“Belyse.” The incantation warmed up his spine and into his eyes, breaking up the blackness to reveal an empty corridor that seemed to stretch on for miles.
Another labyrinth?
An itch festered inside his head, cracking like a rift in the center of his skull.
His nostrils flared. He picked up his pace, glancing over his shoulder, ready for any shift of energy announcing Cassian’s presence.
Something crunched under Finnian’s boot.
He stopped and looked down, lifting his leg. Crushed, pale pink petals fell from the bottom of his shoe onto the glossy floor.
A peony.
Finnian snapped his head up and stared deeper into the daunting darkness he was venturing into.Father.
From what he’d learned over the years, the Temple of the Dead was located somewhere outside of Moros, near Cassian’s castle. For those of his realm to praise him. The basement was secluded. Perfect for isolation.
A precaution in case I ever attempted to break him out.
Finnian set off with haste. The itch in his brain throbbed in pulses. He pressed his teeth together with great force while he ran.
It is nothing.
Don’t give it any attention.
Another peony appeared up ahead. Its tip spiraled and birthed a bed of soft, fat petals, striking Finnian’s heart with wild anticipation as he jogged past it.
“Father?” he called out.
He listened closely for a reply against the sound of his own footfalls and thewhooshingof blood in his left ear.
At the far end of the corridor, a glimpse of iron bars caught his eye.
He ran faster. The solid surface of the floor softened, plush-like. He glanced down to see moss, thick and deep-green, overtaking the stone beneath his feet. Along the walls, over the ceiling.
“Finnian.” Father’s voice was sonorous, gentle, like the sweetest whisper. It was a miracle Finnian had heard it. A voice he’d dreamed of for centuries.
Finnian pushed his legs faster. “Father!”
Approaching a single cell, Finnian slowed to a stop. The cage was constructed with the same iron bars as Moros—sleek, black, crystallized bodies of serpents.
Finnian spotted a body within the cell through his bleary night vision. It wasn’t enough. He needed to see himclearly.
Finnian swiped his hand up, igniting his magic. A single flame balanced over his palm, the warm light shining brightly across Father’s face—one painted with the same tan complexion as his own, eyes the color of freshly budded branches during spring.
Father stood in front of the bars, mouth parted, gaping at Finnian as if he were a ghost. “Son?”
Right your wrongs.
“It’s me, Father.” Finnian stepped up to the bars, careful to keep from grasping them. A triumphant smile streaked across his face.
Flame in tow, he lifted his hand to get a better look. Father wore a nude, bare-threaded robe. Dirt stains streaked across the front of it. The torn hem brushed over the tops of his bare feet.
Father regarded him with a gaze pooling of adoration, wonderfully stunned, like he couldn’t quite believe the god who stood before him was his son.
His features suddenly rearranged with unsettling disbelief. “Finnian, how? You are not supposed to be here.” Panic lit in his eyes. “You must leave at once.”
“Father, I have come to take you with me. Naia awaits you. She has a child now. Surely, you’ve seen?—”
