“Wow, thanks for caring,” I muttered.
Nathan looked delighted. “I knew he loved me.”
Pantar growled at him.
Oren straightened, voice going hard and sure. “We move at first bell. No mistakes. We get in, get her, and get out before the city even realizes she’s gone.”
Everyone nodded, faces serious.
Oren’s shadows wound around his fists, Zeke’s frost shimmered blue across his palms, Jet levitated several inches off the ground, and Nathan cracked his knuckles with a sound like distant thunder as his palms lit up with fire.
I looked around at the group—my brothers, her protectors, her chaos—and felt that sharp, dangerous thrill roll through me.
“Let’s fuck shit up.”
Chapter 20
Reverie
I’m given zero time to prepare.
Andnoweapons.
The stands are packed shoulder-to-shoulder, every Aurathion who loves a spectacle perched on the edge of their seat. Today’s entertainment? The traitor who wouldn’t kill the Varruk at their demand.
I’m also pretty sure that his escape and the escape of the creatures kept for the amusement of the DF are being blamed directly on me. A surge of pride takes over, and my spine stiffens. I might die here today, but I’ve accomplished at least one thing.
Selene leans over the upper balcony, dressed in metal the color of spilled wine, smiling at me as if she’s already cut my throat. Seamus stands beside her, smirking, fingers curled around the railing as if he can already taste the kill. And fucking Kristine is sitting below them in the front row with the rest of her Faction, smiling like it’s Christmas.
Then I see Torren.
Tall, armor dented from training, jaw clenched. He stands with the other warriors, but his eyes never leave me—not once. Concern? Curiosity? Something darker? I can’t tell. But when my gaze meets his, he gives the slightest nod.
You’ve got this.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
Without weapons, my only option is to use my abilities. Keeping them a secret at this point isn’t feasible. I hope my guys have a plan because once Selene sees how powerful I really am, I’ll be executed.
The gate lifts.
Metal shrieks.
Something snarls.
The Cryptfiends spill out like nightmares skinned and stitched back together wrong—elongated limbs, long fingers that end in curved claws—smelling like death and bad decisions. Several Gerendel followed behind them.
The crowd cheers.
I hear the whisper of chains behind me—guards stepping back, sealing the exit.
They want a show.
They want death.
Preferably mine.
