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The card in the first Acolyte’s hand wavers. “King Xerxes,” a masculine voice repeats. “Did he provide the wine?”

“No, Brother. I brought it directly from the kitchens myself.”

“All right.” He stands, then gestures with his chin at the door to the quarters beyond. “I’ll take you through. The rest of you—try not to cheat while I’m gone.”

Groans and a thrown walnut shell follow us. He opens the door and steps aside to let me pass, then closes it behind us with a soft thud that dulls the room to a buzz.

The corridor smells of dust and soap and the faint coppery tang of old blood. Doors march down one side, each marked with painted numbers. The guard tips his head toward the first two. “The Northerners are down at this end. Don’t give them seconds, they need their wits sharp for tomorrow.”

“Thank you,” I say, which is true in more ways than he needs to know.

He waits as I pour and hand off two cups—one to a broad-shouldered man with a face like it’s been carved to bear weather, the other to a woman with shorn hair, both with the intent focus of people storing their nerves for later. I offer the same made-up blessing to each: “May the winds guide you to victory.” It earns me a nod, a wry half smile. The Acolyte seems satisfied with my purpose and steps back toward the antechamber door.

“Leave the rest?” he asks, gesturing to the cups.

“If there is any,” I say smoothly.

He grunts, indifferent, and slips back through the door. I wait, a held breath burning in my lungs, until his footsteps fade into the scrape and shuffle of men settling back into their game.

I continue down the corridor.

Door three, a scarred man with a missing ear. Not Nyssa. I offer the cup and he takes it without a word. Door four, an auburn-haired woman whose smile doesn’t reach her eyes. Not Nyssa. Five, six, seven. Each face is a fresh spike of disappointment, a twist in the knot forming in my gut.

Finally, I stand before the last door, and the vessel trembles in my grasp.

She has to be here. I need her to be here.

Door eight: no answer.

I knock again, a soft, desperate tap against the wood.

Silence.

I set the vessel and the last cup on the stone floor, being careful not to make a sound that might draw attention. My fingers move to the slit I’d cut into the robe for access to my thigh holster. I choose two picks and pause, forcing my breath into a slow, steady rhythm, straining to hear past the rushing in my ears.

The muffled laughter and conversation of the Acolytes continue from the antechamber. Nothing is out of place. No one is coming. The ease of it all feels like a threat.

I set my picks into the lock, wincing when it surrenders with an unnervingly loud click. Straightening, I push the door wide.

It’s hard to say what strikes me first—the oppressive silence and the fine layer of dust that hangs in the air, coating everything in a muted reminder of neglect. Or the deep, unshakable despair.

Either way, one thing is painfully clear.

Nyssa is not here.

Chapter 48

Nyssa

The weak torchlight outside the iron bars flickers, casting restless shadows that dance along the damp, uneven walls. I sit curled against the cold stone, knees pulled tight to my chest, trying to make myself smaller, as if I could somehow disappear, slip free from this grim reality. The silence is maddening, broken only by the slow, mocking drip of water somewhere out of sight. Each droplet feels like an eternity.

My mind keeps circling back to Thena. How I was blind to her manipulation. No, worse than blind. Naive. I walked right into their trap, handing the Eagle exactly what he wanted.

And then there’s Aella. I’ve prayed—desperately—that she’s far away from this nightmare, hidden and safe. She can’t know I’m here. She can’t—

Footsteps echo down the corridor, snapping my thoughts into stillness.

The shadows arrive before the figure does, flickering and stretching with the torchlight.