“I don’t remember anything,” I said. My voice was steadier than I felt. “I was seven. I don’t remember you, or the chase, or any of it.”
Soren tsked. “Too bad.” He turned away, gesturing to his men. “You’re still dying, though.”
Wait. What?
Before I could ask what he meant, a bag was shoved over my head. Darkness engulfed me. I heard Thessa struggling nearby, cursing viciously, and then silence as another bag presumably covered her head too.
We were lifted. Thrown over horses, the animals shifting beneath us. The movement jostled my cuffed wrists, sending fresh waves of wolfsbane agony through my body.
Great. Kidnapped and getting a free horseback ride. My week kept getting better.
We rode.
Hours passed. I lost track of time in the darkness, focused entirely on not falling off the horse, on not screaming from the pain, on not giving Soren the satisfaction of seeing me break. The motion was relentless. My body ached. My wrists burned.
Three hours, maybe more. No way to know for sure.
Finally, we stopped.
I was hauled off the horse, my legs buckling when they hit the ground. Rough hands grabbed me, dragged me forward. I stumbled, caught myself, was pushed again.
The air changed. Damp and cold, unmistakably underground.
Hallways. I was being pushed through hallways, the sound of my footsteps echoing off stone walls. Behind me, I could hear Thessa, the shuffle of her feet, an occasional grunt of pain.
Then came a metallic scent. Iron. Blood, maybe, old and dried. A creak echoed through the silence, and then a door swung open somewhere ahead.
I was shoved forward, and I couldn’t catch myself with my hands bound. I hit the ground, pain exploding through my shoulder where I landed. Next to me, Thessa grunted as she fell too.
The door slammed shut. Locks clicked into place.
Silence. Then I ripped the bag off my head.
It took a moment for my eyes to adjust. The room was barely lit, a single torch burning in the corridor beyond. But I could see enough to know we were in a cell. Stone walls, stone floor, iron bars. A small window near the ceiling, too high and too small to escape through. Straw scattered on the ground, filthy and damp.
Stone walls, iron bars, filthy straw. Zero stars. Would not recommend.
Thessa was beside me, struggling to pull off her own bag with her bound hands. I shuffled over, helped her, and we both sat there for a moment, breathing hard, taking stock of our situation.
It was bad. Very, very bad.
“Well, well.” Soren’s voice came from beyond the bars. He was standing in the corridor, arms crossed, that cold smile still on his face. “Comfortable?”
“Go to hell,” Thessa spat.
“Eventually, I’m sure.” He didn’t seem bothered by the insult. “But not before I enjoy this.”
He moved closer to the bars, his pale eyes fixed on me.
“Enjoy your last moments, little Mirabelle. I should have killed you long ago. Twenty-one years ago, to be precise, when I slaughtered your traitorous parents.” His smile widened. “Hell, I should have let Vix poison you to death. That would have been poetic, wouldn’t it? The last Mirabelle, killed by slow-acting venom, never even knowing why she was dying.”
I’d suspected Vix was behind my illness ever since I found the documents in the vault, but hearing Soren confirm it made bile rise in my throat.
“Only the wish to kill you myself made me stop her,” Soren continued. “I wanted to look into your eyes when you died. Wanted you to know exactly who ended your pathetic bloodline.”
“You’re insane,” I whispered.
“I’m practical.” He shrugged. “The Mirabelles were always a problem. Too loyal to the crown. Too nosy for their own good. Your father discovered our plans, and he had to die. Your mother tried to protect you, and she had to die too. And now you, the last loose end, you’ll die as well. Just not quickly.”
