With a final shove, the statue screeches across the stone and exposes the gap beneath. In the center lies a bronze chest. Dried blood crusts the lock. And something inside—beats.
We all stare down at it for a single, aching second.
“The heart,” Zephyra whispers.
And just like that, the adrenaline coursing through my system—the hunger, the anticipation—overpowers any sickness. My magic catches like wildfire, and the entire world narrows to that bronze chest. To what lies inside it.It’s here.
We found it.
Despite all odds, I am going to live. Zephyra and I—we are going tosurvive.
I kneel, my own heart thundering, my breath shallow. My wings twitch, jerking me forward as if they can’t remain still another second, while the thick scent of copper breezes out from the hidden passage.
I’m inches away from everything.Everything.
But a rasping hiss echoes through the room behind me—behind us all—as frost ices over the floor and the Death Lord says, “Not so fast, littlest warlock. I believe that belongs to us.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
ARION
There are hooded figures. Dark robes drip inky silk over skeletal frames.
Cultus Mortis surrounds the entryway of the temple while the bodies of Amaya’s crew decorate the floor. Every single one of them. Dead. Blood spills beneath their withered bodies in a river that flows straight to the bottom of the temple’s steps.
Amaya shrieks and stumbles backward, knocking into Vila’s statue as her lightning crackles, wild and uncontrolled, above her—but it doesn’t land, as if she still can’t focus her power. “No,” she breathes, tears instantly dripping down her cheeks as her knees buckle. “No, what have youdone?”
The entire crew is dead, and we have no time to think. To react. Because the cult is here.
Mustering what little strength I have left, I step between the bronze chest andthem.
The Death Lord pushes its hood back, its white mask too close in shade to the pristine granite of the walls. It shouldn’t be here. It lookswronghere. Frozen air blows in jagged, fogged rings from its porcelain lips. “You smell so tempting now. Already decaying for us, littlest warlock?” It brandishes a sickle dripping with blood. Ifit could smile, it would. “Do not worry. It won’t be long before you join the others. We will feast upon you. Uponallof you.”
“Is that so?” Zephyra stalks to my side. She lifts a dagger with a shrug, as if she doesn’t have a care in the world, though I notice her gaze dart to the corpses. “Well, fuck you too.”
With a low whistle, the sharp rattling of a funeral knell, the Death Lord turns on her, the other cultists whispering obscenities behind it. I move to slide in front of her next, to block their path, but she stops me with a hand on my arm. Her expression hardens. Resolute andpissed. “Why don’t you take your precious sickle and choke on it?”
“Littlest mermaid,” the Death Lord says, “today is the day you are devoured whole.” Its magic catches her around the ankle, nearly yanking her to the floor with an icy, phantom grasp. She knocks into me, and I rope an arm beneath her. As before, I don’t feel cold pressure around my own ankle—not as I should through the bond—so I do my best to keep her standing, to ignore a sickening sense of dread at the bond’s absence. It doesn’t make sense. It should stillbehere, tethering us. The Death Lord’s head tilts in response, and intrigue freezes sharp icicles in its hollow gaze. “Poetic justice. You may die together. The mermaid in your arms, and her blood on your tongue. You will taste true pain this night, Arion Stone. You will scream your final scream.” A pause. A breath. “When it is done, you will finally see your father again.”
My hands curl into fists. Magic roils under my skin, a wicked heat sliding over my bones. I’m going to hurt them. Each member of the cult. I only need to retrieve the heart first, and then I can kill them. Dismantle them, limb by limb, until they’re fuckingbeggingfor me to stop.
“No magic,” Zephyra murmurs, so low I almost can’t hear her. “You’re too weak.”
My muscles tense, and rage burns holes through my nerves, but she’s right. I am too weak. For now. I nod once, and she passes me her dagger. Doesn’t bother to lower her voice as she looks up at me with those beautiful turquoise eyes. “Make them hurt, Arion.”
I turn to the cult, to the Death Lord who has haunted me for years and years. “I will.”
The cult sneers. They glide forward, over corpses and blood, while Zephyra spins around with Vesper to dive toward the chestand seize the heart. “Grab a dagger,” I tell Gavriall, gesturing to Amaya’s belt. She’s frozen. Staring at the bodies of her closest crew, her knees trembling. “We need to keep them busy.”
Gavriall follows my gaze to the merrow as they kneel before the chest. “Seems a good time to remind you I am not the most commendable fighter.”
I laugh at that, albeit shortly. “Gavriall, do you really think I’ve forgotten?”
“No. I guess not.” Gavriall moves to snatch a blade, but—
Amaya is gone.
I blink. Gavriall blinks. The cultists continue their slow ascent up the steps. And Amaya—
