Gammen threw composure out the window and started sputtering.Gotcha, you spineless worm.They wanted her alive for some reason. But what?
“Enough!” Magnus pounded his fist on the table as he stood from the chair. “If I have to hear one more second of this bickering, I am going to throw both of you in a cell and leave you there to rot. Slaide gets the girl first. He will enter her in the tournament as his ward and be responsible for her training. Whatever happens after is determined by whether or not she survives. In the meantime, you’re dismissed. Get out of my sight.”
The two gaunt mages pulled their hoods up over their snakelike heads and bowed deeply before exiting the chamber, gliding along the stone floor, two wraiths in the night.
Their disappointment satisfied Slaide in a way he couldn’t describe. He didn’t care about the fate of the girl, but it broughthim indescribable joy to deprive them of something they wanted so badly.
Once the doors closed behind them, Slaide turned to Magnus. “So, where’s the girl?”
“Listen here, boy,” he seethed, spittle flying. “I don’t know what you’re up to, but Iamonto you. If this is another stunt of yours, I will not be as forgiving as I have been in the past. I am tired of the antics and games.”
Interesting coming from someone who plays so many political games of his own.“I’m not up to anything, Magnus. I am only trying to do my duties as they were assigned to me. If you handed her over to your mages, there would be nothing left, and I don’t think they would be forthcoming with their findings. The Citadel would swallow her whole.”
Magnus stared at him with the intensity of a thousand burning witches. Without blinking, he said, “She’s in the infirmary being looked after by the healers. It seems she suffered a head injury after the blast.”
He didn’t bother acknowledging the comment about the mages.
Slaide turned on his heel and marched to the door. The serving boy moved to open it when Magnus called out. “Slaide,” came the emotionless voice.
And for some reason, Slaide paused, glancing over his shoulder.
“Don’t fuck this up.”
On the contrary, you bastard.Slaide smirked, turning his back on the king.I’m going to fuck this up as much as I can.
THE INFIRMARY
When she opened her eyes, Hazel was deep in the bowels of the castle again, the telltale scents of death and rot and decay near suffocating. She stood in an arched doorway, iron dragon-head sconces lit on either side, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The room before her was dark, whatever secrets it held hidden in the shadows. Behind her, a winding stone staircase twisted up and out of sight. The sconces continued down every three or so stairs, likely lit by whoever or whatever had come before her.
Hazel looked at her hands and recognized she was in the body of the mystery person once again. She wore the skin of someone with dainty hands, whose slender, manicured fingers bore splendid rings. But Hazel immediately noticed something different. Her hands were shackled in iron manacles…
Her observations were interrupted by the sound of heavy footsteps up above. A jingle of keys and theclickof a lock being turned was followed by a sharp squeal of the door on its hinges as someone entered the stairwell. And she was somewhere she shouldn’t be.
She needed to move. Fast. Needed to find cover. And of course, her only option was to press onward into the darknessbefore her… and whatever else awaited her there. She cast one last glance over her shoulder to see the glow of a torch as its bearer descended the spiral stairs. She glimpsed a hulking shadow on the stairwell wall just before fleeing into the gaping maw of the chamber.
Hazel couldn’t see a thing. She fumbled her way into the room, tripping and stumbling over obstacles she couldn’t identify. She decided she would not get out of this alive by making so much noise and slowed herself down, giving her eyes—or whoever’s eyes they were—time to adjust to the blinding blackness. As they did, she wished she could erase all of it from memory.
Both sides of the room were lined with makeshift cots. Some were completely soiled, the linens soaked with what she could only assume was blood. In some areas, the stains were darker… too dark to be blood. At least, too dark to behumanblood. A chill ran up her spine. Footsteps approached, the time between each stride an eternity.
She couldn’t breathe. Didn’t dare.
She was completely exposed, too. There hadn’t been enough time to orient herself to the strange room to know where she could hide. Hazel steeled herself against the fear within her, now bubbling to a primal level. But if she panicked, there would be no escape.
She heard the snap of fingers in the darkness.
The hallway burst to life with blinding light as the sconces re-lit themselves spontaneously. Two large braziers in the room followed suit.
Her company had arrived as a foreboding, godlike silhouette framed by raven-black wings, each tipped with a single, razor sharp talon. An angel, but so much worse. No, an angel of death.
The male figure relit his torch and held it before him, examining the room. Hazel took a few quiet steps back, taking in this creature before her.
Torchlight illuminated his body, revealing a bare torso and muscled arms riddled with scars. Was he a warrior? Or were those scars the memories left behind in his flesh from being whipped or tortured himself? Her eyes were drawn to his side, which looked to have been recently bandaged, blood seeping through the layered cloth.
He locked eyes with her then, and Hazel could not break free from her gaze. Where hers went wide, revealing the whites in her fear, his were solid black, endless, soulless orbs floating in the night.
The beast reached for her, and she found herself unable to move. A single, claw-tipped finger came nearer… nearer… so close to touching her.
She opened her mouth to scream, but nothing came out.
