Jules's eyes fluttered open. A sharp pain rocketed through the back of her head, and her neck felt cold against the marble floor. Her ears filled with the blurred sound of shouting, voices overlapping and echoing around her. Her body was unnervingly still—like a corpse—and she could hear every thump of the heartbeats surrounding her.
She tried to lift a hand to rub the aching spot on her head, but her arm caught short, and the sound of metal clanking echoed through the mysterious room. Panic flared as she realized her wrists and ankles were chained. Her once-beautiful silk dress was tattered and torn.
She reached for the cuffs, but when her thumb brushed against her thigh, she gasped. It was like touching an ice cube. Jules ran her hands down her shins and froze. Her skin was cold—unnaturally so.
Her eyes widened, and her breath caught in her throat. She looked around wildly, her gaze darting from shadow to shadow, and realized a crowd of strangers surrounded her. Stone-carved thrones circled the room, and upon each sat a dark figure, their shadows stretching across the floor and over her body.
Jules swallowed and focused on the man seated directly in front of her. Snow-white hair trailed down his shoulders, framing a face marked by age and authority. His eyes were dark, almost animal-like, though a scar ran across them, clouding his corneas and turning them milky white. Wrinkles lined his face, and he appeared to be in his late forties. His robe—like a handful of the others—was decorated in deep maroon, stitched with intricate patterns and symbols. The rest wore robes of pure black.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a dry sigh.
"Whatever are we to do with you?" His voice was deep, calm, and unsettling.
"Please," Jules cried desperately, her voice breaking. "I'll do whatever you want!"
An eruption of arguments rippled across the room. Dark-robed figures shifted and gestured, their hoods concealing their faces. Jules couldn't see them clearly, but she could feel them—pressing in, judging her. She knew, with chilling certainty, that she was in grave danger.
"She's a threat to all of us!" one figure shouted.
"Her family will find out about us!" another yelled.
The voices blurred together until Jules could barely think. As much as she wanted to kick, scream, and fight, something—perhaps fear—kept her frozen in place.
Gradually, the shouting faded into murmurs. One by one, all eyes turned back to the white-haired man. A hush fell over the room as he leaned forward, his jaw tightening.
"It has been decided," he said, his voice thick with danger. "She will be executed tonight."
No one spoke. No one protested. The figures merely exchanged glances and nodded in silent agreement.
Jules's heart sank. Her throat closed as she curled in on herself, desperately trying to deny the thought that these might be her final moments alive.
Two robed figures emerged from the shadows into the dim candlelight. They stepped beside her and crouched, unlocking the chains that bound her wrists and ankles. She winced as the cuffs fell away, rubbing at her sore skin.
Just as she drew a shaky breath, she was yanked violently to her feet. The men seized her arms and began dragging her toward the darkness. Jules screamed, flailing against their grip, but she was fighting nothing but air.
Her eyes locked onto the massive door ahead of her—and just as they reached it, a voice cut through the void.
"Wait!" the voice boomed.