Private Hammon swings the door open and jumps back, gripping a thick chain threaded through the cage’s portholes. It pulls taut, and for a heavy second, we all stare at the dark interior of the wagon. From this angle, I doubt even Basten, with his night vision, can make out what’s inside.
A wheezing, deathly exhale rolls out like fog. Shuffling footsteps scuff the cage’s steel floor. Chains drag. I brace myself, brimming with pent-up fey, ready to step in and cast a punishing ice storm on whatever might emerge from that cage.
Another monoceros?
A mutilated, feral cloud fox?
I can’t stop a jolt of surprise when what steps down instead of a monster is…a boot. Slow. Measured.
It’s a…person?
The crimson robes of a Red Priest settle around the prisoner’s legs as he sways—moving in odd twitches—out of the cage.
Finally, he shuffles into the sunlight.
Every person in the Twilight Garden lets out a gasp, but none is as great as my own. Because the personisn’ta person—at least not anymore.
The man’s skin is gray, his cheek rotten out to show broken teeth beneath. His eyes are as glassy as a dead bird’s. A gash across his throat nearly separates his head from his body.
A fatal wound.
Yet he’swalking.
That’s when I recognize the white streak in his otherwise blood-stained hair.
I rear back, heart hammering. “It’s Beneveto!”
The Grand Cleric of Astagnon.
The last time I saw Beneveto, my father was sending him to Old Coros to help with the coup. Until then, he’d been a source of comfort in Volkany. Not an ally exactly, but a fellow human. Someone who understood the fae ways and helped me come to terms with their world, before I even knew I was one of them.
Basten’s hand closes like a vice around mine, as in one swift movement, he draws his hunting knife and steps in front of me.
Beneveto—or rather, his corpse—steps jerkily down the wagon’s steps as strange gurgles reeking of decayed, fermented bile bubble up his throat. The chains fastened to his wrists pull taut as the royal soldiers hold him like a cross-tied stallion.
A brief worry spikes through my head. A walking corpse is terrifying, yes—but why the iron chains? What exactly, besides shuffling and gurgling, do walking corpses do that’s so dangerous?
Basten spins on Maximan, voice rising in disbelief. “What the fuck is this?”
“It’s the work of a godkissed Deathraiser.” Woudix’s voice, calm and confident, cuts in and ripples like a deep undercurrent through the nervous crowd. He steps closer with the unbothered confidence of a creature who’s never had to run from anything. Hawk pads along at his heels, silent as ever. “This cadaver is not alive. His body is merely animated like a puppet, commanded by godkissed magic.” He lifts his chin. “The soul belongs in the underrealm, but it is only halfway there.”
The royal soldiers eye Woudix with suspicion. He never revealed that he was the God of Death—would they have believed him if he had?—but his easy calm radiates a wrongness that screams there’s more magic here than they ever imagined.
“I don’t understand,” I blurt out, clenching my fists, the fey in my veins surging hot and wild. “Why would Rian do this? Is this a declaration of war? Did he find out the Grand Cleric was a spy for Volkany, send him like this as a warning?”
Maximan, who’s been staring at the reeling undead thing with barely veiled disgust, jerks his head toward me. Gruff, he barks, “Beneveto was a spy?”
I blink, taken aback. “You didn’t know?”
His brow caves inward, the line between his eyes deepening to a chasm. Clearly, he did not. “You’re certain of this, Lady Sabine?”
I nod.
Maximan mutters under his breath, eyeing the cadaver with renewed disgust. “No, my lady. King Rian didn’t know. None of us did.”
My voice drops, a chill slipping into it. “Then why kill him?”
Maximan shifts his stance. “Grand Cleric Beneveto and Lord Kendan, with the help of Folke Bladeborn, attempted a coup upon the Astagnonian throne two weeks ago. They tried to murder King Rian while he was sedated, being worked on by a healer.”
