“Doesn’t matter,” Dornar replied confidently. “The Nephilim aren’t here, they’re staying safely in their temples like they always do. And even if they did decide to break with years of tradition and ride on Kaerlud, all they’ll find is the queen they have chosen to support already on the throne.”
Gods.
“And Lucilla? What does she believe?” Mathos couldn’t help asking.
“She believes what I tell her.”
Mathos almost rolled his eyes, but it hurt too much. “Which is?”
“That Alanna was planning to use her as a puppet, a nice easy means of taking control of the throne.”
Bollocks. Dornar had played directly on Lucilla’s worst fear.
Dornar pulled a wicked-looking dagger from its scabbard. It curved upward with a vicious serrated edge, the spines catching the light as Dornar spun it slowly in his hand.
Mathos kept quiet and tried not to watch the gleaming blade while his scales rippled in waves up his arms and neck.
“You’re going to confess to Lucilla that Alanna is planning to consolidate the two kingdoms, taking the power and wealth for herself, and that she plans to make Lucilla her pawn, holding the throne in name only as she serves Verturia’s bidding. She’s almost convinced; she just needs a tiny nudge in the right direction.”
Mathos snorted. “Let me guess: if I tell Lucilla what you want, you’ll give me a nice clean death in exchange.”
Dornar chuckled. “Certainly not. There’s no way I’m letting you speak to the queen. You’re going to die a bloody and painful death, and several witnesses are going to tell her all about your earlier, heartfelt confession.”
Mathos could feel the deep rumbling of his beast thrumming through his veins. “What in the kingdom for?”
Dornar gave a mocking shrug, an exact copy of the movement Mathos himself had used. But he didn’t bother to reply.
Mathos had to give him some grudging respect for that. Ballanor would have shared his entire plan by now, and Grendel would have grown bored and gone back to the luxury of Kaerlud.
And honestly, Dornar didn’t need to tell him. Mathos could imagine his plan without any help. It made perfect sense to keep him away from Lucilla. Alone, she was far more vulnerable, and if she believed that Mathos and Tor had lied about everything, she would be unsettled, unsure of herself. A corroborated confession would do just the trick. She would be very likely to turn to the closest protector. She would endorse Dornar. And let him guide her. Or at least, that was almost certainly what Dornar expected.
Thankfully, Lucilla was unlikely to follow along meekly however sweetly she smiled and nodded. But Dornar didn’t know that about her.
Dornar flicked the dagger into a smooth rolling spin, until it blurred in the lamplight.
“What are you telling me this for?” Mathos asked in a rough voice. “I can’t bargain for anything or change anything, so why tell me how badly I’m going to die?”
“Because,” Dornar replied slowly, “I knew you’d be sitting here alone in the dark.” He smiled. “And I thought you’d like to know.”
“Really?” Mathos asked, surprised as much as disgusted. Dornar was many things, but he hadn’t seen him as an outright sadist, not like Ballanor.
“It’s a hobby of mine… taking things apart to see how they work.” Dornar tapped his temple. “The mind is like a machine. Change one small connection, undo one vital link, and everything around it starts to fail. The interesting part is determining which piece to loosen.”
I told you he was broken.
Mathos’s beast thrashed in his belly, his scales spreading to fully battle-ready, as Dornar continued. “Let’s see which of your components is the most responsive, shall we?”
The blade left Dornar’s hand so fast that Mathos might not have escaped it even if he hadn’t been chained to a hook. As it was, it pierced through his scales all the way into the heavy muscle along his left shoulder. Two inches to the side, and it would have hit his jugular.
He grunted at the agony of severed sinew and gored flesh, his beast frothing inside him in a frenzy of impotent rage and pain.
Dornar stepped forward, his face blank, and pulled out the blade.
Hot blood rushed down Mathos’s arm, and he leaned back heavily against the wall, desperately trying to use his bound hands to staunch the flow.
Dornar took a step back and then another. “Don’t worry, the artery is intact. You’ll still be alive tomorrow… more or less.”
“What’s happening tomorrow?” Mathos ground out through his clenched teeth.
