But a sense of calm floods my veins. A darkness that descends upon me at the promise of blood and violence. I catch her gaze—the feral gleam in Elyssara’s eyes is a reflection of my own hunger, her lips curved in something sharp, something deadly. She’s no meek queen. She’s a predator.
“Time to paint The Underbelly with Blackfang blood,” I declare, my voice a cruel promise, and she’s already palmed her blade.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
KAEL
The tunnel narrowsthe farther we climb from The Bowels, walls slick with water and rot. Every footstep echoes like a drumbeat announcing our arrival, and there’s no way to mask it. One way in, one way out.A grave by design.
The others shift behind me—Seren’s breath sharp, Ronyn too loud, Rubi on edge for a change, Therion steady but taut as a bowstring. Elyssara’s silent at my side, though I can feel the tether hum with her contained violence. Correk didn’t come—he should get reacquainted with his brother. And we need Mavyrn safe and waiting in the tunnels for a Gateway to Nymeris. Without her, we’re fucked.
I don’t bother hiding my calm. This will end in blood. It always does.
The stink of beasts reaches us before the guards do—wet fur, shit, iron. A warning. A promise. And when the torchlight finally catches on the jagged tattoos carved into the men’s faces, I know we’ve found the Blackfangs.
And the Codex waiting in the den behind them.
“Gentlemen,” I say in greeting, lethal calm lacing my tone.
The Blackfangs stalk forward—missing teeth, carved scars—the look of men used to violence. Six of them form a wall, bodies braced to block the tunnel.
But the Codex will be ours one way or another.
The beasts beyond snap their snarling jaws, and the clatter of chains pulling taut echoes through the tunnels.
The Blackfangs eye us intently, analyzing. “Three men and a few bitches in skirts? You’re either stupid, ignorant, or desperate. So, which one is it?” one of the men snarls, and the tunnel fills with gravelly laughter and sarcastic scoffs.
But I don’t bother responding. I’ve seen men lean on reputation for fear before. But these men? They’re nothing more than grunts with bloated egos.
“We’re here for the Codex. Give it to us,” I demand without breaking eye contact. I’m not here for negotiation. I’m here to take.
A sick smile twists the mouthy guard’s lips.He’ll regret it.
“How about this…” he starts, and I ready myself for blood, “you give me the redhead for an hour, and in exchange, I’ll let you take the first swing?” His lackeys laugh at his taunt, nodding in agreement.
His foul, rotted teeth break through his smile, and it sickens me, but this time, I bare my own. Because insinuations like that earn men a fast trip to the Final Gate.
“You wouldn’t survive an hour with me, honey,” Elyssara taunts, her face feral with a lethal grin.
I bet she’d take the hour and her pleasure by blade.
She’s ready to fight, and who am I to keep her waiting?
“If you had an hour with her, you’d beg for the Stars, the gods and your mother to save you,” I reply, palming a short blade that will perform better in the narrow tunnels.
The man’s posture doesn’t change, his face twisting into a snarl. But I notice the way his eyes yawn open a little wider.
“Release the hounds!” he bellows as he drops into a fighting stance, but we’re already moving.
Elyssara’s blade arcs through the dark tunnels, splitting the flesh under the mouthy guard’s chin, and I see the tip of her Starforged Blade spike through the man’s mouth as he chokes on her steel.
Good girl. I encourage through the tether, and pride surges back at me.
The tunnel explodes. The shadowhound beasts bellow, chains drop to the stone floor, and they surge forward in a frenzy of slavering jaws.
Therion barrels into the fray, his axe cleaving a man from shoulder to ribs, blood slicking the stones. The space he opens is instantly filled by another Blackfang—until Ronyn’s arrow whistles past my ear and buries itself through the man’s eye, dropping him like meat on a hook.
Seren darts beneath the falling body, quicker than thought, yanking the loose chain from its slack grip and looping it around the throat of another. He thrashes, snarling for help—only to collapse screaming when Rubi’s sickle hooks his hamstring and drags him down. She doesn’t kill him quickly. She likes to make them bleed first.
