Chapter 18
Alora
This couldn’t be real. It was a waking nightmare.
Alora stood frozen, staring at her newfound husband. A man now, if he could be called one at all. She had never imagined the dragon might shed its scales, that such a beast could walk the earth in flesh. And yet here he was, unnervingly human in shape, though nothing about him was mortal.
He was unnervingly tall, at least seven feet.
His pale features were sharp as carved bone, ears tapering to delicate points that marked him as other.
Ink-dark hair spilled over his shoulders, framing the cruel symmetry of his face.
Markings lit like molten fissures on his neck and the back of his clawed hands, dusted with black scales.
Besides that, the one trait he carried from his dragon form was those eyes.
Red and burning, as if the fire within had simply been contained behind his gaze.
Gods, he was beautiful. So strikingly ethereal it was otherworldly.
The perfect snare.
As if he read her mind, Rune’s glowing eyes gleamed with amusement.
“Follow.”
The word echoed off the stone. It was not a request.
A ball of anxious desperation roiled in Alora’s chest. She escaped one prison and fell into another.
Rune turned and strolled toward a narrow pitch-black passage carved into the mountain wall.
The moment he fell out of view, Alora fled in the opposite direction and ran for a tunnel.
His low chuckle carried in the cavern, but no echo of footsteps followed behind her.
She heard nothing but her own ragged breaths and the frantic clack of her heels against the stone.
She had to find a way out. There had to be one, but she couldn’t see anything. Darkness thickened like fog, coating her skin and lungs. The walls narrowed and her heart hammered with fear and anguish.
“Let me out,” Alora cried out hoarsely. She moved through the dark blindly, the ridiculous wedding gown snagging on every jagged edge. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart hammered with fear and the mountain violently shook. “Please, let me out!”
As if something heard her, a soft glow appeared above her head. Tiny creatures curled in pockets of stone, their dim bioluminescence casting eerie blue halos across the ceiling. Glow worms.
Then the mountain groaned as the fissure she stood in widened into a tunnel, opening a new path. Alora stilled at the threshold, chest heaving.
What had been a narrow choke of rock widened as if the cave had exhaled to accommodate her. She hesitated, then pushed forward, brushing her fingers along the damp stone. It was warm like breath. No, like awareness.
The deeper she went, the more impossible it became to track her steps. Every path looked the same. The mountain breathed through the fissures, every inhale a low tremor underfoot.
The cold air became warmer, then it was stifling, like a humid summer. Alora ripped off her sleeves, her gossamer gown tearing into shreds. Then she tore the heavy skirts to her knees and left the discarded fabric behind with her veil.
When she thought of water, the distant trickle of a spring led her to a cave with a small stream. Her heels slipped on the mossy ground as she rushed forward. Alora kicked them off and knelt by the stream for a drink. Once she had her fill, another section of the wall opened.
The mountain was guiding her.
Or playing with her.
When Alora looked back, the path she’d come from was gone. Her pulse quickened.
“This isn’t real,” she breathed. “It’s some kind of trick.”
Still, the glow worms formed a path, leading her down a twisting route of shadow and phosphorescence, the air humming with a strange, low vibration.
And then… it stopped.
The last tunnel ended in a flat wall veined with strange glowing symbols, glyphs no mortal tongue could name. In the center was the same hellish sigil that had appeared on her mother’s mirror. Somehow Alora sensed this was a door.
One, not meant for merely anyone.
She raised a trembling hand but before she touched the center, the stone groaned open.
Alora stepped into a chamber unlike the caverns she had first arrived in. The stone walls were shaped and hewn, rather than nature’s blind carving. The space breathed like the hollow heart of a castle.
The temperature was more tolerable. The air here smelled faintly of amber and smoke.
A great stairway rose before her with a crimson runner, the banister curving like the spine of some beast. An iron chandelier hung overhead, glinting with candlelight that flickered against the glittering walls.
To her left was a round table of polished tourmaline with four black leather chairs, littered with stubs of red candles that dripped like congealed blood on the surface.
A massive hearth loomed in the far wall, though the fire within guttered low, casting restless shadows. Every flicker of the candles bent in her direction, as though her presence pulled them.
A quiet hum of old magic lived in the stone.
The wall behind her groaned and closed, sealing off the passage she’d come through. Alora shivered. There was nowhere to go but in.
She set her jaw, gathering her torn skirts, and placed one slippered foot on the first stair. The hush of the chamber pressed in. But she climbed in search of another exit.
If she found a way out of Karag D?r, then she could flee to the Midlands and beg Lady Zinnia for help.
But when Alora reached the top of the stairs, there was no exit. No windows. Only an open door leading to a private chamber.
The bed dominated the space.
A massive slab of obsidian, shaped and smoothed until it gleamed like glass, anchored to the floor as if it had been carved there. It should’ve been harsh, unwelcoming. But the bedding was absurdly decadent. Sheets of sleek black silk draped over plush furs the color of smoke.
Even the furniture had been carved from the mountain. Chairs and shelves sculpted from the rock itself, their edges precise and elegant. A table held a decanter of wine and a bowl of pomegranates glistening with the firelight in the brazier.
Shadows moved at the edges of her vision, drawing her eyes.
And there he was.
By another hearth, the God of Shadows sat in a large opulent chair carved from stone and bone, chin on his fist like a pleased monarch waiting for his prize. Shadows clung to him like obedient pets, coiling around his boots and wrists. His wineglass caught the low light as he took a drink.
“Took the scenic route, did we?” Rune drawled, eyes glinting like rubies in the gloom.
Alora glared at him, breathless. “The walls are alive.”
“Mountain,” Rune corrected, raising his glass in salute. “And it likes you.”
“It led me in circles.”
“It led you to where you belong.” He gestured to the velvet chair placed in front of his own, too ornate to be coincidence, too empty to be anything but a demand. “Sit. Drink. Unless you wish to run away and negate our bargain again.”
The warning in his tone was a velvet-wrapped blade. Not a threat. A promise. A clear indication he had no intention of letting her refuse him this time.
Rune’s crimson eyes raked over her appearance and his mouth slightly pursed in disapproval.
She caught her reflection in the burnished mirror on his wall.
Her face was streaked with dirt, hair wild from the windless tunnels.
The white skirt now brown, torn like wilted leaves.
Alora flushed as she smoothed down her hair.
Lady Zinnia would have a fit if she saw her.
“I can’t have my bride in such a sorry state,” Rune said. With a snap of his fingers, the fabric shimmered and shifted.
In the space of a breath, the unsightly dress vanished and was replaced by a new one: silken black with hints of deep red that shimmered like wine in firelight.
Delicate, golden chains wrapped around her shoulders and waist, glittered like captured stars.
Her hair flowed down her shoulders perfectly. Face clean of grime.
Rune leaned back in his chair. “There.”
Alora didn’t know whether to thank him or scream.
“Have a seat, wife,” he said, suddenly behind her.
Alora squeaked in surprise and backed further away from him. “Please stop calling me that.”
She tried to run but Rune caught her waist and easily hoisted her onto his shoulder as if she weighed nothing at all.
“You accepted my ring, songbird,” he mused, striding for his bed. “That makes you, my wife.”
Alora cursed at the fetter on her finger, ruby glinting mockingly. “We both know I accepted out of desperation!” She kicked. “I had no choice!”
“Ah, but you made the choice nonetheless.” Rune dropped her onto the bed and leaned over her, caging her beneath his body. Her heart pounded as shadows spilled across the silk sheets, sliding cool against her skin like mist, making her shiver. “Did you not call for me again in your darkest hour?”
Out of foolish desperation.
“I wanted to be safe,” she whispered.
“And you are.” His black claws brushed her cheek, and she recoiled.
“Not with you!”
She shoved against him. He sat back on his heels with a low snicker. In that instant, Alora snatched the hilt of his sword and drew it free. Rune grinned, lifting his hands in mock surrender as she scrambled from the bed.
“Stay back!” Alora brandished the weapon. “If you come near me, I will stab you!”
Rune’s low chuckle washed over her, fangs glinting on the edges of his smile. “Promise?”
Her heart drummed beneath his softly glowing gaze.
He leaned up against the table behind him and crossed his arms, clearly amused. “Do you know how to use that?”
She scowled, willing herself not to shake while holding up the heavy hilt. “I have been instructed in how to use a sword.”
“Perhaps not this one.”
Alora glanced down. The blade was forged of some black ore she had never seen, veined with molten crimson that pulsated faintly, as though the blood of all those it had slain beat within. Wicked barbs protruded from the guard like claws, jagged and cruel, gleaming red in the candlelight.
It was no knight’s sword. It was a thing born of nightmare.
The longer she held it, the heavier it grew, her arms trembling under its weight. The grip was too warm, as though it burned with a life of its own. Shadows crawled along the edge, speaking in an indistinct tongue that prickled her skin and turned her stomach.
With a lazy flick of Rune’s finger, the weapon vanished into shadow. “Mm. Not quite your size yet, love. Noctharion bites… and he’d savor the sweetness in your veins. Best not tempt him.”
What evil lurked in this place?
Alora gritted her teeth angrily and searched for another weapon. Her eyes fell on the spindle resting on his bedside table. But then Rune emerged before her in a burst of smoke.
Alora gasped, lurching back. She dodged his hand and scampered to the other end of the room by the sofa.
Rune watched her steadily, his eyes glowing faintly. “Like it or not, we are married now.”
Alora clenched her fists, her chest heaving with wild breaths. Her mind raced to think of a way out of this.
“It wasn’t a real ceremony,” she disputed feebly. “We didn’t speak our vows.”
He smirked, coming toward her. “Vows…?”
“Yes.” Alora stumbled backward, moving to put the sofa between them as she stuttered. “If you want me as your bride, then I-I demand your vows and a dowry befitting what I’m worth.”
Rune laughed, the low sound rumbling in her bones. He vanished in a plume of smoke, appearing before her, and caught her wrist before she could dodge him again. “Hmm, I suppose that is reasonable.”
She stuttered as his shadows caressed her cheek, her heart racing at how close he was. “G-grant me this first then I will be yours.”
The God of Shadows chuckled, low and dark. “You’re already mine, little bird.”
Her heart pounded at the possessive edge in his words.
Alora yelped as Rune easily tossed her onto the sofa. He braced a hand against the headrest and leaned down, taking her chin.
“Very well,” he said. “Since I am feeling generous, I will grant you a dowry of your choosing. As for my vows, I will give those to you in time.”
The air behind him shivered, releasing a silvery sheen into the air. Before she could question it, a cloud of black smoke bloomed where the door had once been, revealing three horned figures cloaked in shadow. Their presence sucked the warmth from the room, but Rune didn’t notice, or care.
Alora froze as he dipped his head to the crook of her neck. His lips hovered above her pulse, brushing heat against her skin. He inhaled slowly, deeply, like he was committing her scent to memory.
“Are you finished making your demands?” he murmured. Her heart leaped at the graze of his fangs.
“Yes,” Alora gasped. Her thoughts were tangled between the very large. warm god pining her on the sofa—and the eyes watching them. “I mean n-no. Rune, wait...”
“Then shall we seal this unholy union?” he purred, his leg prodding her thighs apart.
That snapped her out of her senses.
“Stop!” Alora blurted, trying to push him back. She managed to nudge him an inch, and only because he allowed it. “We are not alone.”
Rune glanced over his shoulder at the three silent demons with a dull frown. “Oh. Alora meet the Harbingers, generals of my army.”
The first was a woman with blood-red lips, pale lilac hair and ram horns. Her dress was sleek and dark, her beauty edged in danger. Her expression was carefully poised, eyes like molten coals.
Towering beside her was a male nearly as tall as the ceiling, with skin like warm clay marked with many tattoos, and vivid red eyes that never blinked. Spiked armor was fitted to his large body, his hands clawed. Large horns curved over his mane of ashen hair.
They had been disguised as fae, but she recognized them now as the Calveron soldiers who’d escorted her to the altar.
Last was a smaller male, with dark hair like midnight with small four horns above his brow. Behind him flicked a long thin tail with a single sharp barb on the end, small wings at his back. He was dressed in thin black leather armor, made for quick movement.
They dropped to one knee, bowing their heads.
“They will serve you now as they serve me. I can send them away if you prefer.” Rune’s crimson gaze returned to her, his mouth curving with a sly smirk. “Or they can watch.”