I looked up to see Ashterion standing at the head of the room, crownless, but every inch a ruler. Behind him, Xyliria reclined on her throne, legs crossed, a glass of wine in hand, eyes gleaming with malevolent delight.
“Well,” she purred, smiling over the rim of her glass. “Welcome home.”
I lifted my head, throat raw, breath scraping past clenched teeth.
Then I saw them.
Linc was closest to me, his chains rattled—heavy ones, far heavier than the others. Shackles bit into his wrists, raw and torn from repeated struggle. But even through the grime and bloodcaked along his jaw, he looked… dangerous. A storm biding its time.
Darian knelt nearby, his face a map of bruises and blood, one eye swollen nearly shut. But his attention wasn’t on his own injuries, it was fixed on Shaelith and Brynelle with the protective intensity of someone ready to throw himself between them and any threat.
Fenric was thrashing against his bonds with characteristic stubbornness, snarling curses. A guard stepped forward and drove a boot into his ribs.
The sound of impact echoed through the hall.
Cindrissian’s composure shattered instantly, a feral snarl tearing from his throat that was all teeth and promised violence. Beside him, Lincatheron made a sound like a wounded predator, something that wanted to paint the marble with that guard’s blood.
Shaelith and Brynelle were pressed together, Shaelith’s body curved protectively around her wife despite the restraints. The collar around Shaelith’s throat was reinforced with additional bands of metal, pulsing with suppressive magic. Brynelle’s magenta-streaked braids hung limp as she leaned into Shaelith’s warmth.
But it was the figure at the head of the room that made my blood freeze in my veins.
Varyth.
Kneeling.
Blood streaked down the side of his face, dripping from a split brow, trailing down his throat. His arms were bound, his wings drooped behind him, and his tunic was torn and soaked with blood—some of it his, some of it not. A collar gleamed against his skin, its metal dark and pulsing with faint magic.
His chest rose and fell with deliberate breaths, but every line of his body radiated violence, fury simmering beneath the surface.
I could feel it in the air—the crackle of restrained power, even muted as it was.
Then his head turned.
And for one suspended, infinite heartbeat—the world vanished. His silver gaze locked to mine, blood and ruin and pain carved into the planes of his face.
I saw it—all of it. The anguish. The fear. The bone-deep need to reach for me and destroy everyone who stood between us. His fingers twitched, his entire frame leaning forward as though instinct alone would tear his restraints apart.
Footsteps echoed through the grand hall, slow and measured. I tensed, fighting the urge to turn and face the speaker. Instead, I kept my eyes locked on Varyth, searching his face for any sign, any clue of what to do next.
The footsteps stopped behind me, and a presence loomed over my kneeling form. Sharp nails trailed over my shoulder, tracing the line of my exposed neck, moving as though admiring a delicate trinket.
“Look at you,” Xyliria said, mockingly fond. “So defiant. So stubborn. That’s what happens, isn’t it? When humans slither their way into the world of fae.”
My jaw tightened.
“So predictable.” Xyliria stepped around me, glancing up to the dais where her husband now sat.
His dark throne loomed above us, an elegant construct of blackened wood and stone, carved with sigils of power.
He sat utterly still, his expression empty, one arm resting against the arm of his throne, his long fingers curled loosely over the edge.
“You know, I thought it would be more difficult.” Xyliria tilted her head as she paced in front of us. “But you made it so easy. Tell me—what was it?”
She turned her eyes on Linc first.
“Loyalty?” A smirk. “Foolish bravery?”
Then to Darian. “Or maybe something else?” Her lips curled. “Maybe you couldn’t bear the thought of losing your precious shadow wielder. How sweet.”
