The soturion nodded at Tristan before eyeing me up and down. His lip curled into a sneer. “This the one he wants?” he asked. “Batavia?”
Tristan stiffened. “Yes. Lady Lyriana.”
“Pretty,” said the soturion, reaching a dirty hand to touch my hair.
I immediately shifted back to evade his fingers.
Rhyan tensed, his aura flaring for a brief second, but he had enough sense to remain still. He was, after all, supposed to be bound. He shouldn’t even have an aura. But the guard was focused solely on me.
He reached again, this time touching my hair.
“Get off,” I said, willing myself not to fight back.
“You like to play, huh?” His hand began to trace lower, getting caught in my locks, and heading toward my shoulder.
“Do you mind?” Tristan asked coolly. “She’s for the Emperor. He’s waiting for me.”
“Go,” the soturion said, and ushered in Tristan with me and Rhyan behind him. Aiden and Dario followed, but Meera was stopped at the door. “You, soturion. Wait out here. Don’t need three inside for this.”
Meera’s eyes widened, and I looked to Tristan quickly. I didn’t want to leave her behind. Or alone. But I didn’t know what to do. If her glamour failed being too far from Aiden, or if the guard got suspicious of her in any way, it was over. But if Tristan fought him on this, on some random soturion that he didn’t know, that would raise alarm bells, too.
We had no choice. We had to keep going.
But Tristan’s stave was suddenly out, black glittering rope spilling from the top.
“What the fu—?” The soturion was screaming, his body bound, but I couldn’t hear a word he said.
“Silencing spell,” Tristan said. “Come on. We all go.”
Rhyan lifted one eyebrow, almost looking impressed with Tristan.
“One more thing,” Rhyan said, and his fist moved so fast, I barely saw. But it connected to the soturion’s throat. The soldier’s eyes rolled back as he collapsed, soundlessly to the floor in a heap of pale golden armor.
“Two more things, actually,” Aiden said. And the soturion’s body vanished, looking like it was simply part of the wall.
We all stopped, looking at each other nervously. We were all inside. And past the guard. But then a scream of pain down the hall had us all walking forward, and then running. A scream that pierced my heart and my soul. Because I knew that voice. It was Jules. It was Jules screaming.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
RHYAN
There was a long dark hall, with barely any light. The corridor was so narrow I had to run behind Tristan—uncomfortable, since he didn’t move fast enough. But I tried to focus on how this was exactly like the map we’d studied—Lyr was right. The hall opened up into a large windowless room, painted an unnervingly bright yellow. It reminded me of Shiviel. Of fucking Kane.
I felt Lyr behind me, moving faster, trying to get ahead, but I was determined to block her, to be the first one inside the room in case Tristan had been wrong. Or … had betrayed us. But now that we were inside, she couldn’t hold back.
I heard Jules’s cry of pain, and I was ready to kill.
But Lyr, Lyr’s heart was breaking. She screamed, the sound was gut-wrenching.
“JULES!”
Imperator Kormac wore the Emperor’s purple robes as he stood in the corner of the room, the torch lights flickering and casting shadows on his wolfish face. And there she was. Jules was in his arms, bruised and bleeding. I bleakly took in the sight of Galen, half-naked, beaten and chained to the wall. The chayatim huddled on the opposite side of the room, their blue mage robes hooded over their heads to conceal their faces.
But mostly, I saw Jules. My friend. My confidante. The one person I’d opened up to when I was alone that summer, and then again the year after that fateful solstice. She was the first person who’d been there when my heart had broken, the first person who knew the truth of how much I loved Lyr.
Jules looked just as Lyr had described after seeing the visions taken by my father’s nahashim. Too pale. Too thin, her hair disheveled. Her eyes haunted and pained. She wore the same robes as the chayatim, but her robe had opened, falling off her shoulders. Her dress underneath was black with a deep V that dipped to her belly—dirty and ragged, and far too big for her. Her face was blotchy, and her arms bruised, her chest red. My fingers tensed. I was going to kill Avery Kormac.
One of the chayatim’s heads jerked in my direction. Then more followed.
