Chapter 22
QUINN
They dragged me through a filthy curtain, stiff with grease. Darkness swallowed the light. I heard Mav before I saw him.
“Quinn!” His panicked voice cut through the melee.
He followed through the curtain, unaware of the danger awaiting him. I twisted in time to see his sword collide with a goblin. Another lunged for him.
He did not see the impending attack.
“Mav!” I screamed, but the warning broke too late.
Clawed hands seized the back of my cloak and yanked. The world tilted. My boots slid over the slick, uneven floor. My last glimpse of Mav was him crawling toward me, blood streaking his temple.
My captors pulled me through a door into a putrid alley.
The air reeked of mold, burnt hair, and the coppery tang of blood.
It climbed down my throat and burned my lungs.
My heart hammered so violently I thought it capable of breaking bone.
I kicked and twisted, trying to free myself from their grip.
“Unhand me!”
A fist drove into my stomach. Breath tore from me in a single strangled sound as I doubled over.
For a moment, I considered summoning my magic, but revealing myself as a Twilight would only increase the danger of my circumstances.
My chances of survival were much higher if the goblins traded me for pleasure or work.
If they turned me in to the Crown for the substantial reward, I would only be kept alive long enough to prove the validity of my gift.
Beneath the terror, another sensation sparked.
The tether.
A searing thread drawn taut. The farther they dragged me, the hotter it burned. The fear spiraling through me was not wholly mine.
Mav.
I could feel him.
His panic. His fury. His pain.
It flooded me, stealing my breath, making my lungs labor for each inhale.
The goblins shoved me through a warped doorway into a chamber of rot. Damp stone wept black streaks down the walls. A single lantern sputtered from a rusted hook. In the corner, bones tangled with discarded, rusty tools.
I stumbled, caught myself on the edge of a splintered chair—only to have a boot sweep the backs of my knees. My body folded. One goblin looped a rope around my arms, torso, and legs. The fibers were coarse, abrading my skin as claws pulled them tight.
The second goblin chewed something that crackled like beetle shells.
He spat a husk, then drew a dull knife from his belt.
The blade was rusted, its handle wrapped in the skin of what I hoped was once an animal.
With a single impatient swipe, he sliced my sleeve open from shoulder to elbow.
Cold air licked over my exposed arm, raising gooseflesh.
“Clean skin,” he rasped, tilting his head in a way that reminded me disturbingly of a carrion bird. “We’ll mark her later.”
Mark me?
Panic surged.
My mind seized around the phrase. A mark could mean anything: a tally carved in flesh, a claiming brand, or a ritualistic sigil. Would my skin become a map of their cruelty? Each possibility spun darker than the last, tangling my thoughts until my breath came too fast and shallow.
Attempting to steady myself, I mentally repeated, “I am not helpless.”
I had not wanted to use my magic, to expose myself, but I feared my circumstances left me with no other option. I would not allow myself to be mutilated by these monsters.
Twilight rose within me. The familiar buzz of silver starlight gathered at my fingertips—then died with a hiss. The ropes flared white-hot, searing my wrists. I bit back a cry as the scent of scorched fiber and skin filled the air.
One of the goblins laughed, a low, wet sound. “A Twilight?” he said, almost gleeful. “Now that will fetch us a fortune.”
“Don’t bother with your tricks, girl,” another added. “Those ropes nullify magic.”
The words hurt more than the burns. My only defense had been stripped from me. A rasping laugh followed, as the pair slouched toward the door, conversing in a guttural language as they exited the chamber. The bolt slid home with a scrape I felt in my teeth.
My throat burned with swallowed sobs. My limbs ached from the pull of the ropes and the burns they had inflicted. And I was, in every way that mattered, alone. The tether throbbed in my chest. Was he hurt? Bleeding? Dying?
“Mav,” I breathed, closing my eyes.
Two voices argued behind the door.
“She’s worth coin,” one rasped.
“She’s worth more to the king,” the other hissed.
The king? My body stilled. Was the king connected to these brutes? To what end?
“He’ll gut us if she’s torn up.”
“Where’s the fun in that?”
The words warped through the wood. I had been reduced to a sack of flesh, a relic for auction, no more than another object to trade in the goblin black market. A desperate sound left me, half-sob, half-laugh. My body trembled; I could not ascertain whether from cold or despair.
The tether pulsed with warmth. I clung to the fragile hope of it.
Mav. Saints, please. If you live, if you are coming—please hurry.
The bolt scraped again. The door swung wide. They poured in like a flood of shadow; dozens of goblins, their shapes jerking and bending at wrong angles. The first ducked beneath the doorframe, its spine unnaturally bowed, long, pointed ears quivering like antennae as it sniffed the damp air.
More followed, pushing and shoving. Their taloned feet scratched and clicked against the stone. One hissed as it passed, the sound a wet rattle that belonged in a grave. Another stretched its mouth into a wide grin, tongue snaking over needle-sharp teeth.
“Right this way!” One of the goblins I recognized from earlier called to the others. “We’re gonna show you the Twilight we captured.”
“How do we know she’s a Twilight and you’re not making it all up?” A squeaky voice challenged.
“Because I says so. Proiwek and I saw her glow.”
Another raised a wart-covered hand. “Rajdr, how we gonna make her do it again?”
The goblin, now identified as Rajdr, slid his dark eyes to me. “People will do anything once they’re in enough pain. I’m sure she’ll glow for me.”
My stomach flipped at the threat and the malicious laughter rippling through the group. They pressed in, shoulder to shoulder, breath steaming in the cold. It did not matter that I was bound—the sheer number of them was paralyzing.
There was no escape here. No space to breathe without inhaling their stench, without feeling those black, unblinking eyes roving over my skin.
A sharp sound split the cacophony, akin to the crack of a whip. The goblins froze. The door behind them exploded inward, its warped wood splintering into shards that rained across the chamber. Dust and moss sifted down in a choking haze.
And there, in the wreckage of the threshold, stood Mav.
He filled the doorway, a storm given shape. Blood streaked his jaw and temple, his tunic torn and clinging to the sharp lines of his frame. His chest heaved as though he had fought the whole of Rouzbeh to reach me. Relief crashed through me so fiercely it hurt.
Then, confusion chased it when my eyes dropped to what he carried.
Not a sword.
Not an axe.
Not even a dagger.
A lute.
The polished wood gleamed despite the decay, worn to satin where countless hands had caressed its neck. His fingers hovered above the strings.
“Mav—” My voice cracked. “What are you—”
A goblin lunged at me. He seized me by the hair and wrenched my head back, baring my throat to the room. I gasped at the bite of cold steel as he pressed a blade against the vulnerable hollow above my collarbone.
I froze.
So did Mav.
His eyes found mine, and what lived in them was not fear. It was the promise of retribution, a violent vow scarcely kept at bay.
“Trust me, princess,” he said, his voice steady.
Without another word, he began to play. The first chord drifted from the lute like candlelight sinking into water. It was soft and strange, warping at the edges.
The goblins faltered, grips loosening on their assortment of weapons.
Another cocked its head, ears twitching toward the sound.
The melody rolled through the chamber, warm and golden.
It coiled between rib and bone, threading through the stale copper-tainted air.
Every harmonious strum shimmered, an invitation rather than a command.
Realization struck sure and true. This was not the skill of a knight. This was magic.
Mav is a Hum.
Mav’s fingers moved with quiet certainty. His voice joined the strings—low, smoke-rough, wound with that impossible charm that had always managed to fluster and steady me in equal measure.
“Now, now, no need for claws or dismay—
For I have something I wish to convey.
No need to fret or panic or pray...
Smile politely while Thistle joins the fray.”
The lyrics were utter nonsense, but the tone was devastating.
The goblins swayed. One with a boil the size of a coin began to clap, offbeat and dazed.
The goblin behind me faltered, the rough edge of its blade easing fractionally from my throat.
He stared at the blade as if puzzled by its very existence.
Then, as if in a trance, it lowered the weapon to its side.
Behind the shifting bodies, a new figure slipped through the shattered doorway—Thistle. While their attention was tangled in the music, she rushed my side and drew a slim blade from her sleeve.
“They won’t stay dazed forever,” she whispered.
Her knife sawed through the ropes. Each cut sent burning pinpricks of blood rushing back into my hands.
I could not answer her. I could only watch him.
Mav played and sang as if he had been born to it.
Despite being battered and bruised, he was radiant.
His eyes were closed, his mouth curved in a half-smile, as if he followed the melody as much as he led it.