He quietly paces before us, back and forth, while the other Equitae call for our blood.
‘KILL THEM! KILL THEM! KILL THEM!’
“Two days. We hold them for two days, see if that bastard wants to come and claim his property. Someone get Quinn to go and scout the castle in the meantime—I want to know everything. Rawson, take someone with you to put them in The Pits.” His commands are swift and unyielding. “And Rawson—weapons back to the armoury the moment you’re done. No exceptions, not with Earthbound Fae within Heartwood” He pauses, his voice dropping to a calm, velvet whisper “Domanikk, a word.”
A rough hand clamps around my arm, jerking me upright with brutal force.
“Move it.” A low, guttural voice growls in my ear, pulling at the rough rope tied around my wrists where it chafes in his harsh grip. I stumble behind him, my legs refusing to cooperate, knees buckling with each step. My feet catch on roots and stones I can’t see through the hood. By the time we stop, he’s hauling me forwards, my toes dragging furrows through the grass. The rope around my wrists is cut, the hood removed, and I feel a sharp shove to my back.
And then I’m falling.
I clench my jaw, biting back a whimper as I hit the hard-packed earth in a heap, pain radiating down my whole left side.
The darkness is absolute. I rise and feel around, realising it’s little more than a hole dug into the earth, the ceiling is so low I can only just stand fully upright. The air is thick and stale. My breath comes shorter, faster. My hands go numb as I press them against the walls, searching for something—anything—that isn’t there. The weight in my chest makes each inhale harder than the last.
This is it. This is my grave.
My hands stop moving. They fall to my sides, palms open, fingers slack. My legs fold beneath me and I slide down the wall until I’m sitting in the dirt. My head drops forwards, chin to chest. Kiernan’s face surfaces in my mind—his smile, the way he’d tuck my hair behind my ear—but the image wavers like a heat haze, growing fainter with each shallow breath I take.
Hope—that last flicker of resistance—is gone.
Chapter Nineteen
Alaya
For two days I was left in the Pit, my earthy prison.
It was dark and musty, the smell of mould and rotten vegetation a constant bite to the back of my throat. The only light was when they opened the trapdoor at the top, a thin beam casting down to only highlight the degrading conditions.
I realised halfway through that first night there was no designated place to relieve myself, and by the time they chose to give me food and water the next day, the smell was already so unbearable it tainted the taste of the food in my mouth. I had no choice but to hold my breath and endure, or starve.
I sat in the darkness, knees drawn to my chest. The same thoughts circled, over and over:
Earthbound Fae in Heartwood.
No bargain would save me.
No ransom they’d accept.
Each realisation settled on my shoulders like stones, one after another, until my spine curved under the weight. My head dropped into my hands. My breath came harder, shorter, as if the walls were pressing closer with each inhale.
Nowhere in Kaladia more dangerous than here.
My fingers dug into my scalp. The truth of it—the absolute certainty—made my chest constrict until I couldn’t draw a full breath. I would die here. In this hole. Forgotten.
I screamed then, the sound raw and animalistic, tearing from my throat until it gave out to hoarse gasps. I cried until my eyes burned and swelled, until there was nothing left but dry, shuddering breaths. I pressed my forehead to the dirt wall and almost let the darkness take me, almost surrendered to the dismal depths of that hole.
Yet by day three, something shifted.
My hands curl into fists, nails biting crescents into my palms. My jaw locked tight, teeth grinding. I pace the small space—three steps, turn, three steps back—my muscles coiling tighter with each circuit. Heat blooms in my chest, spreading outward like wildfire, burning away the hollow ache that had consumed me. My breathing quickens, shallower, hotter. My fingers flex and clench, flex and clench, as if preparing to tear through the walls themselves.
Kiernan’s voice surfaces unbidden—“You’re stronger than you know”—the memory of him so vivid I can almost feel the ghost of his touch against my skin. My throat tightens as I press my palm flat against the dirt wall, fingers splayed wide, and push. Hard. As if I could shove through to wherever he was.
But he’s not there.
My hand drops. I straighten my spine against the wall, the way my mother taught me.Chin up. Shoulders back.She’d survived worse than this pit.
I roll my shoulders back until they ache, lift up my chin until my neck strains. My jaw is set so hard my teeth grind together. The Castle of Thorns had taught me to bow, to curtsy, to smile with my eyes downcast.
