He withdraws a small dagger from his belt, and I know why: a small, silent, fatal blow.
Kael pads to the landing, and the lock yields under his boot as the heavy oak swings inward with a groan. We step through, knives ready, and the world beyond the dungeon’s throat holds its breath.
He doesn’t shout. He doesn’t give them the mercy of an argument. One step, one breath—his dagger is a whisper, a paper-thin flash that finds the hollow at the jaw. The first man’s laugh chokes into a ragged sound and dies. Teddy’s hand clamps over the second guard’s mouth, crushing the air out of him until his eyes roll white and the body goes limp. There’s a bitter, clinical economy to it: no theatrics, only purpose.
My stomach drops and rises with each small, sharp motion. Not because it scares me, but because it jolts me out of my past in this place. The tether tightens, thrumming against my ribs like an anxious butterfly. I taste copper at the back of my throat—not the blood yet, but the memory of it, the echo of every time Kryntar thought it could make me fear the dark.
The halls fall silent save for our breaths.
We fracture like the light does through glass—splitting into the paths we’re all made for.
Kael’s hand tugs on mine, and I follow, the vengeance in my bones rising like a sleeping god.
“The Arcanist,” he growls, like the violence that betrayal made finds its way into his throat.
Kael moves low and I mirror him, our steps a careful rhythm of leather and breath.
The corridors of Kryntar stretch ahead—narrow, glistening, half-lit by guttering sconces that spit smoke instead of flame.
Our shadows crawl along the walls like ghosts too tired to haunt.
Every stone remembers me. I can feel it: the weight of eyes in the cracks, the way the cold presses against my scars like it knows where to find them.
Kael’s hand hovers near mine, not a touch, just presence—enough to anchor me in this world instead of the one that still bleeds inside my skull.
We move past doorways where whispers hiss and chains sigh.
Somewhere above, the castle groans under siege, the sound of war muffled by layers of stone.
He glances back once, and the blue of his eyes catches the torchlight like a promise of safety.
“No magic. We need them alive,” he breathes.
And we keep crawling through the belly of the monster that once devoured me, two blades of the same intent—one forged in shadow, one in light.
We round corners of obsidian, boots pressing into gleaming marble floors—the opulence a lie.
Every guard we come across meets a swift end—a knife to the throat and a blunt thud to the marble floors.
He culls the guards without thought, without effort. Just necessity.
“One more turn,” he murmurs.
And I ready myself for the unknown.
The ostentatious doors ahead are Maldrak’s. I know it. Maldrak doesn’t just want authority, he wants power, obsession,adoration. The kind that announces a man before he enters the room.
The heavy, thick doors are framed in ornate gold filigree, and robust handles that require two men to pull them open. Not just a door, but a symbol of adulation.
“This could be a set up,” Kael breathes. “Be ready.”
And then?—
He kicks the door open.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
KAEL
