10. Chapter Ten
CHAPTER TEN
CAIUS
T he underworld sings beneath my skin, thrumming with a familiar pull, but it’s not enough to drown out the madness inside me. King Valtorious’ office is suffocatingly narrow, its marble walls polished to a shine, the emerald veins threading through the stone pulsing with an ancient rhythm, like a heartbeat struggling to find its pulse. That’s because it’s all wrong . Warped and unnatural. The unadorned walls would feel oddly sterile if it weren’t for the old claw gouges near the doorway.
These have been here for at least two thousand years—we sent a hellhound to his doorstep when there were rumblings about him wanting to take over more than just Romarie.
It shut him up for at least another hundred years.
The stink of sanguimetal is pungent here, but it didn’t always smell like this. The ore doesn’t have much of a smell, but when you alter its magic, whether by trying to extract it, or refining it into ingots, it gives off a weird kind of metallic taste that zings the tongue. It’s in the air.
And his abuse of it is fucking with everything here.
My body feels too tight, too wound, the rage idling under my skin barely held in check. My runes ripple with agitation, though Aggonid’s presence at my side grounds me, but only just. We’ve wasted too much time, and every second we stand here, Morte is with them.
With him.
I need blood. I need answers.
But we’re running on borrowed time. The underworld never lets us stray far for long, not without consequences. Emeric, Aggonid, and I endure the excruciating punishment of it every time. It starts as a whisper, a hum at the base of my skull, like someone digging their claws into my mind. The farther we go, the louder it gets, a constant, maddening pull.
And when it finally yanks us back, it’s nothing short of torment.
I grit my teeth, fighting to stay conscious as the pressure constricts my air, each breath harder to draw. It’s like the underworld grabs me by the spine, sinking its hooks into my ribs, and then pulls . Hard. Every muscle in my body locks up, stiffening as the air in Romarie becomes thinner, heavier, like I’m being suffocated from the inside out.
It’s worse when I’m fighting to stay. It always is. The more I resist, the more the magic constricts, dragging me deeper into the realm where I belong.
Aggonid barely flinches beside me. He’s done this too many times, used to the agony that comes with being tied to hell itself. But I see it, the slight tension in his jaw, the whisper of pain in his eyes as the underworld calls him home.
Emeric, on the other hand, bares his teeth like a snarling beast, his hand gripping the marble table we’re crowded around so hard the top cracks. His shoulders tense, veins bulging, and his body trembles from the effort of keeping himself grounded in the fae realm. But it’s no use. The magic is relentless.
I’m vaguely aware of the sounds of Romarie—shouts, the clattering of armor as their soldiers return to duty now that we’ve cleared them, the low growls of beasts roaming the king’s lands—but it all fades as the pull grows stronger. My vision narrows, the edges blurring, and the searing pain in my chest explodes like wildfire, spreading through my limbs.
It’s not quick. It never is. The underworld doesn’t grant us the mercy of a clean break. No, it tears us back.
Emeric’s knees buckle first, a growl rumbling in his throat as his grip falters. He drops to the ground, but not in submission—never that. He fights it, claws at the earth like he can physically hold on. But the darkness wraps around him, snatching him back in a violent pull.
Aggonid gives a curt nod, accepting the inevitable, but the grim set of his lips tells me he’s calculating, thinking of what comes next. His body jerks, his form bending at the waist as the magic drags him, as if invisible chains are looped around his soul, pulling him back into a realm of fire and ash.
For me, it’s worse. The pain radiates from me, every heartbeat like a nail being driven into my ribs, twisting deeper with each pulse. My legs buckle beneath me, and I hit the ground hard, my fingers clawing at the smooth marble beneath me and my tail tries to stab at the floor for purchase but gains none. I grit my teeth until I taste blood, refusing to scream. I won’t give the underworld that satisfaction.
The world around me spins, and then, with a violent snap , we’re gone.
Darkness slams into me, freezing and suffocating all at once. The scorching grip of the underworld clamps down on my senses, and the searing pain dulls into a throbbing ache as we land—hard. My knees hit the smooth floor, the breath knocked from my lungs as the umbra swallows us whole before dissipating, as though acknowledging our dominion—an ancient force bowing in recognition of its rulers.
I used to love it here.
Fire, brimstone, and shadows. But I’ve had a taste of the light, of Morte, and without her here, the realm feels heavier. Desolate.
I know Aggonid feels the same.
Everything here reeks of death and decay, proof of where we belong. It clings to us like a second skin, the inescapable weight of the damned.
Aggonid climbs to his feet, staggering up the stairs toward the dais. His movements are slow, heavy, like he’s pulling himself out of a pit. Servants rush forward, eager to assist, but he waves them off with a quick flick of his wrist. He slumps into the throne, the lines of his body drawn tight with exhaustion, defeat lingering in his silence.
Yet even in this state, my mate moves with purpose, his hands already working the air in front of him, weaving the spell to drag Wilder down into our realm. The threads of dark magic curl and twist around his fingers, black as night, and heavier than before. Wilder isn’t dead, and the underworld rejects the living. The magic twists tighter, shimmering with dark energy, and the surrounding air thickens as the spell takes hold. The underworld resists, as it always does with those teeming with life, but Aggonid’s power binds it, bending the realm to his will.
The energy pulses, vibrating through the room, and I catch the scent of saltwater and rain just before the shadows split open.
Wilder materializes, his form flickering as though this cursed place can’t quite decide whether to keep him or spit him out. His body solidifies, the oceanic aura that clings to him stark against the dark backdrop of this cursed place. His long onyx hair spills over shoulders broad enough to hold the gates of hell himself.
Everything about him—his storm-forged beauty, his stance, his air, his scent—is living. Vivid.
Soon we’ll have to kill him. Then perhaps he’ll look more like he belongs and won’t be so much a target for the rest of hell’s inhabitants.
They don’t fuck with Aggonid here, nor would they fuck with Morte. I may not be a god, but I look like one. And if I have a god in me at least once or thrice daily, that must count for something. God-adjacent. As Aggie’s enforcer, they don’t tend to fuck with me, either.
But he’s a pretty massive target.
Wilder stands at center of the throne room, his posture rigid, shoulders squared. He’s as out of place here as a fish pulled from the depths and thrown onto barren land. The faint shimmer of ocean magic lingers around him. His scent—salt, water, and something colder, more ancient—carves through the oppressive gloom. It gnaws at me because it’s something … Something alive .
Other.
But he’s here for her, and for now, that’s enough to tolerate the eye candy.
Emeric watches as Aggonid’s dark magic finishes wrapping around Wilder’s form, his keen eyes narrowing. “How long will this spell hold?”
Aggonid glances up, hands still weaving the final traces of the spell. “A few days, maybe less.”
Wilder doesn’t react to Aggonid’s words, his face set in stone as he meets my mate’s red eyes. He’s bracing himself, as if the underworld’s pull on him doesn’t matter compared to the pull inside him—the one dragging him toward Morte. He doesn’t belong here, not in this realm, not with us. But he’ll have to make do, just like the rest of us. Because she is our home now.
“Alright, I’m here,” Wilder finally says, impatience in his tone. “Where do we start?”
I snarl, pacing, trying to force some of the madness out of my body. “We start by asking the dead who’ve come from Romarie the last few days. One of these fuckers has got to know something.”
Aggonid's eyes darken. “There’s no guarantee we’ll find anyone who knows what happened. People die in droves there—good people who’ve been forced under a tyrant’s thumb, who are left to starve if they won’t work the mines for him.”
“Lucky for us, most of the bad fae who end up here from Romarie are guards, or others in close proximity to his reign. I’ll start taking fingers and toes until they give us something,” I grind out, my hands twitching for the handle of my pruning shears. “Someone has seen something. If they’ve been near King Valtorious or his fucking son, they’ll wish they hadn’t.”
As one, we stalk towards the throne room doors and into the bowels of the castle that will spit us out at the holding ground.
We journey through the dark recesses of the underworld, navigating the never-ending maze of darkness and rugged terrain made up of the castle’s underbelly.
The scent of sulfur, caries, and ichor clings to the air, familiar and almost comforting in its grim reality. But there's no time to savor the violence that lingers here.
Here, I am the Warden, the Sorrowbringer, the Painkeeper, and the Time Weaver, ordained by Aggonid to dole out his wrath, but the Severed—those bound by ancient oaths to maintain order and inflict precise punishment in my absence—carry out my duties in my absence. They aren’t the ordinary denizens of hell running amok; they are the rule keepers, the enforcers of a strict and incessant justice.
And I find I don't miss it, not when I've tasted rain on Morte's skin, the fire of her touch still branding my soul.
We step into the holding ground, where the dead linger before the underworld swallows them whole. Miles below the castle, where molten lava spews, I chance a glance at Wilder.
The atmosphere thickens immediately, pressing in on all sides, as though the very air takes measure of our secrets and seeks to choke the life from anyone who dares tread here.
Oops .
I stalk over to where he’s pulling at his collar, desperate to relieve himself of his garments in the sweltering heat. After yanking on his hand, I draw it to my mouth. He recoils, but I hold firm as my claws dig into his wrist, spilling his blood. I run my tongue across it, tasting sea salt and the fire of our shared mate as I close my eyes to savor it before opening them again.
His lifeblood drips down my fingers, and both of our elbows, before finding its home amongst the bedrock. It sizzles on contact, and I watch as the Underworld accepts his due. A short incantation passes my lips, and the tension in Wilder’s shoulders eases, the sweat on his brow disappearing as my cooling spell takes hold.
I meet Aggonid’s red eyes as he narrows them at me. Blood isn’t necessary for this spell, and he doesn’t like when I taste another’s.
He loathes it.
But this is for our benefit—now that I’ve had a taste, Wilder’s essence lingers within me, amplifying my strength here in the underworld. I can’t track Morte through it, but it sharpens my senses, makes me more attuned to any disruptions in this realm, as he is other . Wilder’s magic is foreign to this place, an oceanic pulse against the underworld’s death-laden hum. I need every edge, every advantage, if we’re to find her before it’s too late.
Wilder’s deep blue eyes flick to me, suspicion swimming just beneath the surface. He tilts his head, and I see the question forming before it even leaves his lips.
“A little spell to make your visit here … tolerable.” I smirk as I drag my eyes over him. “Unless you’d prefer to experience the underworld as it’s meant to be—scorching misery and eternal discomfort. Though I admit, you look like you can handle a little heat.”
I bet our little phoenix looks exquisite on his perch.
His expression doesn’t shift, but the magic hums between us. I let out a low laugh and lift a hand, deliberately wiping his blood from my lips with a flourish. “The blood? Just a bonus. Your essence lingers in me now, makes me more attuned to any disruptions in the bond with Morte. Think of it as sharing a little piece of yourself—for the greater good, of course.” I lean closer, my voice dropping to something just shy of a purr. “Don’t worry, fish. I don’t bite … unless you ask nicely.”
Aggonid shifts, and his gaze burns into mine as I catch him over Wilder’s shoulder, his possessiveness spilling out in the form of his shadows. They race to my side and wrap themselves around my leg. He knows my intentions, but it doesn’t quell his jealousy. No one’s blood should touch me but his. Or Morte’s.
“Should’ve mentioned the heat before we got down here.” I shrug as I swing my attention back to Wilder. He won’t make that mistake again. “I could’ve made it cooler when we were still in the throne room.”
The few who eventually end up carving a life for themselves in the Underworld eventually earn privileges, like a cooling spell, a way to earn a meager living, or if they win one of the wild hunts, a favor from Aggonid .
He scowls at me as he retracts his hand and straightens his clothes before wiping his blood on his dark blue button-up shirt.