"That's impossible, the flight alone would take....."
"Four hours," the female guard supplied. "Private jet from Valeria to Blackmoor. The attack happened at 1 AM. You had plenty of time."
"But I didn't!" Liora was shaking now, her mind racing. "I went to my room! I went to sleep! I....." She stopped. Because she didn't remember. That night was fuzzy in her memory, like trying to see through fog. She remembered the gala. Remembered her head hurting. Remembered... what? Going to her room? Or had someone helped her? Had she been drugged then too?
"Starting to see the problem, Princess?" the male guard asked. "You can't even remember that night clearly. Which means you can't prove you weren't there."
"But I wasn't!" Liora insisted desperately. "I couldn't have been! I don't know how to fly a plane! I don't know how to use a gun! I've never even left the palace without a security detail! How could I possibly have....."
"That's what you need to figure out," the female guard interrupted. "You've got three weeks. Better start thinking fast." She turned up the music even louder.
By the sixth hour, Liora was crying continuously, her hands pressed over her ears even though it did nothing to block out the sound. The photographs surrounded her like accusations. Every time she looked down, she saw dead children. Dead mothers. Dead innocents. And Aria Nightfang, beautiful even in death, her eyes frozen in that last moment of horror.
I didn't kill you, Liora thought desperately, clutching the silver bracelet. I didn't. I couldn't have. Please, someone has to believe me.
But there was no one to hear her prayers. No one to save her. She was alone.
By the tenth hour, Liora started seeing things that weren't there. Shadows moving in the corners of her cage. Faces forming in the abstract patterns of the marble floor. She could have sworn she heard voices under the music, whispering, accusing, telling her she deserved this.
"Stay awake," she told herself, slapping her own face to keep alert. "Stay awake. Stay awake. Stay....." Her eyes closed.
Ice water hit her face.
Liora gasped, sputtering, as the male guard lowered a bucket. He'd thrown it through the bars, soaking her completely. The designer dress clung to her body, cold and uncomfortable.
"Oops," he said, not sounding sorry at all. "Looked like you needed a wake-up call."
Liora couldn't even respond. She just sat there, dripping wet, shivering, exhausted beyond measure.
"Only sixty-two more hours to go," the female guard said cheerfully. "You're doing great, Princess."
By the fifteenth hour, Liora discovered the bathroom. She'd been ignoring her body's needs, too afraid to look away from the guards, but desperation finally drove her to the door at the back of the cage. She stumbled through it and found a surprisingly modern bathroom, toilet, sink, and shower. All pristine white tile and chrome fixtures.
She used the toilet, then turned on the sink, splashing cold water on her face. Her reflection in the mirror looked like a ghost. Pale skin. Dark circles under bloodshot eyes. Mascara streaked down her cheeks. Her hair was a tangled mess. She looked like she was dying. Maybe she was.
Liora gripped the edge of the sink and tried to think. She had to think. Had to figure this out. Someone had framed her. Someone who looked exactly like her had murdered fifty-three werewolves and made sure the blame fell on Princess Liora Ashenbane. But who? And why?
Her father had signed the treaty. Had provided the evidence against her. Had drugged her and delivered her to Thessian like a sacrificial lamb. Why would he do that? Even if he believed she was guilty, which was impossible because she wasn't, why not put her on trial? Why not let human courts handle it?
Unless... unless he knew she was innocent. Unless he knew exactly who the real killer was. Unless this was all part of a plan.
The thought hit Liora like a physical blow. She gripped the sink harder, her legs threatening to give out. What if her father had orchestrated all of this? What if he'd wanted to start a war with the werewolves and needed a scapegoat? What if she, the forgettable, expendable middle child, was the perfect sacrifice?
But that would mean her own father had condemned her to death. Had sent her to be tortured and murdered for a crime she didn't commit. It would mean her entire family had betrayed her.