Because she’s a dead woman.
25Astrid
Astrid is questioning every life choice she’s ever made that has led her to the predicament she is now in. The predicament being that she’s currently trapped in the cells of The Rok.
She’s plastered against the cool stone wall, a buttress hiding her from the two Dreki guarding the entrance to the dungeons, her Masking Mist and sheer dumb luck concealing her from the king and the prince, currently inside the cell opposite.
How she could have been so impossibly stupid as to follow them down here, she doesn’t know. After she’d snuck into Skylar’s room and found the register, she’d gone to the king’s office to return it—she’d told Jessa she was in bed with period pain to get out of training—but when she’d arrived, she’d found the prince and his father leaving, overheard their hushed conversation about some “prize” they’d caught, and with the king deeming the prisoner important enough to involve himself, well—Astrid’s curiosity had gotten the better of her. No matter Bastet’s warning that CURIOSITY KILLED THE CAT OR, IN THIS CASE, A WOODEN-HEADED WITCH.
She stashed the register behind a statue—if she was caught with it on her, she’d face some very awkward questions—then ordered Bastet back to their room before following the king and the prince to the cells. She’s been here barely five minutes and she’s already desperate to be saved. There was a particularly terrifying moment as she first arrived when she went temporarily blind, experiencing whatever Skylar was experiencing on that island. It hadn’t lasted long, thank the Goddess.
In the cell, a man is slumped on a chair, his torso bound to it. Evenhunched over like he is, she can tell he’s tall and well-muscled. His full head of blond-streaked hair falls over his bloodied face, and his clothes are well-tailored, pristine except where the blood has splattered on them. The cell itself is surprisingly civilized; she’d expect instruments of torture, chains on the walls, filthy hay the only soft furnishings—but there’s a cot with a blanket, a latrine and washbasin, and even a rug laid across the slate floor.
“Wake him,” the king orders. Zryan stalks toward the unconscious man and slaps him around the face. Astrid winces. He begins to stir, then sits up, shaking. His breathing stutters as he catches sight of the king, but when he sees Zryan, his breath stops entirely, his eyes bulging from his skull. He’s wary of the king but he’s petrified of Zryan, like the prince is the apex predator in the room. And, she supposes, he is. She bets the king hates that.
“Look at me,” demands the king, confirming her suspicions. The man does as he’s told, but he can’t help his gaze flitting back to Zryan. A grim smile forms on Zryan’s lips, and Astrid’s stomach turns at the lack of compassion on his face. The malice.
“Your name,” the king says.
“Mikhael,” he rasps.
“Full name.”
“Mikhael Strand.”
The king approaches Mikhael. “And your Blooded order?”
He looks between the king and the prince. “Shifter.”
“Grade?”
The man sniffs, refusing to answer. The king smacks him, not very hard, just enough to shock.
“One,” the man bites out.
The king rests a hand on the pommel of his dagger, assessing his captive. “So you are weak.” Astrid’s disgust for the king grows with this comment. “What is it, exactly, you can do?”
Mikhael says nothing; instead Zryan speaks for him. “He can change his appearance. Only subtly, but enough that he probably doesn’t even know what he truly looks like now. So Axel told me.”
Mikhael glowers at the prince, bravado finally breaking through his fear. Is he an assassin? Is that why the king is personally involved? Hewas trying to get to Skylar, or her? If so, she doesn’t have it in her to feel sorry for him.
“That’s how you’ve evaded capture for so long. Despite being weak, it’s a useful power you have, especially for a traitor,” the king drawls.
“You’re the fucking traitor here,” the man spits. “You betrayed us, shipping us off, using us like cattle.”
The king backhands him, and the man’s head whips to the side. “You rebel scum are so pathetically naive. All ignorant of what I do—what Isacrifice—for Vatra.” The king’s chest heaves, his fury barely contained. He leans closer to his captive and grinds out, “Where are they?”
Mikhael doesn’t bite this time, just stares the king down. The king smirks savagely at the man, as if this was the reaction he wanted.
“Zryan,” he says softly.
Before Astrid can even contemplate what’s happening, the prince has Teleported and the man yowls, clutching a hand to his chest as blood spurts where two of his fingers used to be. The two fingers Zryan now holds. The prince Teleports again, to the cell door, placing the digits on the bars, arranging them neatly upright next to each other like a pair of soldiers in formation. He leans against the wall and crosses his ankles, regarding the man with an insouciance that’s frankly alarming. Tears stream down Mikhael’s cheeks as he tries to rise, but the ropes tying him to the chair hold firm. Astrid wants to be sick.
“You will answer your king when he addresses you, or next time, I’ll take the whole hand.” Zryan pulls a handkerchief from his pocket and tosses it at the man. “And stop bleeding on the rug. Unless you want me to bury you in it.”
The man is taking short, sharp breaths, trying to master the pain, as he stems the bleeding from his pulsing wounds. Astrid’s nervous system is in overdrive, her brain trying and failing to understand this version of Zryan.
“Let’s try that again, shall we,” the king says, smiling at the man like some benevolent uncle. “If my son has it his way, you won’t have an appendage left by the time we finish this meeting, so I suggest you cooperate.” The king nods to the two severed fingers. “The convoy ofcarriages you and your friends hijacked a few nights ago—where are the Blooded who were inside them?”
