Finally, we stopped in front of a heavy iron door, rusted and covered in thick layers of grime. One of our captors pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest, a harsh metallic screech that reverberated through the corridor.
Before I could even brace myself, we were shoved inside.
Xyliria’s magic clung to my bones, and I couldn’t catch myself before I slammed hard into the stone. A weak sound escaped me as I hit hard.
Warm arms surrounded me before I could even process the movement. Varyth’s scent, wrapped around me as he hauled me against his chest.
“Isara.” My name was a broken prayer on his lips, rough with panic and fury. His fingers traced my face with desperate gentleness, cataloguing each mark of pain Xyliria’s magic had left behind. “Gods, what did she do to you?”
I tried to speak, but only a rasping sound emerged. Blood coated my tongue, metallic and thick. The collar around my throat felt heavier now, its weight pressing against windpipe already raw from screaming.
“I’m okay,” I finally managed, though we both knew it was a lie.
Varyth’s jaw tightened as he took in my condition. The blood trickling from my nose, the way I flinched when he touched certain parts of my face. His silver eyes burned with a fury that made the shadows in our cell seem to writhe and dance despite the collar suppressing his magic.
“I’m going to kill her,” he said quietly, the words carrying absolute conviction. “I’m going to tear her apart with my bare hands.”
“Get in line,” Darian snarled from across the cell. He was cradling his ribs where the guard had kicked him, but his attention was fixed on me.
“Everyone alive?” Fenric’s voice was hoarse, but steady.
A chorus of affirmatives echoed through the cell, though none of us sounded particularly convincing. Cindrissian had a split lip, Lincatheron was favouring his left side, and Shaelith’s face was a mask of controlled rage as she held Brynelle close.
“Well,” Fenric said with dark humour, “this is cozy.”
The cell was barely large enough for all of us, carved from rough stone that wept moisture down the walls. A single barred window high above let in thin streams of grey light, but it was too small and too high to offer any hope of escape. Iron shackles hung from the walls at regular intervals, dark with old blood and rust.
“Where are we?” I whispered.
“Nyxarian dungeons,” Cindrissian answered, his usual polished façade cracked but not broken. “Deep ones, by the feel of it. They haven’t been used in centuries.”
“How long do you think we have?” Brynelle whispered, her usual brightness dimmed to a fragile flicker.
“Not long,” Varyth glanced towards the door. “She’s not the type to let prizes sit unused.”
“We need a plan,” Darian said, his face tight with frustration.
Shaelith’s hands flexed at her sides, as if expecting to summon magic that wasn’t there.
“Our magic is bound,” she said, “which means we are at a severe disadvantage.”
Silence settled over the group, each of us grappling with what that meant. We were in enemy territory, completely cut off from our power, outnumbered, outmatched. There was no telling how long they planned to keep us alive.
“Isara.” Shaelith’s voice was unusually gentle. “Your dragon, what happened to him?”
I flinched, the carefully constructed walls I’d built around that grief crumbling in an instant.
“He’s dead.” The words came out flat, emotionless. I couldn’t afford to feel it fully, not here, not now. “Ashterion killed him.”
Varyth’s arms tightened around me, and I felt rather than saw the way every person in that cell went rigid with shock and fury.
“A dragon bond,” Cindrissian breathed, his mask slipping completely. “Stars above, Isara?—”
“I felt it break. In the forest. The scream when the connection severed.” Shaelith’s pale eyes found mine across the cell, and in them I saw an echo of my own devastation. “I’m sorry.”
The simple words nearly undid me. I pressed my face against Varyth’s chest, breathing in his scent like it could anchor me to something solid, something real. Because the alternative was drowning in the emptiness where Kaelen’s presence used to live.
“We’re going to make them pay for it,” Darian said, the words carrying a deadly promise. “Every gods-damned one of them.”
