I don’t know what I’m looking for, and the Infusion of the Cat has me wanting to investigate every little thing. It’s hard to ignore the thin stream of blood running from my fingertips to the floor, barely visible against the crimson obsidian that makes up the entire building. This isn’t my first hunt for god-touched objects, though, and I’ve learned to focus regardless of what I’m feeling. The luxury of time is rarely found when you’re stealing from the Godforged.
I close my eyes and try to differentiate the sounds. It’s like trying to separate musical instruments at a concert. It’s hearing only the rhythm of the lute and ignoring the drum or the low rumble of the crowd. It’s ignoring the singing of the minstrels. The particular sound I’m most drawn to is shining, like a bell being rung. A gentle twinkling.
I move toward the sound, but as I do, I look around at the room I’m in. It’s a glimpse into the Prince of Bones’s world. His furniture isn’t made of the bones of his enemies, as the rumors tell, nor is it made of crimson obsidian like I’d also considered. It’s simplistic furniture with very little in the way of decoration. Made of black wood from the duskthorn trees that only grow along the shore of Dunloch’s Great Lake, it’d be incredibly expensive since travel between the kingdoms is so limited. A black and red duvet along with thick pillows cover the expansive four-posterbed. It’s surprising after living as the adopted daughter of the most powerful human in Nyth. There’s no gold or silver. It feels more like a wealthy carpenter’s bedroom than a goddess’s champion, her representative on Nyth.
Instead of ornate paintings and sculptures, a dozen framed sketches hang from the crimson walls. They’re all of a single subject. A dragon. Nothing else. Not people or places. Not Mournfang, the sword he’s so well known for.
I stop for a moment to take a closer look at one of the sketches. It looks like a child drew it. I glance at the others and notice that they’re all from similar perspectives, from atop the dragon, each made with varying degrees of skill. Understanding dawns on me. They’rehissketches.
I shake my head.Stop it. Don’t let the Infusion control you.The Cat’s desire to find distraction has always been one of the most difficult side-effects for me. I turn back to the soft twinkling hum. I close my eyes and follow it, just like Rhaskar taught me to do. The sound is coming from across the room, near a floor-to-ceiling bookshelf covered in leather-bound titles.
My eyes scan the books, but in all my time hunting for god-touched items, I’ve never found abookto be one. Instead, I focus on the other objects on the shelves. Every shelf has different trinkets: a conch shell from the Western Sea, a rune covered stone presumably from one of the ancient ruins near Carradan, and a bracelet covered in gemstones that emanates magic, probably from the Fae city of Myrrhaen. I move my hand near each of them,trying to sense if they’re the god-touched item I’m looking for, since I don’t know exactly what it will be.
Then I feel it as my hand brushes against a soft pouch made of ermine fur. That twinkling hum is overwhelming. I pull the pouch off the shelf and open it. There are three glass beads inside, and the magic is so strong I can see it rippling off like heat waves. Caeldra’s power. The Goddess of Silences and Shatterings. She’s one of the few gods who rarely leave their touch anywhere.
But what are these beads for? Yes, they’re infused with her power, but who knows what they can do? Why glass beads? If there’s one thing I know, it’s that gods don’t infuse their power into ordinary baubles. I slip the pouch into one of the hidden pockets in my cloak to figure out later.
I close my eyes again and try to distinguish another singular sound, looking to repeat the process to find the next god-touched item.
That’s when I hear the terrifying sound of boots on hard stone. I glance around the room, trying to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to escape to. There’s a single door, and those footsteps are moving towards it.
Silently, I curse. There’s nowhere to hide. There’s nowhere to shadow walk to since I’m at the top of a tower. Azric is supposed to be fighting in some battle hundreds of miles from here, though. It’s probably just a servant, and if that’s the case, then the best option I have is to surprise whoever it is, kill them, and continue my search.
I move toward the door with the silence of a professional thief, and I stand where the door will cover me when it’s opened. Iuncork another bottle, the Infusion of the Falcon, and down the silvery liquid in a single swallow. Where the Cat gave me uncanny balance and senses, the Falcon gives my body superhuman speed. The urge to move washes over me. My body seems to vibrate like a string pulled taut as I wait. Seconds pass with agonizing slowness, but those footfalls come ever closer.
The door swings open slowly, and a tall, muscular male figure with short black hair walks into the room wearing a fitted black riding coat with red embroidery over the sleeves.Good. A servant, just like I’d hoped.
The Falcon dulls the effects of the Cat some, and I don’t notice how shadows seem to swirl around the man. I don’t notice the faint disturbances along his back. I certainly don’t notice the red scabbard on his belt.
Without a second’s hesitance, I push past the door, my daggers in hand, and the man lifts his head as if he’s sniffing the air. I have trained my entire life to win one-on-one fights like this. Against men twice my size. Against people with fifty years of experience. Against all manner of weapons. Against magic. I’ve trained for this, and there isn’t an ounce of fear in me as I drive my dagger toward the man with an Infusion-powered strike. Straight between the ribs to pierce the heart and kill anything on Nyth. Even a Godforged creature will die from this kind of strike.
And yet, my blade doesn’t find flesh. Instead, it freezes in place. I’d been sure of myself a moment ago. No, that’s not the right way to describe it. I’mstillsure of that strike, and yet it didn’t work. The man isn’t dead. Blood doesn’t coat my hands.
Instead, my hand lingers a hair’s breadth away from that black riding coat, frozen in place with dark tendrils of shadow wrapping around it. My hesitancy only lasts for half a breath before I strike out with the dagger in my left hand. The man never moves. The room is as silent as before he opened the door.
Another shadow wraps around my left wrist and stops my attack. I try to rip my arms free, but it’s as though they’re bound in stone more than in shadow. Panic fills me, and for that brief moment, all my training fails me. Nothing I’ve experienced prepared me for this.
We hang in that eerie silence as I try to wrench myself free for another second or two. There are a thousand things I should do rather than continue to fight against the impossible vises my wrists are bound in, but the shock of missing both of my strikes has driven any logic or instinct from my mind.
“What do we have here?” the man says in a refined voice. “An assassin? Ahumanassassin? It seems Brandor has become desperate.”
He turns, and I stare into orange eyes which seem to glow even in the darkness of the room. Short black hair that looks like it’s never been anything but perfect frames a sharp face that’s too beautiful for a man. He’s not smiling, nor is there a shred of anger on his face. Only boredom and the slightest hint of annoyance.
He sniffs again and frowns. “What is that scent on you, human? Why do you smell of Darkness? Why do you…”
He moves toward me, and I try to move away. Immediately, black shadows curl around me, holding my body as tightly as mywrists. He cranes his neck until his lips are an inch away from my neck. I can feel his breath against the red hair that barely covers my ears, and I rack my mind for what to do. This is Azric Cyrus, the Prince of Bones, the most dangerous man in the world. Even the gods give him respect when he speaks.
The one man I never wanted to see.
He pulls back and the corner of his lip curls up into the faintest smile. “Oh, you are interesting. Not Nyxthos’s. Not anyone’s. You’re not an assassin; you’re a thief, aren’t you, little human?”
I stare into those orange eyes, and my body begins to relax. A heat born deep inside me grows. The shadows that had felt like vises wrapping around my body a moment ago are sensuous caresses now. Feather-light touches tease every inch of exposed skin and hint of what they’d do if I removed those layers.
He moves toward me, his body so close I can feel the heat radiating from him, and he leans down to whisper in my ear. “Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll show you a whole new world. Have you ever felt a god’s touch? Have you ever wondered what it was like to let this world and its worries fade? You could be free of every fear, every ounce of pain and suffering. I’ll give you that sweet release, little human. Tell me why you’re here, and I’ll free you from all the misery of this world.”
He runs his hand along my cheek, his long, crimson thumbnail grazing my skin with the touch of a lover. I sink into that impossibly soft touch, giving into the heat that’s throbbing inside me. His hand dips lower, toward my collar, toward the secret Marks hidden all over my body.
It’s like someone’s thrown ice-water in my face, and I remember he’s not only the Goddess of Death’s champion. Lysara is the Goddess of Beauty as well. He’s using her powers of seduction on me, trying to use my body against my mind.
