We stop by our room, and I hide my mirror among my blankets and head back toward the entrance where Bran left Leon and me yesterday.
The darkness and narrow corridors are disconcerting. My first step needs to be to map this place. Then, I need to understand exactly how the emperor’s security works.
I can do this. Iwilldo this. Evren will be healed, we’ll all live in the north, and our lives will be better.
The training hall is directly below the barracks—even farther belowground. It’s almost as big as the arena, and although the ceiling looms high overhead, I can’t forget just how far we are from the sun—one of the few vulnerabilities the vampires have.
Gladians group together. Several people begin murmuring in low voices behind us and Maeva sucks in a sudden breath.
A silver sigilmarked stands in the middle of the training hall, his hands bound behind his back. Two guards flank him, but my eyes are pinned to the vampire standing a few feet from them, an indolent look in his eye.
The vampire’s hair is thick, curled at the ends, and so dark it’s almost black. His skin is pale, and so are his hooded eyes—a blue as cold and frosty as ice.
He smiles at us, a hint of fang appearing and full lower lip curving invitingly as the light from the lamps caresses his sharp cheekbones and sharper jawline. But his eyes are dead. I let my gaze drift over hisdark gray pants, black silk shirt, and the blood ruby hanging around his neck. The vampire is tall, clearly strong, and he radiates such a cold sexuality, it’s as if anyone who got close to him would risk freezing to death—but such a death might be worth it.
“Rorrik,” Maeva whispers. “One of the emperor’s sons. The eldest. Almost as cruel as he is beautiful.”
I haven’t heard much about the emperor’s sons. The eldest is said to be following his father’s brutal footsteps, and the last time I listened to hissed rumors about the youngest, he was at the front, targeting anyone who stands in the way of the empire’s expansion.
Rorrik waits, and the room turns silent within seconds. There’s a sense of grim anticipation in the air, as if everyone is holding their breath.
Whatever this is, Rorrik has chosen this little display for the early morning hours—when he’s at his weakest.
But he doesn’t look weak.
His gaze drifts over us, feral delight gleaming in his eyes. And a heavy ball of dread takes up residence in my gut.
“Cargyn has been sent here by our enemies,” Rorrik says. His voice is a silky caress. “To spy on my father.”
Oh gods.
Rorrik glances to my left. The Primus stands a few feet from the rest of us, surrounded by members of his imperius. He folds his arms, staring back at the prince, and they seem to have a wordless conversation, despite the fact that the Primus is still wearing that black armor, his face and eyes entirely covered.
Rorrik slowly smiles. With a twist of his wrist, he shoves his hand into Cargyn’s stomach. Cargyn lets out a high-pitched scream. Several gasps sound behind me. Someone lets out a yelp.
I stare, uncomprehending.
I’d known vampires were strong but …
Rorrik pulls out his hand, revealing black claws jutting from the tips of his fingers. Something splatters to the ground. Something gray and pink and bloody.
He just disemboweled the sigilmarked with the flick of his wrist.
Cargyn slumps to the ground, still twitching. Rorrik gives the Primus a pleased grin. And then he brings the bloody hand to his mouth.
His tongue slides out, curling around one finger.
No one moves. I barely even breathe.
“Mmmm,” Rorrik says. “I love the taste of fear-blood in the morning.” He pulls his finger from his mouth, and a woman to my left sucks in a breath. “Let this be an example for all of you. You are not special. Until you officially join the Praesidium, you are nothing more than entertainment. And if you’re stupid enough to be here for any other reason than toentertain… well.” He nods at a sigilmarked guard, who flicks his hand toward the body on the ground. It’s instantly engulfed in flames.
My stomach churns and I tear my gaze from Cargyn’s corpse. The woman to my left is still staring at Rorrik, her cheeks flushed, lips parted, eyes dark with longing. Sickness claws at me.
Rorrik strolls away, and two guards trail after him. From their forest-green cloaks, they’re novices, personally assigned to protect the emperor’s son as their entry point into the Praesidium Guard. I can’t help but wonder how much carnage they’re forced to watch.
A fine trembling begins in my limbs.
This is what they do to spies. And I’m attempting tokillthe emperor.
