My chest tightens around the warm glow—the soul magic the Anemoi gifted each tycheroi to carvegoiteía.
The magic my mother gave me.
With my mind’s eye, I reach inside with spectral fingers and grab the end of the thread. The connection comes easily, though it’s been years since I dared to use it. The warmth flares to life, pooling in my fingertips as I direct the magic through the graver, carving into the cuff with deliberate focus. The glowing marks trail behind the tool like flickering sparks, each stroke precise and unshaken. The act feels like a claim, a quiet defiance against the version of myself that refused to fight for so long.
And, for the first time in years, I carve a mark.
Despite the concealing charm hangingfrom my neck, I hover in the dungeon stairwell, clinging to the shadows where the light from the antechamber doesn’t quite reach.
In all my years with the order, this is my first time down here. The cells are off-limits to Fledglings, and I was sent off to Eretria as soon as I was Named. Even if that weren’t the case, I know I would have avoided coming here for as long as possible.
The dungeons are well below the Aviary, the entrance located just down the hall from the kitchens. It’s always bothered me. The idea that someone thought it made sense to build such a desolate place so close to the most heartwarming one.
The atmosphere down here is cold and damp and heavy. Salt from the ocean has seeped into the walls over the years, and I can see some places that have started to crumble and been patched up.
Misery and despair taint the air, and—despite the chatter among the Nightwings in the guardroom—an eerie silence presses into my mind.
I take a step down into the room, freezing when the grit on the floor crunches beneath my foot. My eyes drift over the four guards seated at a rickety table and joking among themselves as though they have no cares in the realm.
As though they aren’t here guarding a man who is about to lose his life.
Disgust curls my lips, and I look past them, my gaze landing on theone stoic Nightwing stationed by the heavy wooden door that must lead to the cells.
Myna.
I hold in the sigh of relief that wants to break free when she doesn’t look my way. Instead, she huffs and shakes her head at the others before pulling a ring of keys from her pocket and slipping one into the door behind her.
Myna mumbles under her breath as she walks through, and a whisper-thin sigh escapes me when she leaves the door ajar.
Fighting to keep my body relaxed and placing my feet as carefully as I can manage, I follow her, watching the other guards as I slip through the crack.
My eyes narrow as I take in the gloomy corridor. Empty cells line the walls, their doors hanging wide like the gaping maws of beasts waiting to lure victims in.
The faint snick of the door closing sounds behind me, and I whirl, watching Myna as her dark eyes scan the surrounding space. Even though I know she can’tseeme, I remain motionless, as if my very being is sculpted from marble. The only movement is the frantic pounding of my heart, a trapped bird trying to break free from the cage of my chest.
“You have five seconds to show yourself, Starling,” Myna says, her words shattering any lingering hope I had. “One…”
My eyes narrow on her, taking in the dark cloud of curls, the familiar scar that always pales whenever her lips pull into a smile.
“Two…”
Do I…have to kill her?
I cringe away from the thought, shoving it aside as violently as it pushed into my mind.
“Three…”
Perhaps I could think more clearly if she would allow me a mo—
“Four…”
“Oh, stop with the fucking counting,” I hiss, reaching up and pulling the necklace over my head. The telltale sensation of cobwebs sliding off my skin confirms I’m visible once more, so I send her a glare she can see this time. “How did you know?”
Myna crosses her arms and cocks a brow at me, entirely unfazed. “On the road to Port Belana, you didn’t truly believe it would take me that long to scout the area and return to camp, did you?”
“You saw?”
“Yes.”
