Chapter 52 Bryony
brYONY
I’M YANKED AROUND, and I forget how to breathe.
I’d recognize the Dark King anywhere. He may not be painted on temple murals like Evander, but the stories were clear enough that this god was as devastatingly beautiful as the rest.
He’s gorgeous in that lethal way that screams danger.
Indigo hair frames his striking features: storm-gray eyes rimmed in molten gold, high cheekbones, straight nose, square jaw.
When he tilts his head, light catches on the delicate silver piercings climbing up his ear.
His body is as muscular as the other Eternals, but with the lean lines of a dancer rather than a warrior.
His massive wings spread wide, the dark blue feathers scattered with flecks of gold, like starlight against a deepening twilight sky.
“A Devaliant. I’d recognize that fucking skin anywhere.” A slow, wicked smile curves his mouth. “I’m dying to know what made you think trespassing into my territory was a solid choice. Most people prefer to keep their internal organs, you know, internal.”
“I’m here for the chest.” I force myself to meet his gaze. “Nothing else.”
“The chest?” His attention drops to the box clutched in my grip, and recognition sparks. “Please tell me Alexios didn’t punt your fragile human ass into my lands for that. Though I suppose dangling an expendable mortal in front of the death god would be his brand of fuckery. Classic Storm move.”
“I need it,” I say, fighting the urge to step back. “For my Chosen.”
A low, contemplative hum. Then he leans in, crowding into my space. I nearly yelp when he drags his nose along my skin and scents me.
“Here’s the thing about that,” he murmurs against my thundering pulse.
“When someone starts throwing around words like ‘Chosen,’ there’s usually a magical signature announcing to the world which pitiful bastard’s soul you’ve tangled yourself up with.
” Another deep inhale. “But you? You’re blank. Empty. No mark. No Claim.”
I flinch at the reminder of what Alexios took from me. The place where the bond used to be aches, like pressing on a bruise that won’t heal.
“So now you’re going to tell me what a Princess of the Blood is doing in my territory.” His voice drops, soft and deadly. “Because my demis have been going missing for months, and when a Devaliant shows up uninvited, that’s what we call suspicious timing.”
Of course, I’ve been dropped in the middle of a diplomatic crisis on top of everything else. That explains the patrols outside and the heightened security. He thinks I’m connected to his missing people. And Alexios knew exactly what he was throwing me into, that manipulative bastard.
“I have nothing to do with your missing people,” I say, raising my arms. “I’m just here for the chest.”
“Try again.” He smacks my prize out of my grasp, and it clatters to the floor as he locks his fingers around my forearm. “I need more convincing.”
His power crackles through the air, and the sleeve of my coat disintegrates beneath his grip. A ragged gasp leaves me as rot spreads from his fingers across my exposed skin.
“Going once. That’s the death touch setting in. Hurts, doesn’t it?”
“Stop stop stop. Wait.” I try to yank away, but he just holds me more firmly. The tips of my fingers shrivel and twist, consumed by the creeping decay.
Oh gods, oh gods, oh gods—
“Going twice. Necrosis is such a fascinating process, really. First, the blood flow stops. Then the tissue starts to die. Then—”
“Okay.” A hitching sob hiccups out of me. “Okay, just…”
“Princess, I suggest you find better words than that, or I’ll let the rot spread somewhere vital.”
Fuck this.
My free hand closes around the hilt of the dagger at my waist. I rip the blade free and slash at his hand. Surprise flickers across his face, and his hold loosens a fraction—just enough.
I drive my knee up, aiming for his groin, but he shifts at the last second. The instant his hold breaks, I bolt, scooping up the chest and sprinting toward the exit. Behind me, I hear his laugh of delight.
“Now that’s more like it!”
Run run run—
But I slam face-first into what feels like a brick wall. Magic yanks me back.
The Dark King stalks toward me, and there’s something almost approving in the way his eyes glitter. “Solid effort. Most mortals just piss themselves and beg.”
I don’t waste my breath on words. Just pivot and slash the dagger at his chest.
He releases me with a grunt, glancing down at his torn shirt.
“Changed my mind. I’ll let you live a little longer—call it payment for the sheer fucking audacity.
This box must be worth its weight in solid gold to you if you’re fighting tooth and nail to keep it.
So fuck it, I’m feeling generous. Fight for it and make it good for me. ”
The Dark King’s power detonates. His magic sends me stumbling back, and I drop the box, gagging as the taste of grave dirt floods my mouth. The stones where I’d just been standing crack open in a deafening BOOM—
And skeletal hands burst through the crumbling stone.
What the fuck.
Those dead fingers grasp and claw, pulling themselves out of some crypt beneath my feet. More stones shatter as they climb out—crack crack crack—one after another after another, clawing up from whatever mass grave they’ve been rotting in. The stench hits me in a reek of putrefaction.
The first corpse finally drags itself out of the ruined stonework.
Rotten clothes and armor crusted with filth cling to its desiccated flesh. That’s when I notice its breastplate is emblazoned with a crest I know intimately: the serpent eating its own heart.
The sigil of House Devaliant—and of the Lucinian legion.
My stomach drops. These are the bodies of the Vartenan soldiers who tried to invade Nyholm three hundred years ago.
“Let’s play a game!” the Dark King calls. “It’s called ‘how many corpses does it take to make a Devaliant scream?’ First to stab her gets to be alive again for a night.”
What an asshole.
The corpse nearest to me turns its head, and those empty eye sockets fix on my face. Its jaw unhinges in a silent scream—and then it lunges.
I stumble back. “Shit!”
More claw their way up from the crypt beneath the shattered flagstones, each in varying stages of decay—some skeletal, some with flesh still hanging off their bones. Soon, the atrium is choked with bodies and the stink of decay.
Make space. Amara’s lessons flood back. Don’t let them box you in.
So I try to keep my distance. A corpse pounces from my left, fingers catching my sleeve, and the fabric rips as I jerk away. I bring my blade down on its legs, but it keeps crawling toward me.
“I’m upping the stakes!” The Dark King’s voice echoes through the melee. “Winner gets to do whatever they want with her!”
My vision goes red. “You sick piece of shit!”
A rotting hand closes around my leg. I stomp down hard, and bones give way under my boot. Another corpse grabs for my hair, and I duck and slash, taking the thing’s head clean off.
Keep moving. I can almost feel Amara correcting my stance. They can’t stab what they can’t catch.
There are too many of them. They’re everywhere now, climbing over each other to get to me in an endless tide of dead.
Severed arms and legs twitch and grab at my ankles.
If I fall, I’m finished. I leap over the ruined stonework and the dark, gaping hole of the underground chamber where the dead are spilling from.
How many damn corpses is this asshole keeping under this place? Did he just collect every person who ever pissed him off?
Through it all, the Dark King watches from his perch on the staircase, wings spread lazily across the steps.
“Having fun yet? I can add more if this isn’t challenging enough.
” He stretches, getting more comfortable.
“You know what builds character? Near-death experiences. Also actual death, but it’s less useful for the learning process. ”
“Go”—I duck under grasping hands—“fuck yourself!”
I’m really starting to hate him.
Sweat stings my eyes. Black spots dance at the edges of my vision, and I can barely get air into my lungs.
My good hand is starting to cramp around the knife handle, and I’m trembling with the effort to keep moving, keep fighting, but they’re relentless.
Determined. Fingers hook into my calf, and I kick free only to have another hand clamp around my elbow, threatening to drag me down—
“Hold!” The Dark King’s command freezes the horde mid-motion.
“Bravo, everyone. Stellar performance.” He slow-claps, pushing to his feet.
“Haven’t had this much entertainment since…
actually, no, this might be a new record.
But since none of you managed to properly maim her”—he flicks his fingers and the corpses crumble into piles of bones and ash all around me—“back in the dirt you go.”
“I hate you and Alexios both,” I rasp, brushing the ash off my coat. “I can’t decide which of you is the bigger asshole.”
“Hate’s such an intimate emotion. Almost as good as fear, and definitely better than love.
At least hate’s honest.” He walks toward me, studying me with those storm-gray and gold eyes.
“Want to tell me why you’re really here stealing that box, or should I call back the horde for another round?
I bet we could fit a thousand in here if we get creative with the spacing. Really test that stamina of yours.”
I glare at him. “Alexios sent me for the box. That’s it. Let me leave, and you’ll never see me again.”
“Is that so? See, there’s something you should know.
Storm could have asked for this box at any time.
We may hate each other, but we still have to play nice for politics.
” He stops in front of me and crosses his arms. “He sent you here because he knew I’d be interested in watching a Devaliant fight for this thing.
So what do I get out of giving it to you? ”
I blink, baffled. “I don’t—what?”