Chapter 37
Daed
Before her. The stone presses cold beneath my knees, hard enough to bite through the fabric of my leathers.
My fists grind against my thighs as smoke drifts from me in restless wisps, curling with every inhale, every exhale, wreathing around me as the cobalt circle of symbols etched into the stone pulses faintly.
“Is this the debt to be paid?” I murmur. “Is it time?”
A hand brushes my shoulder, pale, skeletal, dripping with jewels.
“Yes, Daedalus,” Lanneth says, her voice coiling like a pit of serpents. “Our master hungers, and our people weaken. When he feasts, so shall all Mordorin. Your house will rise again, reborn, stronger than ever.”
I roll my shoulders, the weight in my chest refusing to lift. “Must I do it?”
She laughs lightly, but even a sound supposed to carry joy curdles when it comes from her.
“Of course not, sweet boy. Leave that to me. I will not sully your hands. All you need do is take your wife to bed and provide an heir for House Mordorin. When all is done, you will have a precious child, and the Father Below will have his meal.”
“And she does not know,” I ask, teeth clenched.
Lanneth drifts beyond the circle, her shimmering gown dragging over the stone. “No. Better she remain blind, lost in the euphoria of you, my prince. No need for terror while she is our guest.”
I shake my head, lips tight with anger and shame. “Why play games? Why not take her, rip what we need, then throw her aside until she’s… ripe?”
Silence follows, stretching long enough to echo my own vile words. Words I cannot unsay.
“You could do that?” Lanneth asks, voice curling around me like a whip. “You could destroy her, take her against her will, forget her, slaughter her when the time comes?”
I do not answer. My silence earns a snigger from her.
“No. Not even the cursed prince of Baev’kalath could do that,” she says.
“She must be kept safe. Protected, and when the time comes, you must take her gently, with care and affection, even if you must feign it. A child conceived in kindness, a sacrifice given in love, will keep Gygarth’s belly full for centuries. ”
Her heels tap against the stone. She comes to my back, hands pressing into my shoulders. “Just as it was with Queen Veloria.”
The words should cut me deeper, yet the blade of Lanneth’s voice shatters against the cold, black wall inside me, the barren place where love and hope come to die.
“What if I can’t…” The words slip out before I can stop them, ragged and desperate.
Lanneth exhales, her breath misting in the cold air. Her fingers dig into my leathers, nails sharp as needles, yet her touch is less felt than her words, less cruel than the truth she delivers.
“You have no choice, Daedalus,” she says. “You are his to command. Whether by your hand or his, the girl’s fate is sealed. All you can do is make it swift… less painful than it could be. Do you understand?”
I say nothing, and that in itself is defiance.
Her fingers tighten, harder, sharper, a strength no brittle frame should wield and then I feel the darkness within me, deep and hungry, responding to her call, a malevolent whisper ready to force my hands to commit things… unspeakable, horrid, in his name.
My vision rolls black. I yield. To the darkness. To my master. To Gygarth.
“Yes. I understand.”
***
My vision tunnels as my throat cinches shut, vines grinding into flesh, thorns breaking skin until the taste of blood floods my mouth.
My eyes bulge, pressure threatening to burst them from their sockets, my bones creaking as if they’ll snap.
Still, I cling to her. Still, I fight. My voice tears from me in a ragged shred, nothing but broken glass dragged across stone.
“She’s… not dead,” I rasp, each word costing me blood. “But she needs your help. Kill me if you want, but save her first!”
Mirael heaves a breath as if she’s the one being strangled, rage pouring from her in waves. Her brown eyes blaze, glossy with fury, daring me to break my stare. I do not. I will not.
“Damn you,” I choke, my voice nothing but gravel. “You are wasting time!”
Her gaze flickers, against her will, to Amara, and in that moment, the stone mask cracks. The rage falters. Her lips part as if the thought itself carves a wound in her.
“She’s… alive?” Mirael whispers, her voice so faint it trembles.
I cannot answer. No air remains. My skin burns violet, stars exploding in my vision, and still I refuse to let her go. Tears leak from my eyes. Not weakness, not surrender, but defiance. Tears no one could ever drag from me but my love.
Mirael’s fist loosens. The vines recoil. They slither back into the earth with a hiss, and I collapse forward, hacking, every breath agony as I clutch Amara tighter against me.
“Take her,” Mirael commands.
The Tenders swarm me. Hands claw at my arms, prying, pleading, pulling, but my grip locks like iron.
Mirael looms above. “If you want her saved, you must let her go.”
Her words strike deeper than thorns, deeper than steel. They carve into me, severing something vital. My fingers twitch. My chest caves and then, gods forgive me, Amara slips from my arms.
The Tenders catch her, their arms weaving beneath her broken body like the sacred creature she is. They lift her high, carrying her toward the vine wall. Mirael follows, her scarred face set like stone, her emerald cloak trailing behind her, its edges darkened with dirt and blood.
“Wait,” I croak, clutching at my raw throat, stumbling forward. My breath scrapes, my vision veils in shadow, but I will not stop.
Through the blur I see Amara, her scorched skin, her fragile chest barely rising, her body swaying in the arms of those who bear her into the forest.
“Please…” My voice shreds itself on the word. “Use your rune.”
Mirael casts a bitter glance over her shoulder, her scar stark in the dappled light.
“Only the earth can heal her now.”
She turns away before I can respond, her cloak whispering over roots and stone. I stumble after her, dropping to a knee, dragging myself upright with a growl.
Just as I manage to find my footing, a rustle in the distance pulls my attention north.
My head snaps toward the sound, senses sharpening in an instant, smoke crackling faintly at my fingertips.
Through the lush green tangle of the forest, towering trees, hanging vines, and drifting mists, I see a swarm of darkness cutting through the wild beauty.
Their heavy boots crush the moss beneath them, their armor clinks and hums, the sound sharp enough to startle birds from their branches.
“Quiet,” I snap, voice low but commanding. Orios halts immediately, raising his fist to signal the Blades behind him to still themselves.
The only one who doesn’t heed the silence is Solena. The moment her eyes find Amara, carried deeper into the forest in the arms of the Tenders, she surges forward.
“Where are they taking her?” she demands.
I catch her by the elbow before she can push past me. Her glare is sharper than shattered glass.
“I don’t know,” I mutter, not wanting the Tenders to hear my doubt. “She needs the earth now. Whatever that means. So leave them to their work, Solena.”
She twists in my grip, a growl in her throat, but her strength is no match for mine.
“I said enough,” I snarl, leaning close. “I will not earn the Tenders’ wrath and risk Amara’s life again. Stay with Orios. Guard the Grove. Stay out of their way. Understand?”
Solena’s jaw tightens, but she nods. Beneath her fury, I see the same fear that coils like a noose around my own throat.
Ahead, Mirael pauses, glancing back at us before she turns away again to follow the procession.
My chest tightens when I realize how far Amara has gotten from me.
I let Solena go, and she steps back, stopping only when Orios catches her shoulder and draws her close.
Together they watch as I push forward, following Mirael and the Tenders deeper into the forest.
The path winds endlessly, twisting through roots and rocks. My boots catch, my balance falters, exhaustion gnaws at my edges, but I force my body onward. I will not stumble. I will not fail.Not when the only purpose left to me is keeping Amara alive.
We walk for so long my legs feel they will give way beneath me.
My vision blurs, but slowly the forest brightens.
The canopy parts, spilling sunlight into a glade awash in lavender bloom.
The air thickens with the perfume of a thousand blossoms, the scent so rich I feel it in my blood.
The ground is impossibly soft beneath my boots, as though I tread upon clouds, and for a breath I think I might float away.
The Tenders carry Amara to the heart of the clearing.
Their hands are gentle, reverent, as though she is not broken flesh and bone but something divine.
They lay her upon the bed of lavender and step back as one, forming a circle.
Knees press into earth. Heads bow. A hundred whispers rise, threads of prayer weaving with the sigh of the wind, with birdsong spiraling through the trees.
At her feet, Mirael stands. Waiting. Watching. Not reaching for her rune. Not summoning the power of the Vornahl.
My restraint wilts. My voice tears the reverence apart.
“What are you doing?” The words hiss, earning incensed glares from the kneeling Tenders. I do not care. “She is dying!”
Mirael’s eyes snap to mine, molten with fury.
“And it is your fault!” Her voice rings through the glade. “I do not doubt that for a second. Yet even with all your infinite, ancient power, you brought her here because you cannot save her. So keep your mouth shut!”
My lip curls, rage trembling through me, fangs bared. But before I can retort, Amara sinks.
The flowers curl over her, the soil opening like a grave. She slides downward, slowly, her body cradled by earth. Panic seizes me. I surge forward, but Mirael’s glare halts me like a blade to the chest.