Those cerulean eyes glimmer in the torchlight, and brave as ever, she draws her dagger and leads the way forward.
Into the gloom, we creep down more crumbling stairs to the prison. Skulls of those who died here line the stairwell walls, framed behind thick, metal slats and the trapping power of more heavy iron, protections King Gherahn put in place ages ago at Thamaos’s command. Though he was far before my time, I imagine the old king would spin in his grave if he knew what I was doing.
But he’s not here. And like the thief that is time, I’ve come to take what he left behind.
On the last turn into the cells, dank air hits us from the arched tunnel ahead, like a foul wind rolling off a field of rotting corpses. We turn our heads, retching from the smell as water drips and pings against metal somewhere in the darkness.
“It may not even be alive.” Bron forces the words, covering her nose.
“She’s not an it.” My voice is oddly harder than I mean for it to be. “And she is alive. Centuries of starvation and isolation are not enough to kill this god spawn.” Something at the end of the lightless corridor moves. Something that sounds like chains dragging along grit and stone. I glance at Bron, then to Thresh. “Though we may soon wish it were.”
We enter the tunnel. Our torchlights reveal one empty cell after another, the massive iron bars rusted but still intact. Reinforcing iron plates have been forged into the stone walls between each chamber, along with iron piping that leads somewhere above ground for minimal ventilation.
A prison fit for trapping an immortal godling indeed.
Every step we take is met by that same sound—claw, then drag—until I hear the ragged intake of wet breathing as well.
I pause. Ahead, just within the outer rim of the torchlights’ reach, a hand slips through the bars of a cell.
Long-nailed and bony fingers splay across the dirt floor, and a rust-covered iron cuff clangs against the bars. The creature known as Fury pushes her emaciated arm through the gap even further, her skeletal hand so stiff it trembles.
Thresh gags, the sound echoing through the tunnel as I take the final steps between me and the Eastland Territories’ forgotten daughter.
In case the iron somehow fails, I unsheathe the God Knife and loom over her.
My shadows roil across the ground like a blood-drenched fog eddying into her cell. Surrounded, she lifts her head and stares at me with wide, rheumy eyes that dart wild as a lightning strike. She’s confused, taking me in from head to foot. Understandable, given that she hasn’t seen another face in centuries.
Though it turns my stomach, I absorb the sight of her, the body that has withered to nothing more than rotting patches of skin, glistening innards, and brittle bones. Little more than an animated carcass.
I almost feel sorry for her.
Almost.
I remind myself that she has a purpose. A tool of great use.
Crouching, I offer the wasted godling her real name, something no one has ever offered me, along with the warmest smile I possess.
“Well, hello there, Fleurie. Your father sent me to make you a deal.”
6
ALEXUS
“You’re up early.”
From beneath his hooded gray cloak, Rhonin jerks his chin at me and takes a seat on a log near the fire, next to my scabbard and swords. It’s cold, the air still dark and damp, the wood swathed in a fog too thick to ride against.
“Didn’t sleep well?” He scrubs his hands down his dark britches, then reaches his pale hand for an empty mug and the flask of watered-down ale that sits near the heat.
“The opposite, actually. Slept like a rock.”
And I did. When Raina and I slept. At least she didn’t have any nightmares.
Rhonin sets the flask aside and lifts his filled mug to his lips. “Why are you awake, then?”
Visions of Raina lying before me flash across my mind. Her back arching. Her lovely nipples peaked and glistening from my kisses. Her mouth parted in ecstasy.
Her leaving my tent to avoid being seen…
