Chapter 21
A RUNEBOUND BARGAIN
Seryn
“Who goes there?” the imposing troll bellowed, stabbing a spike-riddled club in my direction.
Here goes nothing.
I pushed my shoulders back. “I’m here to see the Ancient of Nightmares.”
The other troll dragged his dark, beady eyes over my body. He chortled. “He’ll be the last thing you see.”
The first beast guffawed and slapped his thigh. “’Tis true! You’re as good as burnt niblets!”
My nostrils flared as I fought not to roll my eyes. The trek up the islet’s winding staircase had been arduous. My leg muscles burned. Breathing labored. Patience nonexistent.
“Tell Phobetor his niece wants to see him,” I snapped.
That quieted them. Both of their ledge-shaped brows lifted so high I thought the dark tufts of hair at their crowns might tumble off their scalps.
“Let her in.”
The familiar singsong voice still sent a chill over me. The jagged copper gates creaked open as the trolls did as Melina said. She stood in the open entrance, a feral grin plastered over her face.
She was a damned roach. Hard to kill and cunning enough to survive the most hostile of situations.
“Phobetor will be so pleased to see family,” she taunted. “Quite the secret you’ve held onto.”
“It wasn’t mine to hold until recently,” I muttered.
I followed her as she sashayed into the foyer, the fitted, black silk dress hugging her curves.
As suspected, the palace had a similar layout to Morpheus’, with a pair of grand fire-opal staircases curving along the rounded banestone walls, a balcony above, copper doors with beautiful swirling designs, and an impressive copper chandelier above, dripping with hundreds of cracked, smoky quartz crystals that both glimmered and consumed the light.
Directly ahead was a Great Hall, but we turned right, Melina pausing at the first door we reached. She rapped on the etched metal, and I held my breath for a few heartbeats.
“Enter!” a commanding voice boomed.
Melina ran her tongue over her bottom lip and swiped her hand through the air, ushering me inside.
The study was dark and lavishly Gothic. Soft, red textures vied for attention with sharp, black stone furnishings.
Elder Harrow pushed against my biceps, forcing me to take a seat in an intricately carved chair opposite the Ancient of Nightmares.
I jerked away from her, repulsed by her chilled touch.
She sniggered, claiming a seat on a plush sofa in the corner, her usual crimson lipstick the same shade as the velvet.
My star-shaped scar thrummed while Phobetor studied me from under dark lashes.
His lean yet muscular figure lounged in an imposing, high-backed chair, his night-colored robes nearly blending into the banestone.
He dragged his eyes over me, his scrutiny lingering at the Shadowvault Amulet resting against my collarbone.
“How well you look, niece. Imagine my surprise when I learned of our relation. My brother was never one to spread his seed frivolously,” he drawled, studying his trimmed fingernails on one hand.
He was baiting me. Prodding to find the cracks. He wouldn’t find any. “It’s not my concern what Morpheus does.”
Phobetor looked at me from the corner of his eye. “Ah, but are there not tender feelings between a father and his sprout?”
“Do you have tender feelings for those you’ve sired?” I threw back. There were countless tales of Phobetor’s exploits. Of how he swiftly executed all of his progenies so they’d never challenge him for his throne.
“Love is a crutch invented by the fragile to distract from the emptiness of their pitiful existence.” His mouth pursed, and a slight shrug moved one shoulder. “It’s not a pursuit I take part in.”
What a dismal reality he lived in.
I imagined Gavrel imprisoned below, filling me with the will to get through this. If love were a crutch, I’d happily lean on it for the rest of my turns.
By now, my mother, Breena, and the Grim Twins may have found a way into the dungeon as planned.
“Well, he’s never been a part of my life. Never helped my mother. He can rot for all I care.”
Amused air blew from Phobetor’s straight, regal nose. “Is that so? Yes, Maya, is it? She is the leader of some useless band of misfits running around my realm. She’s only recently become interesting.”
I pushed my spine into the back of my chair, keeping my mask of indifference fixed on my face. He paused for a touch too long, his eyes boring into mine, marinating in the uncomfortable silence.
He’d be waiting a long while.
The straight seam between his lips quirked. “I’ve heard how exceptional your gifts are.” His voice was silk-wrapped razors.
Malice and charm seeped into his smile, his high cheekbones lifting over the sharp angles of his features. “Melina tells me your mother was her Scion. Shame Maya couldn’t claim her place.” Long, elegant fingers stroked his chin.
My fists clenched, nails digging into my palms. The reminder that my mother was an astral—was dead—pinched my heart.
Elders Harrow, Ash, and Craven had imprisoned her. Played Phobetor’s games. Led her to her demise.
Melina looked pleased with herself, the corners of her mouth twitching like a cat being scratched behind the ear.
They would pay.
And so would my uncle.
Phobetor leaned forward. “Maya couldn’t. But you can.”
“My liege—” Melina started, eyebrows furrowing.
“Silence!” Phobetor barked. His dark eyes flashed, aura puffing around him like a poisonous smog, and she cowered. I’d never seen her cower. “You remain here only as long as you are useful or entertaining. I fail to see how you are either.”
I braced my elbows against the armrests, and my seat creaked under me. Phobetor’s attention slid back to me. “Scions have a purpose.” He leaned forward. “You have a purpose. It’s why I didn’t allow the Elders to rid themselves entirely of you or the others.”
My eyes narrowed a bit. I peeked at Melina. Her nails dug into the cushion under her.
He smirked. “Scions are, as you know, very gifted. Their energy is a vital source of power in my Epiales Tombs. And to me.”
My molars were going to crack. Heat rushed over my cheeks.
He either didn’t notice or didn’t care. Probably the latter. Likely believed I wasn’t a threat.
Not yet, anyway.
He continued, “And then there’s the prophecy of the child who’ll use their gifts against the Ancients.” He waved one hand in the air.
A recollection needled the back of my mind. Phantasos, as the Augur, had once mentioned the story of her brothers’ demise.
My shoulders tensed. “And what? You think I’m the one?
I think you overestimate my gifts. You cursed the mortal realm—imprisoned countless mortals.
To what—avoid defeat? Make Morpheus suffer?
To … to bring forth the Dark Reaping? Seems counterintuitive.
If mortals perish, you will, too.” My words were clipped, dripping with venom.
I took a quick sip of air, knowing I’d gone too far. Let my mask slip.
Bollox.
His palm cracked against his armrest, making me jump. “You foolish girl. I am the darkness, the son of Night and Day. Nightmares linger beyond time. Beyond Kosmos and Khaos. I care not what happens to mere mortals. You are but a bug under my thumb. Even in death, I’d squash you.”
I let the moment simmer before responding. When his shoulders relaxed once more, my chin lifted. “What do you want in exchange for the commander?”
“Ah, your khorda. Such predictable, feeble beings your lot are,” he lamented, running his teeth over his bottom lip.
“I’ll release your lover.” The Ancient grinned, and Melina’s mouth arched downward.
“But only if you drain your father of his ember—and his life. Every last drop, until there’s nothing left but an empty husk. ”
My mouth pressed into a hard line. He truly believed I could turn my gift against the Ancients, but a mortal was incapable of doing so.
It defied scripture.
There was design and balance to everything. To ember.
But you’re part Ancient.
My heart skipped a beat.
“You think I’m the child Phantasos told me about—the one who can steal an Ancient’s power.”
He steepled his fingers in front of his mouth, but it didn’t hide the way his lips curved over his teeth.
“My darling sister was always so fond of riddles. She failed to mention the most important part.” His voice lowered, cruel and eager.
“The prophecy speaks of a daughter born of an Oneiroi. And you, dear niece, are the only female offspring who lives.”
I clenched my fists. “Until recently, you didn’t even know I existed. There could be others.”
“But you are the only one here. With promising abilities”—his hand slashed toward me, shadows coiling in his palm—“and I hold your mirrored soul. Your other half. It’s a wager I’ll gladly make.
Refuse your end of the bargain, or try to harm me, and your lover will suffer in ways you cannot yet begin to imagine. ”
My nails dug into my palm, surely leaving crescent marks, threatening to break the skin. It didn’t matter. I’d say whatever I needed to. To save Gavrel. To make my uncle believe he had won.
“I accept. Morpheus is nothing to me,” I lied, the words tasting like ash.
One of his brows arched, and his eyes narrowed. He stood, a cloud of darkness pouring over him. “Deal.”
He snapped his fingers, and his ember lashed out.
Agony seared my flesh, claws sinking into my nape, shadows burrowing deep until they hit bone. By the time I released a pained gasp, Phobetor’s ember was gone.
“You know, there are so few things that can bind an Ancient,” my uncle purred. “A runebound bargain”—he traced a cold fingertip over the tender skin at my nape—“and Nyxvein. How positively delightful that my brother will have suffered because of both.”
Disgust and indignation crept up my back.
The Ancient mistook my silence for intrigue. His smile widened across his teeth as he brushed his thumb over the Shadowvault Amulet before letting it fall. It vibrated softly against my skin. “Haven’t seen this in quite a while. Fitting that you should be the one to wear it now.”
I held my breath, thinking that he would push the issue, but he didn’t. The necklace meant little to him, as most things did, aside from harming Morpheus. I realized the irony; creating the amulet had probably warped his mind even further.
“Your father. Always so pliable. So insufferable in his fondness for mortals. That’s how I caught him.” He tilted his head toward Melina. “I had this one dangle what he most desired—his first human wife. The fool believed she still lived after the Nightbloom Sundering. After I executed her.”
He closed his eyes as though relishing the memory.
Then his eyes snapped open and locked on mine.
I sat straighter in my chair, shifting uncomfortably.
His words cut into me like shards of ice.
“He followed the hope of her straight into his dungeon, and when he reached for her hand at the bottom…” Phobetor bared his teeth.
“The Nyxvein claimed him. Coiled tight and solidified into amber. An Ancient reduced to a relic.”
He sniffed disdainfully, then turned as if bored. “Bring her to the pit to claim her mortal,” he ordered Melina. He paused at the threshold, offering me his profile, a grin splitting it before he sank into the shadows.
Melina unfurled herself and sauntered toward me. I slapped her hand away before she could touch me. She was so close, her rose and bitter almond scent drifted over my face, and I scrunched my nose.
She grinned, sweeping aside her curtain of platinum hair to reveal the gilded brand. “He’ll find you now—wherever you hide. It’s how he tracked me down.” Melina let her strands cascade over her back. “It seems you belong to him just as much as I do, pet.”
“We are not the same,” I spat. “I didn’t curse an entire realm for my own gain.”
She tittered, flicking one hand in the air.
“Not yet. Do you think you control how this ends? Over the Ancients?” Her sneer deepened.
“You’re even more foolish than I thought.
The Withering was inevitable. Mortals would’ve damned Midst Fall in due time.
The Nyxvein simply hastened the impending rot. ”
Touching the tender skin next to my scar, I swallowed the acid rushing up my throat. I traced the etched, geometric lines and knew it matched Melina’s—molten gold twisted into the shape of a snake coiling around a crescent moon.
Strangling it.
Bloody void.
I had made a deal with a nightmare. And now, the shackles it forged were mine to break … or die trying.