Chapter 18
Daed
Before her. Zema’s island looms larger as I approach, its silhouette dark against the storm-lit sky.
The wind is vicious tonight, howling like a beast, driving the rain in stinging needles against my skin.
Thunder cracks, rolling with the fury of a wrathful god, and a sense of unease rises in my gut, tightening with each beat of my wings.
I push forward, muscles straining against the storm’s weight, and feel relief when my feet finally touch solid ground.
The island itself is eerily silent, untouched by the tempest raging around it.
I adjust the satchel at my side, fingers brushing against the apples I brought, redder, juicier than the last, a small offering to bring Zema a glimmer of joy.
But something about the quiet tonight prickles at the back of my neck.
I step forward, the cave just ahead, barely visible through the sheets of rain. I narrow my eyes, scanning for movement, the familiar flicker of firelight. But there is nothing. Only stillness. Only dark.
“Zema?” I call.
Silence.
I move closer, arriving at the mouth of the cave and ducking my head inside. My gaze sweeps over the empty bed, the abandoned plate, the firepit long gone cold. The embers are stone-hard, scattered ash curling in the draft. There has always been fire here. Even on the worst nights.
I straighten, pulse quickening. “Zema!”
No answer.
The storm rages on, the thunder a constant growl in the sky, but I do not know how many times I call her name. Each time, my hope both swells and withers. Then, somehow, even through the fury of the storm, I hear something softer. A slap. Low, dull. Wet.
I follow the sound to the island’s edge, where the wind howls louder. There, snagged on the jagged lip of a rock, a strip of fabric thrashes like a shredded flag.
My stomach knots.
I step closer, heart thundering, and reach for it. The wind fights me, pulling it back like it wants to keep the truth hidden. But I seize it anyway, fingers closing tight around the tattered cloth.
The moment I touch it, I know.
Zema’s cloak.
It is soaked through, but not only with rain.
Blood.
I lift my gaze to the ocean, to the waves that crash and churn.
“Looking for someone, Your Highness?” a voice says behind me.
Smoke curls between my fingers, and I feel the leather-wrapped grip of Death Singer solidify in my hand. I spin, blade flashing in the moonlight, the tip a breath from the throat of the male before me.
Modok, Lord of Mor’Thravar.
His leathers are rain-darkened, his face cast in shadow. The sides of his head are shaved close, but a long, frayed braid whips in the wind. His presence stinks of rot, of the thing festering inside him, leeching through his skin.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
Modok clasps his hands at his waist, his thumbs brushing together in thought. The blade at his throat does not make him flinch.
“I could ask you the same question,” he says. “This island is within my territory.”
I do not waste breath on his claim.
“Where is she?” My grip tightens on Death Singer. “Where is Zema?”
“My Prince,” he says, shaking his head slowly, his voice thick with mock regret. “You knew this was inevitable.”
“No.” The word is barely more than a breath, but my grip on the blade does not waver, though beneath my skin, my muscles tremble, and my blood turns sluggish with dread. “You had no right.”
Modok’s lips curl. “I had every right, Your Highness.” The title drips from his tongue like something bitter. “She was my kin. My house. My sister. And I am bound by duty to obey my king’s command.”
“King,” I bite out. “My father.”
Modok nods once. “He wished to free you from distractions.”
The words strike like a blade to the ribs. I swallow against the bile rising in my throat. “You speak as if she meant nothing. She was your sister.”
His jaw tightens, the muscles ticking beneath his bristled skin. “She was Awakened,” he grits out. “An abomination. A curse upon my house.” His eyes gleam like embers in the dark. “But I have taken care of it.”
Death Singer dissolves into smoke, curling away from my grip like mist in the wind.
My wings flare wide, the sudden gust kicking up dirt and rain as I lunge.
The force of my leap sends us both crashing to the ground, my knees pinning his ribs, my fists slamming into his face. Once. Twice. Over and over.
Bone cracks beneath my knuckles. His head snaps back against the wet earth, his lip splits, blood staining his teeth. But still, he smiles. That same smug, infuriating smirk. He does not fight back.
“Retaliate, Modok,” I growl, slamming my fist into his jaw. “Fight me.” Another strike. Another. “Give me a reason.”
He only laughs, the sound wet, gurgling, but full of knowing. He understands. He sees through me. He knows I want this, need this, need to rip him apart, to make him feel even a fraction of what I feel.
And so he does nothing.
I freeze, my breath ragged, my chest heaving. The storm rages around us, rain pouring, thunder rolling, but I feel nothing but the sick, empty pit of grief yawning inside me. My hands tremble as I slowly climb off him, staggering back.
Modok does not rise. He does not gloat. He only watches.
I can’t bear it.
With a sharp beat of my wings, I take to the sky, leaving the island, the storm, and my grief behind.
***
After Her. The ship sways, and the creak of the wood burrows deep into my bones. Each sharp prick on my back drags me between dreaming and waking, my body caught in a haze of pain and exhaustion. My arms ache, my muscles taut, my wrists burning.
“Almost done,” Solena hisses from the darkness. “Hold him still.”
My eyes flicker open. My cheek is pressed against the smooth wood of the table, and the first thing I see is Orios, jaw clenched, teeth bared as he pulls against a leather strap with all his strength.
I grunt and shift, turning my head just enough to glimpse Reon on my other side, his hands red and raw, gripping another strap as if his life depends on it.
My vision clears, and the realization sets in.
The straps they’re hauling on so fiercely are bound to my wrists. They're holding me down.
A fresh sting flares along my spine, and I suck in a breath. But there’s more than just the pain. A weight presses against me, a knee digging into my back. Solena must be astride me, inking the sigils.
“Morning, brother,” Zyphoro murmurs.
I lift my head against the restraints, just enough to meet her gaze. She clicks her tongue.
“You just can’t behave yourself, can you?”
My throat is dry, and the words scrape as I force them out. “I’m alive. You didn’t kill me.”
Zyphoro tips her head toward Solena. “The maid assured me she could buy us time, and I’ve recently discovered she is a female of many talents.”
“Enough, Zyph,” Solena snaps. “Just a few more.”
The glint of Zyphoro’s dagger tapping against her palm catches my eye. Her expression darkens when she asks me. “Do you feel him?”
I want to lie. Maybe to save my own skin. Maybe because I need to believe I have more time. But neither is true.
“Yes,” I mutter. “The sigils are failing.”
I brace for the cold press of her blade at my throat, but it doesn’t come. Only the judgment in her eyes.
“Then we have little time to find Amara before you lose control.”
“I can fight it,” I snarl through clenched teeth.
“I have no doubt you’ll fight to the end, Daedalus.” Her voice is calm. “But you will not win. Not until one of you is dead.”
“There,” Solena exclaims, almost to silence Zyphoro’s warning, punctuating her last stroke with a searing jab of the needle.
A hush settles over the cabin. They watch me, waiting.
Waiting to see if I am still myself.
The darkness recedes. The thousands of voices shrivel into silence. The master’s hand on my shoulder loosens its grip. But something is different.
Despite the sigils seared into my skin, I am not alone in my body.
There’s a presence inside me, distant, weak, but there all the same. A passenger, lingering in the shadows.
“Can we let go now?” Reon grumbles. “My arms are fucking killing me.”
Zyphoro doesn’t answer right away. She watches me, still waiting for the void to rupture, for the darkness to seize control.
Then, at last, she exhales. Her shoulders ease.
“Let him go.”
Reon and Orios release me in unison, both collapsing onto their backsides with ragged breaths. The leather around my wrists loosens, and I flex my fingers, the sting immediate. My skin is raw, torn, blood seeping into the worn straps. I shake them off and shift, casting a glance over my shoulder.
Solena is still there, still straddling my back.
“If you’re done,” I say.
“Right,” she mutters, blinking as if just remembering herself. Then, with a quick movement, she swings her leg over and slides off the table, her boots landing softly on the floor.
Slowly, I push myself upright, hauling my legs over the edge of the table.
Every motion awakens the ache of bruises, the sting of fresh wounds.
My shoulders roll, stiff and sore, but the real reminder of my condition comes when I straighten.
My canines lengthen, pain flaring sharp and deep from the stab wound in my side.
“You’re a mess,” Reon remarks.
I lift my gaze, studying the black eye and split lip he earned in Ballamar City.
“You’re one to talk,” I mutter. “House Taramethos did a fine job ruining that pretty face of yours.”
“Hah.” He scoffs, fingers grazing the raw cut on his cheek. “Lady Marlayna did this herself, long before I figured out she planned to turn on us.” He gestures vaguely to his battered face. “This was foreplay.”
My brow furrows, just enough to send another pulse of pain through my skull. “She did that to you?”
Reon nods. “You owe me one.”
I manage half a grin. “I’m sure you hated every second of it.”
Reon stifles a smirk of his own. “Without a doubt. Getting hard just thinking about it is an unfortunate reflex.”