The room inhales sharply; a dozen hands find hilts, a dozen eyes narrow, recognizing the unflinching command of a king who does not fear standing face to face with the God of Death.
No—I don’t fear Death.
I intend to cut a deal with him.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
ELYSSARA
Vessira’s bladelightly presses into the sensitive skin of my underarm—my arms chained above my head as I dangle from the dungeon’s ceiling, feet grazing the floor.
My nose fills with the stench of iron.
The dungeon is silent, save for the drip, drip, drip of old wounds ripped open and bleeding on the damp stone.
She skims the tip across my flesh. Not cutting—teasing.Taunting. But that doesn’t stop the visions.
Whatever alchemy Vessira has infused into the blade—it works.
I hear boots descending the stairs, light and nimble, the clink of steel. A figure rounds the corner, fitted in heavy black armor, and hooded in a fine cloak. The wide-set frame of the figure’s shoulders tells me he’s a warrior, and the weapons hidden and cloaked from head to toe confirm as much.
He turns to me, and the lantern’s flicker illuminates half his face.
His mouth kicks up into that smirk that turns me molten, as he pushes the hood back, revealing his chiselled jaw, and those godsdamned ocean eyes.
He’s ruin wrapped in beauty.
And my desperate need for him scrapes and claws like a captive animal against the cage in my chest.
I lean towards him, hungry for his touch.
Reaching for him.
“Kael,” I whisper, desperate for him. He is a balm to my wounds. Nourishment to my hunger. He is wholeness to my void.
“I told you I’d come for you, Duskae,” he promises in a low rumble, and I break at the sound of his words.
I let out a whimper unbidden.
His hand stretches out, reaching to cup my face?—
“How pathetic,” Vessira mocks. “The Prince of Nothing is what you most wish for?”
I startle, Kael vanishing before my eyes—a trick of the mind. An apparition by a fucking Venomshade.
“You fucking bitch,” I spit at Vessira, teeth bared, struggling against my chains.
She holds up the blade as if marveling at it. “This is infused with alchemy that conjures dreams, Gutter Rat. An altruistic work of art,I’dsay.” She’s doing exactly as she said she would; distorting my reality like a blindfold on the truth.
“You created that image—you can hardly blame me for conjuring your dreams. It was a gift to you. Amercy,” she convinces and mocks all at once.
I fucking hate it, but my desperation forms a lump in my throat. I push it down, trying to quell the emotion and panic threatening to unfurl. But I can’t—a single tear tracks down my cheek, and a ragged, broken breath wracks my body.
I hate that I’m breaking.
I hate that she can see it.
Nothing undermines resolve more than unexpected hope, and that’s what the vision of Kael was.
