But, bafflingly, her head remained clear.
She attempted a new breath; a choking gasp was all she managed. “What—”
“You wear my creations well,” murmured Kent. “I really am sorry to use it against you, but this is far too important.”
Lux’s attempts to rip at her tightening bodice were thwarted by Kent’s changing grip. Her vision was greying. She focused on Shaw. On his unmoving form, his head pressed against the step’s edge.
I have to help him. That has to hurt.
But she—could—not—breathe. Her vision darkened, and Kent swept her up, when she, too, would have hit the floor.
Death stole across her skin, pulsed in her chest. Then, she felt nothing at all.
Luxwokeuponathrone.
She hardly managed to open her eyes at first. From beyond, she could sense torchlight flickering. A room once large, nowfeeling very small. Cold air. Goosebumps littered her skin where it touched the unforgiving stone beneath her, and she shivered. She could not focus; her eyes fell shut.
Ahead, voices chanted with a deep and droning cadence. She tried to make out the words but could not; they all streamed together, a seamless link.
It seemed an age before she returned to her body. To acknowledge that though her head felt hollow, her body seemed weighed down like she’d been filled again with enchanted stones. She twitched in sudden fear. But her limbs moved as they should, after all.
It was only the result of whatever they’d done to get her here.
A voice rose, loud and forceful above the chant. It was a familiar voice—a grating, rasping voice—and it said, “On the one hundred and eighty-fifth anniversary this Hallowed Day, we honor the sacrifices made by the Grimrook family. Through their generosity, Mothlock was founded. By blood, it has flourished. May their presence continue to bless our mission and our Harvest.”
The chant ended with his words, and at the rasping voice’s final uttering, a chorus of assent followed.
“But this night…” A bated quiet descended. “This night, my lords, our society has been granted mercy. Long have we labored. Long have wesuffered. Our pious road littered with deceit, disloyalty, and even death.Weare the chosen minds. We are the blessed people. And we will be granted a reward tonight.”
Murmurings of affirmations and hiccups of exalted cries had Lux sickened to her core.
The decrepit voice droned on. “Mothlock has long possessed an overlord. And long has it been unbalanced. We feel it every day beneath our feet. The Saints understand our trials. They understand our hearts. And they have sent us a reprieve. Amistress to balance the fates. A Grimrook with the power to harness Death. To reverse the curse upon us all.”
Lux grew rigid where she lay, draped over the throne’s seat. She opened her eyes again by the barest measure.
The room was a sea of men swathed in black. Black robes. Black hoods. The Collectors of Mothlock formed a wide circle around the ice grave. Standing atop it was a man with arms widespread, his head thrown back and uncovered.
Lux hardly breathed as she beheld the greying skin, the sloughing texture, the pale hair clinging as best it could. It was the voice she’d overheard from the cart that day, but as for the monster it came from, she couldn’t identify.
Her heart called for her to look down. Down at the feet of the throne. To a crown of honey-gold hair she would recognize for all her life—and her chest stilled.
Shaw’s chin had fallen forward, his head bowed and body slumped, and she waited—painfully long—for any part of him to move. His hand twitched.
Thank fate.He was alive yet.
And she would soon make them regret she was too.
“Our holy quest to Sainthood will no longer rely on glamours and hoods, beholden to weekly doses of lifeblood to render us palatable. Upon this revival, our rest shall be restored. Our health permanently returned. Our final obstacle in grasping perfection will be no more. Rouse our necromancer.”
A hooded figure broke from the circle. Lux couldn’t be sure, but she guessed it to be the wretched healer. She closed her eyes fully when he neared, stepping around Shaw as though he was nothing more than a rogue bit of furniture. When she breathed next, her nose burned with a horrid scent.
Lux jolted upright. The figure moved back to his place. And while sitting fully upon a cultist’s cold throne, holding tight to the carved arms on either side, she stared into a monster’s eyes.
A nightmare.
With irises of lifeblood-silver.
The decaying creature held a narrow pitcher in its hand. And when it smiled, Lux found it to be the same one Corvin had worn every time he’d found her amusing. A tongue, black and bloated, ran over a row of rotting teeth.
