One swept past his face close enough to part the air he’d been breathing a split second before. The other carved through his attempt at shadow-weaving like it was made of smoke and wishful thinking.
She was faster than he’d anticipated. Faster than most fae, certainly faster than any former human had a right to be.
But then she overextended, putting too much force behind a strike aimed at his throat. The movement left her off-balance for a fraction of a second—barely a heartbeat’s worth of vulnerability.
It was enough.
Ashterion’s shadows exploded from the earth beneath her feet, not tentacles this time but solid walls of darkness that slammed into her from three directions at once. The impact drove her to the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs, hard enough to make her lose her grip on one of the blades.
Before she could recover, before the black fire could flare to life and burn through his bindings, he was moving. Shadows flowed around his hand like living metal, solidifying into the collar he’d brought specifically for this moment.
The thing was a work of art, obsidian inlaid with runes that pulsed with their own dark light, sized to fit the delicate column of a fae throat.
His shadows pinned the female’s arms to the earth as he knelt beside her, the collar solid and cold in his hand. She was still fighting, snarling and thrashing like a trapped wildcat. But the impact had stunned her just enough to make her movements sluggish.
“Hold still,” he murmured, almost gently. “This will hurt less if you don’t fight it.”
Her eyes blazed with such hatred that for a moment he thought the sheer force of it might kill him. “Fuck. You.”
He almost smiled. Even now, even broken by grief and pinned by shadows, she had fire in her.
The collar closed around her throat with a soft click that seemed to echo through the forest silence.
The effect was immediate.
The black flames that had been flickering along her skin sputtered and died like candles snuffed by wind. The rage in her expression dimmed, replaced by shock as she felt the magic drain away.
She tried to summon it anyway, of course. He could see the strain in her face, the way her body went rigid as she reached for fire that was no longer there. The collar pulsed once, twice, its runes flaring brighter as they absorbed and dispersed the magical energy she was trying to gather.
It was clearly straining to contain her power, the obsidian was warm against his fingers where he’d touched it. But it held.
“Let me go,” she whispered, and there was something broken in her voice that made his chest tighten unexpectedly. “Please. Just let me go.”
For a moment, looking down at her dirt-stained face and hollow eyes, Ashterion almost did exactly that.
Then he remembered Xyliria’s expectations. The plan that depended on acquiring this particular weapon. The consequences of returning empty-handed.
“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” he said, releasing her wrist and standing.
The look she gave him then was pure violence. “I’m going to kill you. I’m going to watch the light die in your eyes and I’m going to smile while it happens.”
This time he did smile, an expression that held no warmth at all. “I look forward to it, little human. It’s been far too long since someone provided me with genuine entertainment.”
He gestured, and shadows rose around them both like a tide of liquid night.
Time to deliver her to Xyliria.
47
We landed with a crack of magic and silence. My knees hit marble. Cold. Impossibly smooth.
I gasped, blinking hard.
An opulent hall stretched before us. High ceilings carved in onyx and obsidian. Crimson banners hung from the stone.
I could hear the gasps of the others around me, the shuffling of bodies forced to kneel.
I tried to rise. A soldier slammed me down again.
