, 'I think your ancestors said something similar.'

'From what I hear, that's how this whole thing started.' I tell him and Loki looks at me for a split second, probably wondering if I knew this before, and hadn't told him. Maybe he thinks I've been playing him too.

'The Court first started with an Ezekiel Van Doren.' Ezekiel leans back, and adjusts his shirt, 'I plan for it to end with one too.'

I nod my head, agreeing with him, 'I'm glad we're on the same page.'

'There'll be no need for secret agencies, and plots as soon as you hand over your crown.' He states, as if this is obvious and completely predicted.

'What makes you think you're going to be able to make me do that?' I raise an eyebrow. My whole face is so tight that I can feel the skin pull at the back of my neck.

'I told you Marzia.' He says, and I feel dirty with the way that my name rolls from his tongue, 'I'm not going to do anything to you. I'm just going to talk to you.'

'About what?' I sigh.

'Let's start with how you figured us out.' Ezekiel grins, 'Let's start with the conspiracy theory.'

I ignore him for a second, biding my time and enjoying the upper hand, no matter how slight the difference. I lift my hand and let down my hair, using the towel to wring the beads of water from the ends. Ezekiel watches me so closely, that it seems as though he might be trying to learn something. I drape the towel around my shoulders and knot together the ends to form both a sling and a blanket in one.

With my new-found relief, and brittle confidence, I look back to Ezekiel.

'Asher.' I state simply. I narrow my eyes and try not to let the name hurt me. For everyone's sake, I can't let him sway me. I can't think about Asher now. Ezekiel moves his neck until I hear a soft click, and he swallows 'I'm assuming you knew him.'

'He isn't dead.' He offers me, clearly remembering my phone call.

I don't take much solace in this. I knew Asher wasn't dead when I made that call, but there's nothing that means that there isn't a bullet already in him, or very quickly on its way. But I hope, no matter how futile.

'He isn't?' I pretend, 'I'm glad. He's a good person.'

'I've heard that too.' Ezekiel says, kicking his leg up onto his knee, relaxing back onto the old couch, 'From what my mother said, he's the spitting image of his father.'

'Rusty was your father too.' I say, not letting him off the hook for the fact that he's talking about his own family, his very blood, 'Asher's got your mother's eyes though, the same as yours.'

I don't know if there's a point in trying to humanise this boy, but the part of me that inherently sees good, is trying anyway.

'There is no comparison between Asher and I.' Ezekiel smiles, as if I'm a child in an argument with no expertise whatsoever, 'He's young, and he's weak. There's a reason Dimitrius chose me over him.'

'What reason was that?' I squint.

'He could sense the drive in me.' He leans forward, clutching together a fist. It's obvious that he believes this with every fibre of his being. Funnily enough, he reminds me of a politician, 'He knew that I would be able to carry this family to our victory.'

I hesitate on my words, wondering quite how much more trouble they could possibly get me into. I take a breath, and dare myself anyway, 'You must miss him.'

'What makes you think that?' He says after a heavy pause.

'I know that he's dead.' I lean forward, challenging him.

'And how do you know that?' He hisses back, our faces close together.

'Because I was the one who pushed him.' I whisper.

For a second, nothing moves. There's a break in the wind, in our breaths and in our heartbeats, two that by the end of tonight, will end in one. I look straight into his eyes, forcing myself to see Ezekiel for exactly what he is. I can't blame him for Christopher's death, because he would've only been a child. But I can blame him for every year I spent away from my family, and even though I shouldn't, I revel in the knowledge I have that will hurt him.

I revel in knowing that I took something from him. It's terrible, but for a second, I'm glad I killed Dimitrius Van Doren.

Then, everything happens at once. Ezekiel throws his body up, but without a gun, he resorts to wrapping his hand around my neck and leaning my body so far backwards that he's almost on top of me. His grip is vice-tight and I can feel his breath on my face. I try not to flinch, but my eyes dart to his face and I can tell he sees the fear.

Loki's shoulder moves an inch, before he stills himself.

'Say that again.' Ezekiel whispers.

I swallow, feeling the sensation sticking underneath Ezekiel's thumb.

'I killed him.' I spit.

Ezekiel listens to my words, and his nose turns up slightly in disgust. He whips his body back away from mine and turns so that he cannot see me anymore. He pulls at the lapels of his coat and smooths his hair down. I don't move my body an inch, and keep my breathing so quiet so as not to remind him I'm here.

'Loki.' Ezekiel mutters.

Loki moves to stand directly in front of me, pulling a gun from his hip and putting the barrel right between my eyes. I freeze, no movement daring to escape from any muscle. I look Loki straight in his face, knowing that if he does this, I'm not planning on making my last seconds easy to forget. I will him to remember how I look right now, remember the fear that is escaping every pore of my body.

Ezekiel turns back around, rubbing at his hand as though touching me had burned him. Loki stands to attention, his finger running up and down slightly on the trigger. I pause for a brief moment, appreciating the seconds as if each one is the last. I clench my jaw, steadying myself for a blast of pain, followed by a blank canvas that I can't recall.

'Sir?' Loki asks, his chest puffed out with oxygen, daring to break the tension that covers us like a blanket.

'Put the gun down Loki.' Ezekiel tells him quietly.

'She killed Dimitrius.' Loki argues, and I glare at him for his protest.

'I know who she killed.' Ezekiel snaps, running a hand through his hair.

'But sir-' Loki begins.

'Down!'

A shot blasts so loudly that my head seems to spin. I don't register pain to begin with, and I search for the location in my body where the hurt seems to spike. But it doesn't come. My eyes open and I stare through the brief cloud of smoke that envelopes Loki and I. There's burning on my face from the gunpowder, but the bullet isn't in me.

He's shot past my head.

There's ringing in my ears, but I hear the faint sound of tearing, and then echoing and as another shot rings from Loki's grasp, I listen even closer to the unusual sound of a bullet travelling away, and this time, not hitting anything at all. I prepare myself in case he fires a third time, but thankfully, he lowers the gun and stares me straight in the face.

I can't be sure whether to be thankful that he didn't aim for me, or pissed off at the bastard for firing in the first place.

Then I look at Ezekiel, just as shocked as me, staring at Loki. Why did he just do that?

With still ringing ears I turn around, noticing the way the bullet has lodged itself in a large painting behind me. Either Loki has very unfortunate luck, or excellent aim, because there's a bullet straight through the face of that first fateful Ezekiel Van Doren. And oddly enough, only one hole.

There's something odd about the hole, it hasn't splintered. It's black.

I realise with a thud that the bullet hasn't lodged itself anywhere - it's passed right through, showing me a glimpse of the night sky behind it. Loki didn't shoot because he was furious, he didn't shoot because he thought Ezekiel wanted him to, Loki shot to show me where I could escape.

Without taking his eyes away from mine, as if willing me to understand, I move my head quickly down to my lap and straight back up to look at him. I don't know if he knows that I'm trying to nod, and maybe I'm completely wrong, but it almost seems as if Loki smiles.

I force the echoing to burn into my mind. I'm not intelligent enough to measure the distance the bullet travelled from just the noise, but given that I never heard the second bullet impact with anything tells me that it's not a room past there, that there's no neighbour to this lonely house. At best, it's near a town, hopefully it's at least near some woods. Maybe it's a barren field, and I'll be shot in the back as I run.

I want to turn around at the brief chance, but I stay rooted to the chair, biding my time as Ezekiel calms himself down. He seems almost embarrassed that he lost his cool, and he lights up another cigarette. I lift up my hand and wipe away the gunpowder from my face. Blood comes away with the soot, and I know I'll be in for some painful infections or scars, if my body lives long enough to react.

I've pissed off Ezekiel, I know I have. But I know something else now too - he can't do anything, and he won't do anything until his mother arrives. I've given up on my brother coming to ambush The Court, but if I can remember her face, if I can find even the smallest detail I can exploit, then maybe I could actually pull this off.

I don't let myself get carried away with the vision of my family, or Asher, or my country. But I let it motivate me, and I sit up straight, staring Ezekiel down hard. Maybe if I infuriate him enough, he'll let something slip that I can use. Suddenly, looking at him as a pawn, he's much less terrifying.

'Get out.' Ezekiel says to Loki, with a flick of his wrist. Loki nods, tucking his gun back into his side and breathing a sigh of relief. We both know that this leaves only Ezekiel and I here, and neither of us have any weapon to seriously damage each other.

'Sir.' Loki says, voice so hoarse that I almost don't hear him.

Loki drops back down through the hole, and I listen as he doesn't walk that far. That must be where Titus is waiting, alongside however many more than I couldn't identify when I was blindfolded. There weren't just two pairs of hands, I remember being gripped from every which way. I couldn't even take a guess as to how many people there are.

But behind the painting, there's no one.

'Why would you tell me that?' Ezekiel asks, after a beating pause.

'If what you're telling me is true, I'm not long for this world.' I tell him, 'I might as well make amends where I can. I can't apologise to my English tutor for my poor work, so I'll have to settle for you.'

'You're telling me that you regret killing him?' Ezekiel asks. He doesn't sit back down, he's far too unnerved to let his body still for a second. He stands over by the fire, watching it as if it might engulf him if it gets too close.

He's cocky, I can tell that already. He's untied me and turned his back. I don't play into his game, I don't need to give him an excuse to shoot me. Not now.

'Not at all.' I half laugh. His back stiffens in anguish, 'I just regret that I didn't get to stand there and watch him suffer.'

He doesn't move for a minute, letting my words spill over him before he can compose himself enough to reply. He turns around, taking such a long drag of the cigarette, that I wonder how his lungs could possibly hold so much. He holds onto it like it's the only thing keeping him from lunging back at me again.

Ezekiel lets out a laugh, 'And you condemn Loki for his torture.'

'I don't condemn Loki for anything.' I say, silently hoping that he's not far away enough that he doesn't hear me, 'I don't condemn a single one of you, a judge is going to do that for me.'

'Is that how you think this ends?' He says, grinning, with the lit cigarette dangling from his lips, 'In front of a Greenewood judge?'

'I hope not.' I reply. I adjust my sling, feeling the throbbing from having been pushed backwards by Ezekiel, 'I'm smart enough to know that this ends with one or the other of us dead. You're not going to stop aiming for my family, and we're never going to hand over the crown.'

'And who called the shot that ever made that crown yours to give?' Ezekiel replies, smoothly.

'My King, Alaric.' I jut my chin out. I can't answer for Alaric's mistakes, I don't know who initially damned this poor family. But I sure as hell didn't, and neither did Christopher, 'You might have saved our soldiers, but you didn't fight for our country. You don't deserve the honour you so righteously believe yourselves to have.'

'You think you're in a position to sit there and tell me what my family deserves?' He gestures over to me.

'I'm sorry that Alaric didn't help your family. I'm sorry that they had to die, but we didn't give that order, and we didn't lower the guillotine.' I say, knowing that with every word I'm pushing him further and further past his breaking point. I might have never met him before, but in some ways, he's the exact same as Asher, 'So, why us?'

'You have broken the backs of your people to get to your palace.' He spits.

'I'm not entirely sure you're in a place to use 'broken backs' as a literal term.' I deadpan, gesturing to the gash that stretches from my neck to the small of my spine. He doesn't appreciate the irony of the whole situation. I roll my eyes, 'But alright, I get it. An eye for an eye.'

'You're learning.' He rubs a hand along his brow.

'Except you've completely surpassed an eye for an eye, Ezekiel.' I continue, 'Maybe we blinded those first Van Doren's, but you've burned out the eyes of every Castille generation ever since. That's not even.'

'You deserved it.'

'At four hours old?' I reply, without a beat. He flinches slightly, 'I deserved that?'

'Your blood was already tainted.' He hisses, and I'm frightened by quite how sure of this information he is, 'It had already infected our country.'

'So that's what this is about?' I frown, 'You want to wipe the slate clean?'

'We want our rightful place.' He says, his voice rising.

'A Founding Family title?' I question.

'No, we have that.' He grins, 'We want the crown.'

'You don't have a title.' I shake my head, praying over and over again that he doesn't know the same Founding Family rules that I do.

'As you so graciously gifted, I hear my little brother does.' He replies, and I try not to let the disappointment register in my face. No matter what happens here, he's absolutely right, he's got his title, 'Plus I heard that he slept with you to get it. Maybe he's worth something after all.'

'That's Asher title, it doesn't extend-'

'Let's not sit here and pretend like you don't know the rules.' He interrupts me, 'He's a Thorne, with a title. As his dearly beloved brother, that makes me a Thorne with a title too.'

'I thought you were a Van Doren.' I mutter sarcastically.

'We're still brainstorming the name.' He grins, having regained his composure now he's back in his controlled footing.

'Asher hates you.' I tell him, even though I'm sure this information will mean nothing to him, 'He'll never agree to call you family.'

'That's alright, we don't really need him anymore.' Ezekiel shrugs, and despite my best intentions, my blood runs cold at the thought of something bad happening to him, as a result of my stupid mistake, 'He's played his role perfectly, but he's what we like to call indispensable now.'

'You couldn't possibly have known he'd be assigned as my bodyguard.' I narrow my eyes, sure of what I'm saying. If he contradicts me, then at least I'll know that our agency is leaking information like a sieve.

'We didn't.' He confirms what I already suspected, 'We've chalked that one up to divine intervention. It's a shame that we had to be rid of him, it might have been nice to have an extra place setting at all of our murderous family dinners.'

'You won't touch him.' I say before I can stop myself.

'Oh, won't I?' He taunts me. He stubs out his cigarette and walks over to me, bending down so he's directly in front of my face, 'That's where you're wrong, princess. I can touch him, I can touch your precious father. I can touch Charlie, and dear Bonnie.'

He leans forward, pressing a light kiss on my cheek.

'My darling,' He whispers in my ear, 'I can touch you.'

'You and Asher are more alike than I gave you credit for.' I whisper back.

Ezekiel smiles, undeniable wide and studies me from up close. I watch as his eyes move around my face, and down my broken body, moving on once they've learned all they can. It's a tense few seconds until he looks back up at my eyes.

'I like you.' He says, running a finger along my jawline and stopping when he reaches my chin. He looks down as he pulls slightly, parting my lips, 'I can see why you had such an effect on my brother.'

'Well if you let me go, we could always get some coffee sometime.' I reply, sarcastically.

'It's a shame I have to dispose of you.' He mutters, running a hand around to my neck. I don't flinch, even though it hurts. He smiles as I breathe in, obviously knowing this is where I failed the first time.

'You don't have to do anything.' I tell him.

'I can't keep you alive, princess.' He says, his voice low and serious.

'That's not what I mean.' I tilt my head slightly, leaning into his touch, trying to prove my best to both of us that I'm not afraid of him. I can see amusement behind his eyes at the way I move, 'I'm not yours to dispose of.'

'Come again?' He says.

'It's the same thing Loki told me.' I lean forward, pushing his shoulders back as I invade his personal space. I get as close as I possibly can without touching him and blink my eyes slowly, 'I'm not your meal.'

He squints, rolling his neck as he realises that I'm all caught up. He cups my cheek with his hand and smiles, 'You could be, if I wanted you to be.'

'You do want it.' I continue, 'But you're nothing but a whipping boy. You're the warm up act.'

The smile from his face falls and his look of complete arrogance and anger returns. He licks his lips, parting them to let out the remnants of an agitated furious breath. I run a hand through his hair and stop just shy of his jaw.

'Don't waste my time, Ezekiel.' I whisper, moving my mouth right to his ear, 'Now run along, and go get your mummy to fight for you.'

He stands up, backing away from me so that he's facing the fire once more. He props himself against the wall with one hand, using the other free to light another cigarette. He leans so close to the flames that it burns through and lights. But instead of bringing it to his lips, he holds it out to the side of him.

Then I hear her.

She approaches from beside me, so quiet that she's already through the hole before I notice her. She stalks so smoothly that it seems like she's floating. She's propped up on heels that are higher than any others I've ever seen, and the boots ride so high up her slender thighs that I can hardly see where the boots end and the woman begins.

I watch as she walks over to her son, draping a hand across his shoulder and waiting until he lifts the cigarette and balances it between her lips, painted a deep red as if her appearance is trying to warn people about her. She's like an animal in the wild, bright colours worthy of the kill.

She turns around and for the first time, I take in the appearance of the woman who murdered my brother. She's got jett black hair, cropped tightly by her chin, adding to the harsh, angular appearance of her aesthetic. Her fringe is so straight that I can't imagine she leaves it more than a week before perfecting it once more.

Her eyes glow, even as she turns away from the fire. Like her two sons, they burn golden, pools that are enticing you to drown in them, but so deep and dangerous, that you'd burn before you had the chance to fight back. She leans against her son as if she needs him, when we both know that he's her prop.

Ezekiel doesn't run this show. No, this puppermaster is none other than Pandora Thorne.

I wonder for a second what might have happened if she wasn't a murderess. Maybe she would have raised Asher properly. Maybe I would have met her sneaking out of his room on a school night. I look at her, and wonder what might have happened if we hadn't both been bound by this fate.

But we are.

We're locked in, buckled up and heading straight for the cliff. We're on a train, derailing and swaying in the wind. We're the sinking ship, we're the crack in the bell. There's no escaping the destiny we have created for one another. Since the beginning of time, since before any of us ended up in this house, we've been on this course.

Since the moment I was born, I've been destined to come face to face with Pandora Thorne.

'I've been waiting for you.' I tell her, when she doesn't speak.

'I've been waiting for this moment.' She replies. When she speaks, there's no deafening roar, there's no accent that evokes fear. She speaks like a person, like a woman. Her voice is no different to a million others I've heard before. But I know what darkness lies behind her lungs, and it makes me shudder in fury, 'I think we've been waiting for each other for a long time, Marzia.'

'Two hundred years in the making, and here we are.' I tell her standing up.

Loki comes through the hall, noticing the way I move towards them. He stands near me, careful to intervene and save the people that have nothing redeemable left to save.

'I'm glad you're in a place of acceptance.' Pandora nods, 'Your brother wasn't this calm, from what I remember.'

I clench my fists when she mentions Christopher. I can feel myself bubbling, ready to finish everything, no matter what the cost. I breathe through the blinding pain, and the darkness, and focus on her face.

She stands in front of the fire, so close that her silhouette is blurring, as if she's using the fire to draw upon. I try to remind myself that she's not some supervillain, she's nothing but an ordinary human being.

But she killed my brother, and there's no other way to see her.

'I want to make you a deal.' I tell her, trying to find the authority in my chest that lacks in the gaze of this woman.

'And what would that be?' She asks me, cocking her head to the side. Her eyes burn gold with the amusement with which she regards me and it bites me to know that all I'm doing is entertaining her. She doesn't feel this rage, she doesn't understand this pain.

'You kill me.' I begin.

'A given.' She shrugs her slender shoulder, so angular that I imagine brushing a hand against her would cause a very painful gash to whoever was found that unfortunate.

'-And then you leave my family alone.' I finish.

She exchanges a look with Ezekiel, who has become painfully silent ever since his mother arrived. I know that I was right, and that he knows it too; he's just a whipping boy. He has no power here anymore, he's back to being the good little boy just doing as he's told.

'Why would I do that?' Pandora asks me, and I try to remember if Asher's voice ever sounded this way, in the halls of his ancestors school.

'Charlie doesn't want the throne.' I tell her, 'He won't say anything, but he's terrified. And without an heir, the throne will pass to the Moreau bloodline after my father. We won't be in power anymore, and no one else has to die.'

She smiles at me a little, looking down at the rotten ground that once hosted her blood here, in happiness instead of ruin, 'We both know that the crown would not pass to the Moreau line, Marzia. Do not try to play me for a fool.'

'It wouldn't pass to any Thorne heir, not since the title was renounced.' I frown, feeling the unease of her taunting knowledge.

'When Alaric Castille honoured the Thorne clan with the second succession to the throne, he decreed that no matter whether death or defiance broke the Thorne line, should any honorary heir stand in place of their ancestors before them, the succession would be reinstated and the vow renewed.'

'What?' I say before I can stop myself.

'My son Asher appears to have shown signs of honour and dignity and dedication to his country.' She says, Asher's name acting as a whip to my chest, 'When you bestowed his title back to him, not only did you thrust him into high society completely unprepared, you also made him a successor to the Alanian throne.'

Oh my God. I choke out the breath in my lungs and put a hand to my head to stop it from spinning. The Founders Council voted eleven to one on the Thorne return. The only nay-sayers; the Moreau clan. They couldn't have known, no one could possibly have known what we did when we swore Asher back to serve once more for his country.

When we put Asher back on the Founders Council, we also made his family second in line to be King.

I made Asher my very own political opponent, and none of us even knew.

'That won't hold up.' I shake my head, 'There's no way the Moreau clan will agree to that.'

'They can't argue it, you hold Alaric's laws with the highest degree of accuracy.' Pandora tells me, even though this is something I already know to be fundamentally true, 'And I doubt that Asher will have anything to refute. I'd say he might have some incentive to do as he's told.'

'Don't you dare hurt him.' I clench my jaw at the idea, knowing what I would give to spare Asher from the same fate that befell my family.

'My darling, what you're failing to realise here, is that you have no more power here, not anymore.' She smiles a wicked grin that rivals that of Ezekiel, 'I will take what I want, I will do what I want, to your brother, to my son, to your country. And you won't be here to stop me.'

'Charlie will stop you.' I growl, even though we both know that Charlie has never been one for his strong stomach or his unwavering leadership.

'Charlie will hide away in a cave like he always has done.' She laughs, 'I will walk into your society, diplomatic immunity beautifully intact, and I will slaughter your family, one by one, until my son is crowned and my work is done. Darling, you came here to make a deal with nothing left to offer me.'

She inhales slowly on her cigarette and the smell surrounds us. She flicks her dark hair out of her eyes and moves a step closer so that she's all I can see.

'I have your Founders Council, I have your bodyguard, I have your title, and your father and your brother.' She whispers, leaning up close to my ear, just the same as Ezekiel did, 'You stupid little girl, I have you.'

She leans back, a smile on her face that well and truly destroys any hope I had that my family could survive this. She's right, I bargained with chips I didn't have, and she called my bluff. Whatever luck I wasted before has finally caught up with me.

She's burning against the fire, with blood so cold that she's solidifying where she stands. She takes a drag of the cigarette, and Ezekiel watches with his head turned around, back still facing me. I look at the King, and her Prince, and unbelievably, there's no fear.

I'm not scared anymore. All of the pain, all of the terror, every night that I couldn't sleep. It boils down to right here, right now. But there's one thing I never accounted for before; my anger. Every inch of fear from every fucking second I spent running from this woman bleeds away from me, and anger shakes my bones from the inside out.

I forget my country, I forget my duty, and my family. I know what I need to do. I'm not waiting on some pipe dream for Charlie to come and rescue me. I'm going to kill Pandora Thorne, if it's the very last thing I do.

I move faster than I ever have before, so suddenly that I almost surprise myself. I lunge my body over towards Loki's and reach for the gun on his waistband that he so generously revealed to me earlier. My hand interacts with the smooth metal and I tighten my grip so hard that I worry I might fire a round off into Loki's side.

I whip back around, my hand flying out to point directly at Pandora.

She stands, poised, as if she hadn't moved an inch. The only proof that she even blinked at all, was the gun in her hand, raised to line up with my forehead.

Loki moves to grab me, but I adjust my aim only momentarily to point it at him. He shouldn't know, but he does, that I'm trained. I know how to use a gun, I know how to kill someone. He doesn't know that I've done it before, but he knows I could have. He might have helped me, but he still drowned me first, and he doesn't push his luck. He backs away, his hands up.

I have half a mind to shoot him for what he did, but even if he's only partially my friend, I could use whatever advantage I have.

I cock my head back to Pandora and take a deep breath. This is it; this was always our endgame.

We stand, Loki and I on one side, Ezekiel and Pandora on the other, in complete silence. Nothing in the room moves, the flames stop flickering, the wind dies down and the overpowering darkness of the night explodes around us. Nothing exists in this minute anymore. There is no time, there is no redemption. There is no forgiveness.

'Are you going to shoot me, Marzia?' Pandora asks, completely calmly. Ezekiel turns around, and even though he doesn't have a gun, he stands with his chest out, as though his very divine right would protect him from this bullet.

I wonder if they know Loki is on my side. I wonder if he is, too.

'You killed my brother.' I say aloud. I have dreamt about killing this elusive figure for years, but I never allowed them the common decency of a conversation first, 'You've got your revenge, and I've got mine.'

'Your family ruined my family.' She hisses, and I notice quite how alike she is to Ezekiel.

'You killed my brother.' I repeat, 'You murdered my great uncle, and great-grandfather. Two hundred years of lives destroyed. It ends tonight.'

'This doesn't end with you, Marzia.' She smiles, 'This doesn't even end with me. This will continue until every member of your family is as far underneath the earth as your precious brother.'

'And your father.' I push her, even though I shouldn't.

She smiles, and looks down at the ground. I don't take my eyes off her, or the gun. One arm dangles worthlessly by my side, in the sling I created, and the other begins to shake with the adrenaline pulsing through my blood.

'This was always how it was going to end.' She tells me, 'We have a past to bury, Marzia.'

'No.' I shake my head, 'You're not walking away from this.'

'Shoot me then.' Pandora says, her eyes daring for me to obey her. Her voice is rising, and I can see that we're reaching a boiling point.

This is the climax of everything she's done. My grandfather, far too young when he earned this throne, in the worst way possible. I lost a brother, but he lost a father too, and I can't imagine the undeniable pain that he must have felt that day that he lost them both. My heart breaks for my grandfather, and I swallow.

Grandfather, this is for you.

My father, plagued his whole life with loss. His grandfather, and uncle, his wife when this all became far too much, and his children. He lost Christopher, we all did. But then he lost Charlie and me too. I don't like to think about my father that first day after we all left, walking around a castle where we'd taken our first steps.

He must have visited our rooms, and cried on the carpet. He must have eaten meals at an empty table and thought terrible thoughts about how alone he was. I know, because my grandmother told me, that my father was never the same after he lost us. First they stole his wife, then they stole his son, and then they took his very happiness.

Dad, this is for you.

Chris. My big brother, who when I was twelve seemed so old, and wise. Now, I look at his younger brother Charlie, who has had more years than he got, and realise quite how little he really was. Christopher had plans he wanted to achieve; he wanted a career before he became king. It scared him, but he wanted a family too. He was incredible with Adanna, and I remember thinking what a wonderful father he would make, which was weird because he would always be my goofy older brother.

Chris wanted a lot of things from his life, and this woman took them all. She took his dreams, and his faith. She took his breath, and left him to die in an alleyway.

Chris, I love you. This is for you.

Then, I'm selfish for a second, and I think about myself. I was stolen from the hospital at only a few hours old. Kidnapped at four years old, tortured and scared and kept from my mum. I try to think of the other people who suffered, Gabriel, who hasn't walked since and countless dead agents, but my brain is so cloudy that I can hardly focus.

Taken again at six for three months. Bullets, and razors, and jumper cables. A lifetime of pain that had hardly even begun. Blown to pieces at my mother's wedding, a spine fused unnaturally and a permanent fear of any loud noise, or smoke. Holding my brother as he died when I was twelve. Watching as the light left his eyes and the happiness left my life.

I let the movie play back in my head, every helpless moment bleed through my arm and into the piece of metal that's going to end this for me. I close my eyes, letting a breath completely flood me. Nothing will ever be the same after this.

Good, I tell myself.

'Put the gun down, Marzia!' Pandora shouts, and waves hers, advancing in her boots so that the barrels of our guns are inches from one another, 'I've had much more practice at this than you!'

For a split second, my Christmas present from Christopher crosses my mind. I can't help but let the words he wrote bleed into my brain, reminding me of exactly how to be brave.

I wanted you to see what real courage is, instead of getting the idea that courage is a man with a gun in his hand. It's when you know you're licked before you begin, but you begin anyway and see it through no matter what.

He was telling me all along what I had to do, telling me even before he died what my task was; I had to see this through no matter what.

'Maybe you have had more practice.' I say, my voice completely void of any emotion, 'But you've forgotten one simple thing.'

'What?' She screams.

Marzia, this is for you.

'You've taken so much from me,' I look at her one last time and her finger tightens on the trigger, 'That I've got nothing left to lose.'

Bang!

THE END