Chapter 25
M y foot taps against the floor while I hum soft and slow, “Ballad of the Fallen Moon” whipping through the otherwise eerily silent cells—most of the other prisoners fast asleep, hidden in some pocket of nonreality where I hope they’re happier. More comfortable.
Healthy and free.
Given the fact that the Incognito King watched from the shadow of his hood as I sang the same song in the Hungry Hollow, seeing him stride down the prison tunnel in a flutter of Runi white is …
Fitting.
He stops before my cell, arms folded over his barrel chest.
“Go away,” I rasp, letting my eyes sweep shut.
“You don’t even know why I’m here.”
“Don’t want to.”
Zero.
Percent.
Interested.
My lock jiggles, and I open my eyes to see him delving a key into it, clonking it open.
I sigh.
“Wonder how your brother feels about you thieving his keys and breaking his prisoners free?”
“I’m not breaking you out, so don’t get your hopes up.”
I snort-laugh. “Charming.”
He kicks the door open, stepping into my foul-smelling chamber. “And my brother has eyes in only one direction,” he mumbles, crouching before me, encasing me in the robust medley of his warm scent. A lush comfort in this harsh place, which I ignore the pleasure of, choosing to breathe through my mouth.
“Well, feel free to tell him I’m sorry I didn’t get a chance to kill him before I died. I was really looking forward to it.”
“I have no doubt,” he says, producing another key from his pocket that he uses to unbolt the bar connecting my two chains, placing it on the ground beside me. He fails to unshackle my wrists or ankles, meaning he’s got … plans for me.
Plans I want nothing to do with.
He stands, towering above me, blocking the light spilling from my lantern. “Up.”
“Die in a ditch. Or better yet, a coliseum— getting feasted on by a flock of Moltenmaws. I’ll meet you there.”
Asshole .
I sponge a little satisfaction from his rumbling sigh.
Even if I wanted to stand, I’m not sure I could. I may have put on a show at the trial, but my entire body feels like a frayed seam.
It hurts to breathe. To blink. It hurts to tap my tapping foot. There’s something surging through my veins that’s making me nauseous and cold.
I usually like the cold, but this is different. This cold feels wrong— wedging into my marrow like it’s masticating me from the inside out to make space for itself.
“Now is not the time to be stubborn, Moonbeam.”
“Wrong. There’s only one thing males see in a shackled female,” I seethe, my words laced with enough venom to stop a heart. “If you want that, you can take it right here so my cellmates can see what a monster you are.”
A low rumble boils in his chest, making my skin pebble. “I’m not that sort of monster, Prisoner Seventy-Three. I would not take pleasure from you were it not given freely. Now, stand on your own or suffer the embarrassment of being picked up and carried.”
His words wedge between my ribs and stab me where it hurts: my withering pride, the remnants of which I’m determined to take to my impending grave, tied to the stake he sentenced me to die upon.
“Your choice,” he growls. “Make it.”
“I did make a choice. You took it from me.”
“Because it was the wrong one.” He reaches out as if to grip me around the shoulders—
A snarl rips up my throat, and I snap my teeth at his fingers. “I’m doing it.”
“Then do it.”
“Not until you turn around.”
Another rumbling sigh before he spins, giving me the privacy I need to suffer through what’s going to be a monumental task I’m not sure I have the capabilities to achieve. Right now, the ground is my friend. Unless I’m standing—then it’s my enemy.
At least with his back turned, he won’t see me crumble.
“Any progress?”
“Mentally strangling you as we speak,” I mutter, setting my hands on the ground to my left. I pinch my trembling lips together and shove all my weight into my palms, rolling into a wobbly crouch.
The pin in my shoulder grinds against bone, bolts of pain shooting through my arm …
Shit.
I squeeze my eyes shut, snap them open, and shove up, rocking to my feet. Warmth dribbles down my back as I sway. As my surroundings split, converge … split, converge …
“You’re not going to fall, are you?”
I lift my chin, steady my spine. Stare at the back of his head while lit with a blaze of retribution. “Course not. I’ve never been more sturdy in my life.”
“Good,” he says, then stalks from the cell with a dash of his white robe, condemning me to follow with a curt “This way.”
I ’m led through a tangle of corridors to a quiet tunnel with a single door at the end, nerves popping beneath my skin as the Incognito King pulls the door open and gestures for me to pass.
To enter ahead of him.
“You first,” I rasp with a steadying hand against the wall, not believing a word he said about not being that sort of monste r.
He’s a Vaegor. A tyrant. Tyrants lie to themselves as much as they lie to others.
I know what happens in this prison. I’ve heard enough stories to wither my guts for eternity. If he’s going to have his way with me, I refuse to walk into that room blind. I’d rather force him to look me in the eye as he ruins another part of me. Make him feel every fracture.
Every bruise.
He stands still for a long, hard moment, then flops back his hood and moves into the room, not stopping until he reaches the other side. He turns and leans against the wall, crosses his arms, and waits like a stone statue carved by the Creators themselves. Strong jaw, chiseled cheekbones, muscular neck. Every angle hacked with such precision he’s almost painful to look at.
Frowning, I shuffle forward, easing into the room lit by a jar of captured moonlight set on one of the many shelves lining all four walls.
Impressive. Those are pretty hard to come by.
I note the tall mender’s pallet and padded chair beside it, my gaze whipping to the female standing in the corner, her hair a crop of brown curls that match her eyes and skin but contrast with the floor-length Runi robe she’s garbed in.
She gives me a soft smile that does nothing to stop my heart from plummeting.
I don’t bother taking in the buttons pinning together the front seam of her robe—the ones that symbolize her strengths. I already know what I’ll see.
She can fleshthread .
“This better be a threesome,” I grind out.
“I’m not one to share,” the King says, his voice low and steady. “But if that’s what you really want, it can be arranged once your back is healed.”
He obviously thinks he’s hilarious, but I’m not laughing, my pulse a violent churn I can’t seem to slow.
The Runi takes a step toward me, her face still warmed by a comforting smile. “Greetings, Prisoner Seventy-Three. I’m Bhea. Why don’t you let me help you remove your tunic so I can take a look at your ba—”
“There’s no point healing me,” I growl, cutting a glare at the King. “It would be a wasteful misuse of this female’s skill and energy.”
“Bhea has been well compensated for her service and is more than happy to help.”
“Does she know I’m destined for the coliseum ?” His lips tug into a tight line, so I stab my stare at Bhea instead. “Do you?”
“I do,” she whispers.
“Then why bother?”
“Because you’re in pain,” the King announces, like that’s an answer at all.
“Pain that’ll stop once I’m fed to the dragons!”
“Please.” Bhea steals another step forward. “We don’t have much time if I’m to do my best work.”
My foot slides back.
She stills, and though the King doesn’t shift from his spot against the wall, something locks into place in the void between us. As though physical strings knot around my ribs, stretch across the room, and tether to his, making it impossible for me to draw a single breath without him noticing.
My skin nettles, and I become primitively aware that he’s waiting for me to run.
That he will chase .
He tips his head, as if in silent appraisal of my tumultuous inner monologue, which just pisses me off. I’m bluntly aware that in my current state I’d make it two steps before he’d be upon me, dragging me back to this very position, waiting for me to concede.
Dammit.
“You will leave your weald at the door.”
“I have three, Moonbeam.”
“The one with the dragonflame, Sire .”
A line forms between his brows, gone the next moment as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out his weald, tossing it through the air—a perfect throw that plummets into my outstretched hand.
I lob it down the hall, hearing it clatter across the stone.
This is such bullshit.
I move farther into the room, scanning the worktable that’s littered with jars of tinctures, vials, bowls, etching sticks, and containers packed full of medicinal tools. Too many things that remind me of Essi.
The sooner this is done, the sooner I can leave.
With my heart lodged in the back of my throat, I move toward the chair, unpicking the buttons of my loose tunic. “I was kidding about the threesome,” I snip, releasing the final two while murdering the King with a glare. “There is no reality where I’d willingly fuck you.”
He doesn’t break my stare as he says, almost too soft for me to hear, “Turn around, Moonbeam. Take a seat in the chair so Bhea can get started.”
I grind my teeth so hard I’m surprised they don’t crumble, fingers clenched around the seams of my shirt. There is no point in either of them seeing my shredded skin.
None.
I’m so much stronger than these slashes on my back, the story they tell a rippling echo I don’t want to be heard by anyone. An echo I’d rather take to my grave than sit here all slumber while they digest it—keeping it alive in some form or another.
Behind me, I sense Bhea stepping into my atmosphere, her hands coming up to help me ease the tunic partway down, exposing my shoulders.
She gasps, pausing.
Moving around the side of me, her glossy-eyed gaze trails across the bared window of flesh from my neck to navel, tears puddling her lower lids.
Confused, I look at her robe, pinched in place by more gold or diamond buttons than I’ve ever seen on a single seam, my blood chilling at the sight of the one closest to her nape. A tiny dragon blowing a mushroom of flames.
This Runi doesn’t need dragonfire to ignite the trail of past runes, because she’s blessed with Dragonsight. She can see them with her own eyes.
Meaning she’s seeing …
Everything .
“What is it?” The King’s voice hacks through the room like the swing of a sword, and my heart skips a beat.
Another.
Bhea meets my stare, and I shake my head the slightest amount.
Please don’t.
Please don’t make me go back to that place—
“Nothing, Sire,” she whispers, blinking, dashing a tear from her cheek.
Relief floods through me like a gulp of icy water.
“The damage is more extensive than I was expecting. I will need to retrieve more supplies from the storage closet down the hall.”
With the King’s nod, Bhea eases from the room, closing the door behind herself—leaving the space less full, yet somehow brimming .
I clear my throat, fingers fisting my tunic, the silence between us tangible. A clay-like substance that could be molded into one of two things: a war horn or a waving white flag.
“This,” I rasp, jerking my chin at the table of tinctures, “you bringing a Runi in to help me, it changes nothing .”
“I’d be surprised if it did.” He pushes off the wall, moving toward me. “But for now, spend this time sharpening your blades. At least until Bhea has completed her task.”
“That’s a big ask.”
He reaches me, warm, calloused fingertips skimming across my knuckles, his gaze a quiet request.
Sighing, I loosen my grip, allowing that white flag to rise between us. A fragile, fluttering thing I intend to shred the moment I leave this room.
“Would you like me to cover you with a cloth before I take this off?”
My breath hitches.
All three Vaegor brothers originated from The Burn, where nudity is considered a comfort for some—far less sexualized than it is this far south—so I’m not too proud to appreciate his consideration of my culture.
For asking.
I open my mouth, close it. Finally, I shake my head.
“Tell me if you change your mind.”
With my nod, and not once breaking eye contact, he eases my tunic down my shoulders until it’s bunched around my wrists, the chill air nipping at my bareness while I study his lashes—so long and thick.
A pretty distraction.
He reaches around to gently tuck the drape of material around my hips so it’s not agitating my ragged flesh.
“You know this is pointless, right?”
“Not to me,” he rumbles, then takes my hands in his big, sturdy ones—his a tan complexion like the stone walls, mine the color of snow.
He leads me toward the chair, steadying me so I can lift my leg over it and settle on it backward before he lowers with me, giving me the dignity of not looking upon my damage. A mercy I appreciate in this small window of ceasefire.
I rest my chest against the heavily cushioned backrest, hands in my lap as he folds into a kneel.
A soft knock sounds on the door.
“Enter,” he murmurs while I hold his severe stare, like looking into the crumbled remnants of a fire that’s lost its flame.
The door swings open. Closes. I hear Bhea’s soft, shuffling steps, then sounds of her readying for the procedure.
The King barely blinks as she cleans some of the blood from my back with damp sweeps of a cloth, squeezing the ruddy excess into a bucket on the ground. He barely blinks as she paints my back in a bonding agent—the familiar sting sinking through layers of filleted flesh before she sketches out her paths with the flick of a delicate paintbrush.
“I’m still intent on killing you, if given the chance,” I warn past clenched teeth.
“Don’t forget to cut off my head,” he murmurs. “Or I’ll haunt you for eternity.”
“I don’t believe in that.”
Not one bit. I’ve cut off very few heads in comparison to my rather large body count, and I’m yet to see a single spirit claw at me from the shadows.
He lifts a brow. “Then what do you believe in?” he asks, his voice guttural.
“Revenge.”
All the warmth sputters from his eyes, like part of him just slipped away. “Revenge is the loneliest deity of them all, Moonbeam. Take it from someone who knows.”
I open my mouth to speak again, but Bhea cuts in. “If I’m to do this properly, it will take a while. And it will hurt. The cuts are deep. She will have to relive the pain while I mend the damage.”
I realize she’s not warning me, her eyes able to see what most others cannot.
She’s warning him .
“She can do it,” he rumbles, gaze challenging me to do just that.
With my nod, Bhea begins etching her runes, reversing the lifespan of my wounds one vile slash at a time. The King holds my stare as I’m stitched shut in over a hundred ways, though it doesn’t feel like that. It feels like I’m being ripped wider— my insides bared.
Examined.
Perhaps because I’m used to doing this without an audience besides the Runi fixing me new. Without somebody else timing their breaths to my own, as though reminding me to breathe.
Without somebody else tightening their grip on my hands every time I flinch, wiping the sweat from my brow, rubbing tracks across my blanched knuckles as if to calm my rioting heart.
It’s a humble moment of peace despite the pain lancing through me. A quiet moment destined to scream .
It doesn’t matter how much of my skin is smoothed or how deep he kneels at my feet. I’m still an assassin marked for execution come aurora rise, and he’s still a tyrant king.