Chapter 21
Syrrah
…they fear you, not for what you are, but for what they cannot make you into...”
— AMARA’S FINAL SPEECH TO HER LAST HIGH PRIESTESS
THREE WEEKS LATER
The Underworld King’s fortress looms against a blood-red sky, its black towers reaching up like grasping fingers. Guards patrol the battlements, their armor gleaming dully in the eternal twilight that shrouds this realm.
“Subtle,” I murmur, crushing leaves between my palms. “Gorbain certainly had a theme.”
Beside me, Rooke grins. “Wait until you see the inside. All skulls and chains—very dramatic.”
I don’t laugh, but I feel the corner of my mouth twitch. The weight of what we’re about to do hangs heavy, but Rooke’s dark humor cuts through it just enough to keep me steady.
We crouch in the shadows of dead trees, their twisted branches clawing at the perpetual gloom.
Ahead, the fortress rises like a jagged wound against the sky, black spires stabbing upward as if trying to pierce the heavens.
Around its base, guards pace the perimeter, their movements sharp and disciplined.
The aftermath of Gorbain’s death had sent shockwaves through this world. Word spread like wildfire—first among his allies, then his rivals. The once-unshakable power structure had crumbled overnight, the cracks spreading outward as the underworld factions tore at one another for dominance.
Rooke’s return had only added fuel to the fire.
He was the living reminder that Gorbain wasn’t invincible, a threat to anyone who had pledged their loyalty to the now-dead king.
Some whispered of vengeance, others of alliances, but all of them feared him.
None knew it was me, his wife, who had killed their master.
Now the factions are fractured, their focus turned inward, no one has time to notice the two shadows creeping toward the unruly fortress’s gates.
“The auriela vine took well to this strange soil,” I whisper, gesturing to the plant twined around my arm. Its violet blooms shimmer faintly in the dim light, each petal a promise of lethality.
“Good,” Rooke murmurs, checking his weapons one last time. His gaze sweeps over the patrolling guards’. “They’ll be looking for armies. For battle and blood. They won’t see this coming. Ready?”
I nod, pulling my mask over my nose and mouth.
“Now.”
We toss the small balls onto the ground near the guards. The vapors of the auriela vine spread quickly, drifting through the air like an invisible tide. I’ve mixed it to be non-lethal—enough to incapacitate, to make their movements sluggish and their minds foggy. No bloodshed.
Not yet.
Rooke moves like a shadow, dispatching the dazed guards with practiced efficiency. The clink of their keys echoes softly in the air as he collects them, his expression grim and focused. I follow close behind, my heart hammering in my chest but my hands steady.
We step over their bodies, making our way deeper into the fortress.
“Left here,” Rooke whispers, his knowing guiding us through the twisting corridors. “The dungeons are below.”
We descend, the stairs uneven beneath our feet, worn down by centuries of suffering. A distant drip echoes through the passageway, the only sound apart from our breathing.
And then we find him.
Keo is shackled to the far wall of a cell carved from black stone, his wrists bound in chains that pulse with sickly green light.
The glow makes his skin look waxen, stretched too thin over the sharp edges of his bones.
He’s thinner than in Rooke’s descriptions, his scholar’s hands raw, fingers cracked and bloodied from whatever work Gorbain had forced upon him.
But his eyes—his eyes are sharp. When they land on Rooke, something flickers there—relief, anger, disbelief, all tangled together.
Rooke doesn’t move. He just stares.
I glance at him, expecting urgency, some kind of reaction. But he’s rigid—his gaze locked onto Keo like he’s afraid to blink, afraid that if he does, his brother will vanish.
His jaw clenches, a muscle twitching in his cheek. His hands tighten at his sides, as if holding himself together through sheer force of will. And when he finally exhales, it’s a ragged thing, barely more than a breath.
The silence stretches, heavy, suffocating. Then, Keo’s lips crack into something that might have once been a smirk.
“You’re late,” he croaks.
Rooke moves then, crossing to begin working on the locks holding his brother in place. “Traffic was terrible. But I brought you a present.”
I step forward, crushing more leaves into a paste. “Hold still,” I tell Keo, spreading the mixture over his wounds. “This will help with the pain until we can get you home.”
His eyes widen. “A healer?” He looks at Rooke. “You didn’t.”
“Didn’t what?” Rooke doesn’t look up from the locks. “Find a bride to trade for your sorry ass? No, I didn’t.” The manacles finally click open. “I found something better instead.”
“Someone,” I correct, helping Keo to his feet. “Now hold this cloth over your mouth. The vapors in the corridors will make you sleep otherwise.”
We make our way back through the silent fortress, past sleeping guards and empty halls. No alarms sound, no warriors rush to stop us. We reach our waiting horses without incident.
“That’s it?” Keo asks as we ride away. “We just… walk out?”
“Sometimes the simplest solution is the best one,” I say. “Though there may be some trouble waking the guards. I think I might have been a little too generous with the dosage.”
We ride hard through the night, not stopping until we reach the coast. Our ship waits in the harbor—the Silver Storm. Her sails catch the dawn light as we approach, turning them to sheets of flame.
The crew welcome Keo aboard with cheers and embraces. Soon he’s settled in the cabin we’ve prepared for him, already protesting my orders for him to rest.
When I’m satisfied I’ve treated the worst of his wounds, I quietly slip him a healing potion that will make him drowsy, then leave his room. The gentle sound of his snores follows me out of the cabin.
I find Rooke at the helm, his hands steady on the wheel as we make our way out of the bay. The rising sun paints his face in shades of gold, catching on the new scars we’ve earned together.
“He’s sleeping?”
I slip under his arm, gratified when he presses me against his chest. “Yes. He’ll heal—at least in body.”
We’re quiet as the shop enters the open water, leaving the ports and pain of the past far behind.
“Having second thoughts?” he asks, breaking our easy silence.
I think about my old life—the quiet temple, the rigid rules, the safety of never having to choose. Then I look at our crew, at the horizon stretching endless and bright before us, at the man who taught me that freedom is worth any price.
“Never,” I say, pulling him down for a kiss.
He grins against my mouth. “Good. Because I hear there’s a dragon lord in the northern peaks who needs a healer’s help. Apparently, his youngest son has fallen ill, and none of their usual remedies are working.”
“Dragons?” I raise an eyebrow. “Really?”
“What can I say, wife?” His eye sparkles with mischief. “I promised you adventure.”
“You promised me freedom,” I correct. “The adventure is a bonus.”
He laughs and pulls me closer, both of us watching the sun rise over waves that stretch to forever. Somewhere ahead, dragons wheel through crystal skies, their scales catching light like scattered stars.
New worlds wait to be discovered, new choices to be made, new stories to be written.
But right now, with Rooke’s heartbeat steady against my back and the wind filling our sails, I’m exactly where I choose to be.
“I love you.”
He presses a kiss to my head. “I love you too, little maiden.”
His arms tighten around my waist, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below my ear that never fails to make me shiver. “Have I told you how magnificent you were back there, Innocence? Taking down the Underworld King’s fortress without a single casualty?”
“Only a dozen times,” I murmur, tilting my head to give him better access. “Though I wouldn’t mind hearing it again.”
His laugh rumbles against my back, the sound vibrating through both our bodies.
“My fierce, brilliant Syrrah,” he whispers, his breath hot against my skin.
“Using your knowledge to steal my brother.” His teeth graze my earlobe, sending a jolt of heat straight to my core.
“It was the most arousing thing I’ve ever witnessed. ”
“More arousing than last night?” I tease. With the fear of capture and death upon our shoulders, Rooke made love to me with frantic, desperate abandon. Marking me with touch and taste, taking me over and over until we both collapsed into exhausted oblivion.
His hand drifts up my side, a whisper of a touch that leaves goose bumps in its wake. “Different kinds of arousing.” He turns me to face him, his eye dark with desire. “That was beauty. This is power.”
The distinction sends a thrill through me that has nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with how he sees me—not as a delicate women in need of protection, but as an equal partner, capable of both tenderness and terrible strength.
“Tahrin,” he calls to his first mate, not taking his gaze from mine. “Take the wheel.”
A weathered man with a salt-and-pepper beard shimmies down from the sail to land beside us, a knowing smile playing at his lips. “Course, Captain?”
“Due north. Maintain this heading until midday.” Rooke’s voice is steady, but I feel the tension in his frame, the restrained need in how his fingers press against my hip. “We’ll be in our quarters.” He presses a kiss to my shoulder.
I hide a blush.
“Reviewing maps?” Tahrin suggests innocently, a twinkle in his eye.
“I’ll certainly be mapping something.” Rooke takes my hand, already leading me toward the steps that lead below deck. “We’re not to be disturbed unless we’re about to sink.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”