“Eleanor … he’s a Lord of Torglea, he’s loyal to the king.”
“He’s loyal to me,” she insisted. “I won’t tell him everything, I’ll just ask him to sneak me to you. The soldiers have to listen to him, it’s our best option.”
I stared into her pleading eyes. She was confident he was trustworthy, and she wouldn’t tell him the truth of why we were meeting up. Besides, it was a good idea, the best any of us had. “Okay, but only tell him what is essential, nothing more.”
Almost a week had passed after sending a letter to King Siro requesting asylum, when Terym demanded I attend another dinner with him. I’d hoped after the wedding and the confrontation that followed, he wouldn’t require my attendance, but it seemed he’d licked his wounds enough.
It was Pierce’s turn to be my guard, so it was with him at my back that I entered the banquet hall. As usual, the king sat at the head of the long table, only a place setting to his left prepared. It was just us tonight.
Captain Gensen’s eyes tracked me to the table, but Terym didn’t so much as glance in my direction when I sat beside him, too engrossed in the missives strewn before him.
I placed Shade’s lamp beside my plate, I always kept it in hand when I walked the halls now, and being in the presence ofthe king again, I needed him close. At its appearance, Gensen rushed forward, ready to draw his sword if Shade were to emerge, and I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. The king finally acknowledged my presence with narrowed eyes, and my expression sobered.
“Here.” He thrust a stack of blank parchment and a quill toward me. “You are to write …” The king continued with detailed instructions on what to command the sentient army to do, each letter worse than the last as he prepared for several outcomes dependent on Mortremon’s movements at the border.
When I was done, it was with an aching hand that I forced down the three-course meal prepared for the king and his consort. After the final dishes had been taken away, Terym didn’t dismiss me as he usually did, instead leaning back in his chair to study me over the rim of his wineglass.
“I have something to show you tonight, my dear.”
The term of endearment was like a snake slithering in my gut, a reminder of all the times he had manipulated and used me. I didn’t have much of a choice but to follow when he rose from his chair. He led me through winding halls to a section of the castle I had never been to before, Pierce and Gensen flanking us.
We entered a long corridor, its walls lined with guards, the bright eagle of their pommels reflecting in the lantern’s light. Each man inclined their head when the king passed, the creaking of their armor interrupting a distant thudding that grew louder with each step forward. At the end of the hall loomed a solid iron door, and it creaked ominously when a guard opened it for us.
The choking scent hit me like a punch in the gut. It was like nothing I had ever experienced before—unmistakable filth with a metallic edge and the bitterness of fear. The sounds from within the room echoed—wails and soft groans and a rhythmic thwack that had to be the unmuffled sound I’d heard from the hall.
All of it froze me in place, and it wasn’t until Gensen gripped my arm that I was able to force my feet to follow the king down the dark stone steps.
The door closed behind us, a final thud taking most of the light with it, and sweat broke out along my skin, causing my shirt to stick to my back. The few flickering candles were down to their last wick, but it was still enough to determine exactly where the king had brought me.
The castle dungeons.
My chest tightened with the beginning of an attack. I had to banish it, the danger unmistakable.
One. Two. Three.
I refused to look into the barred rooms lining the walls, unable to face the truth of what was inside lest it threw me spiraling into panic.
Four. Five. Six.
The stench grew stronger the farther we moved into the room, the thickness of it filling my lungs and doing nothing to alleviate my panicked breathing. The consistent thwack did little to distract me despite growing louder.
Seven. Eight. Nine.
The hall opened into a large room. It was crowded with brutal and barbaric devices decorated with sharp edges and too many buckles.
Ten.
Torture. They were used for torture.
That thwack sounded again, and the whimper that followed caught my attention.
Hanging by hands bound above his head was a young man I was shocked to recognize. The porter who had often aided the king when we were camped at Ferveem Forest had to be no more than twenty years old. His torso was bare, the skin pulled tight to expose several ribs. Blood, old and fresh, dotted hisskin. The state of his pants indicated he’d long ago lost control of his bodily functions. I cupped a hand over my mouth to stop my dinner from resurfacing. I barely knew him, but no human should be treated as he had been.
Another man stepped around the young porter, a whip held loosely at his side, and blood dripped from the multiple corded ends. He was covered head to toe in black, face hidden by a dark hood, with only black eyes visible underneath.
“My king,” he said, not an ounce of exertion in his voice, like he hadn’t just been flogging a man within an inch of his life. It was clear by his head rolling on his shoulders the young porter couldn’t take much more before Mobitus would claim him.
“Have you learned anything more, Inquisitor?” the king asked, stepping up to the young man and inspecting his face closely.
