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I could not kill him, yet. Causing him pain was enticing, but the truth was, I needed answers.

“Tell me everything about your priest.”

He tried to meet my gaze—but courage abandoned him and his glassy eyes slid away. I followed the movement of his throat as it worked around his fear, each swallow a quiet confession. Still, he offered me nothing.

I did enjoy the hard way.

“Lyra has the most beautiful singing voice,” I murmured, shadows sliding around his wrists like living chains. His eyes widened when their cold, vicious sting pierced him.

“But she is gone,” I added softly. “Until I get her back, your screams will fill the silence.”

A single tear escaped from the tiny king’s eye and trailed down his ruddy cheek, betraying the illusion of strength he tried so hard to uphold. But in the face of a true predator, his façade shattered as easily as bone being crushed beneath my boot.

My shadows hoisted his limp body, suspending him in midair as I walked out of the cell. I did not bother closing it behind me; I wanted freedom to torment him while I rolled out a leather pouch filled with knives.

I did not make a habit of torturing people. No, I tended to lose control too quickly and kill before I acquired answers.

The previous Lord of Obsidian court, however, clearly enjoyed torture. His dungeons were elaborate and filled with imaginative tools.

I took my time examining the sharp objects in front of me, the king’s heart rate thrumming like the wings of a bird.

I picked up a dagger, not my usual choice of weapon, but it seemed fitting. I would cut him the way he allowed Lyra to be cut.

The sound of my boots echoed against the stone walls as I stalked into the cell, the dagger gleaming against the dim torchlight.

Without hesitation, I tore the shirt from his body. The sound of material ripping almost masked the small whimper that slipped from him.

“Did you know your priest was working for Helion?”

I rested the dagger against his upper back, letting the cold kiss of steel linger before I pressed in. The skin dimpled beneath the blade, resisting for a heartbeat before surrendering. A lone drop of blood slipped free and crept down his rigid muscles.

“Speak,” I demanded as I slid the knife through his skin in a slow arch.

Pain ripped a scream from the useless king, his body bowing uselessly against my shadows.

I chuckled under my breath.

At least this was a good distraction from the emotions lying in wait to devour me.

“The priest,” he spluttered, “was helping her.”

“He hurt her,” I snarled and drove the blade deeper.

“Lyra was ill,” he gasped. “Cursed. She touched the Dead Sea and lived. I was protecting her⁠—”

The king’s words cut off in a scream as I twisted the knife in his skin.

I cut him. Again. And again. Until crimson pooled at my feet and his skin faded to ash.

Hours passed. Hours spent carving screams from the man who had oppressed my vicious Drownling.

As it turned out, the only sound sweeter than her moans was the screams of the men who hurt her.

Blood sprayed in a wide arc as I slashed the blade across his skin, coating me in warmth.

Shadows slithered up my arms, crawling beneath my skin, stretching toward my ears. Whispers flooded my mind all at once.

Watched.