Chapter 43
Between the bars of my room, I could just make out the pale glow of the sinking sun.
Five hours, give or take, since my last glimpse of Durlain’s face.
Five hours since Lesceron’s men had locked my wrists around a bar of steel; five hours since they’d taken my knives and shoved me into this place, a sitting room rather than a cell if not for the heavy steel bolts on the door and windows.
Nothing sharp to be found, nothing with which I could scratch even the measliest rune into the walls or the elegant wood-and-velvet furniture.
As if the king of Garnot had prepared to house a runewitch, and in all likelihood, that was exactly the case.
Because Durlain had promised him one.
My gut churned like the seething fog outside. My legs wouldn’t stop pacing, twelve long steps from wall to wall to wall – because if I stopped and sat down, if I allowed the fire beneath my skin to peter out for even the blink of an eye, I didn’t think I’d ever rise again.
How very easy that would be.
How utterly impossible, too.
I'd smelled freedom, and even the pungent air of Mount Garnot could not blot out that memory. The very essence of movement seemed to have settled in my blood, a restless fever flaring every time my eyes slid past the thick steel lock; a cage could feel like home, Durlain had said, and only now did I truly understand the difference, in this court of snakes and sharks that could never, never be a home to me. So I was going to get out. I was going to get out or die trying, and I was going to be so fucking free of them, all the liars who’d ever tried to wield me as weapons of their own …
Footsteps marched closer.
I whirled around, instinctively backing away to put a very throwable tea table between me and the entrance.
Just in time. Voices barked orders outside; a key scratched against iron.
The door moved, two inches at first, swinging open only when nothing happened – revealing the skeletal appearance of Lesceron Garnot himself on the threshold, flanked by half a dozen fireborn guards.
Looking cautious.
Cautious.
A month ago I wouldn’t have noticed … and now rage burned almost like thirst in my throat.
I drank it in like sweet honey mead, the look in those pale purple eyes, the staggered movement of the door, the number of steel-plated men crowding the hallway beyond – gulped it all down like some starving creature, and had to fight so very hard not to grin at the king of Garnot himself like a feral fucking wolf.
Only after a wary moment did Lesceron limp forward. His guards followed him into the room like gleaming shadows, a threat of sparks already dancing on their fingers.
None of them told me to kneel, so I didn’t.
The king, oddly, didn’t seem to mind, peering at me with those unnervingly light eyes. ‘There you are, then – Durlain’s precious runewitch.’
My perfect, precious thorn.
I ground my teeth against that his voice in my mind, the searing heartache that accompanied the memory. Raised my chin and managed a strangled, ‘Your Majesty.’
‘Don’t bother with courtesies, girl.’ A bony hand swept the title aside.
‘Your very existence is an insult to my house and bloodline; let us not pretend otherwise. I will make this short. I have need of your unholy magic, and so you will live. If you value your wellbeing, you will do well to remain of use to me and not cause me any trouble, or I will see to it you end up where your kind belongs. Do you understand those terms?’
I did.
Oh, I understood so very well.
If you fight, they’ll hurt you worse. I’d heard that message every single day for years, yet this time, it refused to land. This time, Durlain’s voice whispered in the back of my head, drowning out the over-familiar threat – if you fight back, they’re dead.
Something in my chest clenched so hard it hurt.
But he’d betrayed me, and damn it all to hell, I no longer had a use for tender feelings – for that pretty, pretty dream of leaving my old life behind and becoming a better woman.
I’d tried to run from myself for long enough.
Had tried so very hard to stay away from the fear and the pain and the blood on my hands, only for yet another man’s lies to land me in yet another king’s cage …
so fuck them all, I was done trying. I was done caring.
If the world had to be terrible, I could be so, so much worse.
Numbness was rising in me, and I welcomed it eagerly – that familiar, merciful detachment of a job to be done.
Shutting out the rage and the heartbreak.
Disconnecting mind and feeling, carving away all the softest parts of me until nothing remained but the monster Mount Estien had made of me – a creature sharper and crueller than the bloodiest blade.
Before me, Lesceron smiled at my silence.
‘No protest, I see?’ His voice was a purr, the caution dissolving. ‘Very well. We will get started at once. What is your name?’
I was Kjell’s little princess.
I was Aranc’s witchling bird.
But most of all, I was my very own weapon to wield … and King Lesceron Garnot had not the faintest fucking clue of what was coming for him.
I said, ‘Kestrel.’
Thank you so much for reading The Death-Made Prince! I hope you enjoyed the ride – and that you're as excited as I am to continue Thraga and Durlain's story.