The tether pulsed with warmth. I clung to the fragile hope of it.
Mav. Saints, please. If you live, if you are coming—please hurry.
The bolt scraped again. The door swung wide. They poured in like a flood of shadow; dozens of goblins, their shapes jerking and bending at wrong angles. The first ducked beneath the doorframe, its spine unnaturally bowed, long, pointed ears quivering like antennae as it sniffed the damp air.
More followed, pushing and shoving. Their taloned feet scratched and clicked against the stone. One hissed as it passed, the sound a wet rattle that belonged in a grave. Another stretched its mouth into a wide grin, tongue snaking over needle-sharp teeth.
“Right this way!” One of the goblins I recognized from earlier called to the others. “We’re gonna show you the Twilight we captured.”
“How do we know she’s a Twilight and you’re not making it all up?” A squeaky voice challenged.
“Because I says so. Proiwek and I saw her glow.”
Another raised a wart-covered hand. “Rajdr, how we gonna make her do it again?”
The goblin, now identified as Rajdr, slid his dark eyes to me. “People will do anything once they’re in enough pain. I’m sure she’ll glow for me.”
My stomach flipped at the threat and the malicious laughter rippling through the group. They pressed in, shoulder to shoulder, breath steaming in the cold. It did not matter that I was bound—the sheer number of them was paralyzing.
There was no escape here. No space to breathe without inhaling their stench, without feeling those black, unblinking eyes roving over my skin.
A sharp sound split the cacophony, akin to the crack of a whip. The goblins froze. The door behind them exploded inward, its warped wood splintering into shards that rained across the chamber. Dust and moss sifted down in a choking haze.
And there, in the wreckage of the threshold, stood Mav.
He filled the doorway, a storm given shape. Blood streaked his jaw and temple, his tunic torn and clinging to the sharp lines of his frame. His chest heaved as though he had fought the whole of Rouzbeh to reach me. Relief crashed through me so fiercely it hurt.
Then, confusion chased it when my eyes dropped to what he carried.
Not a sword.
Not an axe.
Not even a dagger.
A lute.
The polished wood gleamed despite the decay, worn to satin where countless hands had caressed its neck. His fingers hovered above the strings.
“Mav—” My voice cracked. “What are you?—”
A goblin lunged at me. He seized me by the hair and wrenched my head back, baring my throat to the room. I gaspedat the bite of cold steel as he pressed a blade against the vulnerable hollow above my collarbone.
I froze.
So did Mav.
His eyes found mine, and what lived in them was not fear. It was the promise of retribution, a violent vow scarcely kept at bay.
“Trust me, princess,” he said, his voice steady.
Without another word, he began to play. The first chord drifted from the lute like candlelight sinking into water. It was soft and strange, warping at the edges.
The goblins faltered, grips loosening on their assortment of weapons. Another cocked its head, ears twitching toward the sound. The melody rolled through the chamber, warm and golden. It coiled between rib and bone, threading through the stale copper-tainted air. Every harmonious strum shimmered, an invitation rather than a command.
Realization struck sure and true. This was not the skill of a knight. This was magic.
Mav is a Hum.
