“I need someone to get these witchlocks off of me, Owen. Without them, I have no means to protect myself. I have strength, but without my Grace, Everand couldkillme.”
“Who do I need to get?”He was at full height now, his misty form slowly solidifying, and then winking back to near-translucence.“Hurry—I don’t have much time.”
Nymiria stared at him, tears finally falling down her cheeks. She gave him a sad smile, knowing that this risk was a large one to take. No matter how desperate she felt, she wouldn’t put Owen in that sort of position. Even when they were together, Owen kept Nymiria away from Phyona. Back then, she’d always wondered why, but now Nymiria knew it was because Phyona didn’t know much about Mystics and her brother didn’t want her involved with them—putting a target on such a young child’s back if she were to be found mingling with them. For all intents and purposes, Owen made it abundantly clear that he wanted Phyona to benormal.
It would break his heart if anything happened to her. Phyona was the last living relative he had.
“I can’t ask it of you.” Nymiria said, finally.
Owen’s ghost-like figure winked in and out of view, his face growing doleful.“Nym. You have to fight back. They couldhurtyou.”
“Owen, I can’t.”
“You can!”
The desperation in his voice shook her, fingers curling around the fabric of her dress. It was so similar to what she’d been wearing the day they met. She believed him to be a dream, having fallen for him at first glance. She remembered it so distinctly—how she’d been running from those evil roosters that always nipped at her legs when she tried to feed them. She’d run straight into the stables and crashed into a boy on the verge ofmanhood. His tan skin and green eyes reminded her of autumn.Cozy. Safe.
At the time, it was all any girl her age could dream of. And Nymiria had many, many dreams. None of them came true. Because ofher.
“It’s Phyona, Owen. She’s the Rune Witch.”
It was on those parting words that Owen’s form finally flickered away, entirely. It happened quickly, but Nymiria could still make out a brief warring expression, a look of fear in his eyes that was unmistakable.
Phyona was nearing sixteen, if she hadn’t already reached it. Well-trained, but far too young to risk her life getting into this palace and helping her. She didn’t expect for Owen to relay any sort of message.
She turned her focus to the other cells, peering through the rows of bars that separated her and Desi from the other prisoners. Every cell had a small rectangular slat at the top of the back wall, allowing for sunlight or moonlight to spill through and give just enough illumination and air to make it slightly more livable. If it hadn’t been for those small windows, the smell would have been so much worse.
Prisoners here were supposed to be bathed twice a week. That was what Dorid had told her many years ago—whatAzielhad ensured when she was held here as a girl. By the looks of the faces and bodies Nymiria could see, it seemed as though these prisoners had not been bathed in months.
“Please,” a small, quivering voice said from a few cells over. Nymiria focused in on the darkness, able to make out the form of a feeble old man with a bruised face. His eyes were so swollen that they were fused shut, his lips thin and stretching over teeth that seemed far too large. “Please, Mortem, just take me.Take me. Put an end to this suffering.”
Her heart ached. For the man in the cell and for the god he prayed to. Aziel once told her that prayers made in his name were generally made out of desperation or anger. She knew that well, as she had made her own desperate pleas to death many a time. But to see it firsthand, to see such a weak and feeble soul using their strength to call upon one of the most fatal gods in existence, it just made her hurt.
No hope.
There was no hope in a place like this.
If she’d been capable, she would have given him something. Even with all of those runes seared into her flesh, the godhood called to her—wanting to extend her hands and breathe life into his withering body. To bring forth hope. To givecomfort.
Still, as desperate as the old man was, death did not come.
In a place like this, the only gods that could be reached were ones that were just as selfish as the people who prayed to them.
Chapter 32
The heavy wind and the waves rocked the dock. Water splashed up through the slats in between rotting wood that Oran was almost certain would break and wash away at any given moment.
Fiernan and her crew were hurrying down the gangplank as quickly as possible, carrying trunks and boxes. Oran rushed to her cloaked form, wrapping her in an embrace that stole the air from her lungs. Seeing that the dock was starting to tip, he pulled away from her, leading her down the rocking path and back to dry land.
She navigated the slippery rocks better than himself, her bare feet and lithe limbs defying the elements. Oran slipped a few times, stumbling to his feet above the shoreline. Her crew began passing their items off to him before they, themselves, took to scaling the natural wall above the sand. Once every soul was accounted for and the ship Fiernan arrived on sank below thesurface of the thrashing waves, Oran pressed his hand to his betrothed’s back and urged her on.
“We will find lodging in Fairnam and Newhaim. They are closest to Yaar, but far enough away that we won’t cross paths with my father.” Oran explained to her. Fiernan arched her brow, but said nothing. She’d put a lot of faith in him by coming here, but she was hopeful.
A gust of wind caught the underside of her hood, nearly sweeping it off her head entirely. She caught it, securing the dark cloth back over her curls. Her eyes swept over the horizon, noting that they were as far away from any place she was remotely familiar with. When she’d come to Gaellagh, all those months ago, she’d been welcomed at port by a lively crew of guards. There was fanfare and celebration, flag bearers standing on either side of the dock.
All she could see now were rolling hills that gave way to a rugged mountainside that was shrouded in white mist. An impending storm was rolling in, bringing more than just the rain that they were experiencing now.
“Where will we meet your brother?” She asked, her voice barely audible over the harsh wind.
