Page 2 of On Brutal Thrones

My skin prickles.

“Did anyone else hear that?”

Talon stops pacing.

For one terrible second, all four of us are silent.

Grrrrrrind. The sound comes again, so low I feel it through the soles of my boots more than hear it.

“Well,” Talon says, “that's unpleasant.”

Fenric looks toward the wall. “It's still moving.”

“I gathered that,” Thorian mutters.

“How much?” I ask.

Talon glances at the narrow strip of ground he's been pacing, then looks back at me. “Do you really want me to measure our coffin?”

“Yes.”

Talon stares at me.

“Actually,” Fenric adds, “I’d love that.”

Talon exhales through his nose, ignores us, and resumes pacing instead.

Ten steps. Turn. Ten steps. Turn.

It reminds me of the bridge. The lightning. Fenric trapped on the other side while our opponents attacked him. Talon had been frantic then too, desperate to do something, even if that something was running straight into danger.

Except there's nowhere to run now.

Ten steps. Turn. Nine steps…

I swallow.

The air tastes wrong. It’s dusty and stale, with the faint metallic bite of the crystals coating the back of my tongue. Every breath feels warmer than the last. I know it's probably in my head. We've only been trapped for hours.

Probably.

I draw another breath anyway, deeper this time, testing it. There’s not enough. My lungs immediately demand more.

I force myself not to take it. Panic will use the air faster. I don't know if that's actually true, but it feels true, and right now that's enough.

“Nyx.”

I look at Talon.

He's staring at the torch. The flame gutters as if on cue. All four of us watch it shrink. Then it rises again.

“How light does that feel?” he asks.

I tighten my grip around the wood. “The torch?”

“No, Nyx. Your overwhelming optimism. Yes, the torch.”

Despite everything, a laugh almost escapes me. Almost.