EPIGRAPHNever doubt that you are valuable and powerful and deserving of everychance and opportunity in the world to pursue and achieve your owndreams.—HRC CONTENTSEpigraphMapOneTwoThreeFourFiveSixSevenEightNineTenElevenTwelveThirteenFourteenFifteenSixteenSeventeenEighteenNineteenTwentyTwenty-OneTwenty-TwoTwenty-ThreeTwenty-FourTwenty-FiveTwenty-SixTwenty-Seven Twenty-EightTwenty-NineEpilogueAcknowledgmentsBack AdsAbout the AuthorBooks by Victoria AveyardCreditsCopyrightAbout the Publisher ONEMareI rise to my feet when he lets me.The chain jerks me up, pulling on the thorned collar at my throat. Itspoints dig in, not enough to draw blood—not yet. But I’m already bleedingfrom the wrists. Slow wounds, worn from days of unconscious captivity inrough, ripping manacles. The color stains my white sleeves dark crimsonand bright scarlet, fading from old blood to new in a testament to my ordeal.To show Maven’s court how much I’ve suffered already.He stands over me, his expression unreadable. The tips of his father’scrown make him seem taller, as if the iron is growing out of his skull. Itgleams, each point a curling flame of black metal shot with bronze andsilver. I focus on the bitterly familiar thing so I don’t have to look intoMaven’s eyes. He draws me in anyway, tugging on another chain I can’tsee. Only feel.One white hand circles my wounded wrist, somehow gentle. In spite ofmyself, my eyes snap to his face, unable to stay away. His smile is anythingbut kind. Slim and sharp as a razor, biting at me with every tooth. And hiseyes are worst of all. Her eyes, Elara’s eyes. Once I thought them cold,made of living ice. Now I know better. The hottest fires burn blue, and hiseyes are no exception.The shadow of the flame. He is certainly ablaze, but darkness eats at hisedges. Bruise-like splotches of black and blue surround eyes bloodshot withsilver veins. He has not slept. He’s thinner than I remember, leaner, crueler.His hair, black as a void, has reached his ears, curling at the ends, and hischeeks are still smooth. Sometimes I forget how young he is. How youngwe both are. Beneath my shift dress, the M brand on my collarbone stings.Maven turns quickly, my chain tight in his fist, forcing me to move withhim. A moon circling a planet.“Bear witness to this prisoner, this victory,” he says, squaring hisshoulders to the vast audience before us. Three hundred Silvers at least,