But at the top — I sense it before I see it: air changing. Not stale cave-air. Night-air. Sharp, cold, distant. A hum of wind, a sigh of pine far off.
I stretch. One last surge.
Claw-hand rakes upward. Spur-plate scrapes. I scream once — silent, swallowed beneath blood — and pull.
Then the world snaps.
Light. Cold moon-glow. Pine-scented night-wind. Stars smearing silver across the sky like shattered promises.
I collapse over the rim of cliff-rock. Sand and pine-dust under my palms. The wind rakes my hair — or the shred of it left matted. The world tastes alive again: sweat, blood, cold.
My ribs roar in protest — screaming to close, to cage. But I breathe. Because now, I’m outside the chasm.
I roll onto my back, limbs shaking, boots cracked, armor fractured, every wound burning like a brand. But I look up.
The night sky stares back. Cold. Brutal. Free.
I rise. Pain bleeds across my skin, but rage floods harder. My claws flex. Dry stone echoes the snap. My spurs -- broken, but still bone beneath skin.
I sit up. Wind tugs at my cloakless shoulders. The forest moonlight pools across slopes of trees far below.
I taste victory — not the kill, not the war, not the blood poured. I taste survival. I taste ash. I taste vengeance.
“Freya.” I whisper her name into the wind. My voice cracks, half-growl. “I’m coming.”
The rock under me seems to answer — sighs, shivers, echoes of old bones trembling in recognition.
I rise fully to my knees. I spit out blood — gritty, salty. I taste life. I taste hope.
I press fingers to my cracked lips, then lift my head high, letting the sky swallow me.
I am no longer king.
I am no longer bound.
I am not broken.
I am vengeance.
And I will find her.
I will reap what they sowed — with fire, bone, and blood.
CHAPTER 23
FREYA
The pain comes first — a sharp spike across my skull, jagged and immediate, as if someone’s kicked me from inside. My vision blurs, black spots bloom across the pale green of the cell’s dim lamp. My hands clench involuntarily. My heart thumps like a hammer against rib-cage, like rock on steel.
Then the world goes soft, liquid, and wrong.
I slump forward on the cold slab, and let the effect carry me — the jerks, the tremors, the low moan caught between breath and sound. I can taste stale air on my tongue, stale metal in my nostrils, the dryness of despair sweeping beneath my lashes. I let my limbs go slack. I let my fingers curl unnaturally, as though I’ve lost command.
Yes, this is good. This is exactly what I need.
My eyes roll back. Light leaks in strange slants across the ceiling. The lamp above flickers, rebounding off the damp stone walls, reflecting across metal and dust so the cell seems to dance — cruel, mocking, merciless. My throat rattles, making a dry hiss instead of a scream. I let it. Soft. Weak. Vulnerable.
Somewhere in that haze I hear movement — heavy, metallic, servos whirring. The door slides open. Bolts scrape. The scent ofantiseptic — or maybe coolant fumes — washes in with fresh air. I don’t move. I don’t blink. I don’t make sound.
