12. Chapter Twelve
CHAPTER TWELVE
CAIUS
I n the far corner, shadows part, and a grin splits my face. “Just who we needed to see!”
The others turn to see who I’m talking about. Rook steps out from the dark, a figure draped in black like the night itself. He leads the reapers. His presence hits first, a cold, silent authority. Tall and lean, his movements flow with an effortless grace, as though he’s carved from the very shadows he commands. A skeletal mask hides most of his face, sharp lines and dark metal winking in the lambent light, but beneath that mask, I can sense something dangerous—something raw.
He's my favorite, and not because he came up with a cute little nickname for their small group of reapers—the Gravewoken. No, it’s because he’s every bit as unhinged as I am.
You have to be to pull the dead from their loved one’s arms, or yank their souls from battlefields full of gore.
His eyes are the only part of him fully exposed, piercing and ice-cold, the color shifting between molten silver and deep onyx, framed by lashes too dark and thick to belong to someone so menacing. Those eyes don’t just look; they devour, like they could see through your soul and tear apart whatever weakness they find.
The rest of him is hidden as he bows his head in greeting, the mask covering everything above his lips, leaving just enough of his angular jaw visible to catch the faintest hint of stubble before he raises his gaze to meet Aggonid’s. A lock of raven-black hair falls over his brow, stark against the pale skin that’s visible. He wears his darkness well, cloaked in a long, fitted coat that hugs his broad shoulders and tapers down to his waist, the fabric draping perfectly over his muscled frame. Everything about him screams danger, yet there’s something undeniably magnetic about it—like a predator who knows exactly how beautiful he looks to his prey.
I watch as the others emerge behind him, a silent parade of death's acolytes. The reapers, clad similarly in varying shades of obsidian and gray, are like extensions of Rook's own shadow—fluid and just as lethal. With every step they take, the air grows colder, the whispers of the damned louder. Their scythes almost whistle as they glide towards us.
Cyris.
Oryx.
And Sevrin.
They call themselves the Gravewoken . Four of our best reapers.
They’re the ones who claw the dead from their pathetic last breaths, dragging them across the threshold into whatever afterlife awaits. When the newly departed hear their call—it’s the first haunting knell of a bell that can’t be unrung.
Each one of them moves with the same eerie grace, but it’s Rook who commands the space, his presence dominating even among those who wield death like an art form. His reapers fall in line behind him, obedient but untamed, waiting for his command.
Cyris, with his lean build and a smirk that’s more dangerous than playful, keeps his blade strapped to his back like a promise of violence. Oryx’s hulking frame towers over the others, his movements slower, measured, as though he relishes the torment his arrival brings. And Sevrin glides soundlessly, his cloak barely grazing the ground, the only hint of his existence the feeble shimmer of light reflecting off the metal at his side.
“We need the new arrivals,” Aggonid tells Rook. “From Romarie. ”
Rook gestures to a huddled group to the side, their forms flickering between the last remnants of life and the full reality of death. They’re fresh, their souls not yet resigned to the hell they now call home. They’ve stepped from one hell into another, but this one strips away every pretense of hope. There is no light, no mercy—only the suffocating grip of this realm, unraveling them piece by piece.
Emeric steps forward first, his cold, predatory stare sweeping the group. “Spread out. We’ll interrogate them one by one.”
I stride toward the first male, a scrawny figure with a bloodied tunic, his eyes wide and unblinking. A soldier, no doubt. He reeks of fear.
I grab him by the front of his shirt and yank him forward, nearly lifting him off his feet. “You came from Romarie. Did you see her?”
He trembles. “I—I don’t know who you’re talking about.”
“Where is my mate?” I slam his head against the rock. “The phoenix fae held by your king. Where. Did. They. Take. Her?”
The man’s face pales, and his eyes dart around wildly. “I—I didn’t see her, but I heard the guards talking. They said ... they said the king took someone important. But I swear, I don’t know where.”
I snarl and shove him aside, disgust curling in my gut, but I sense no lies. One of the reasons I was made Aggonid’s right hand in the first place was my ability to discern lies, but only in the new arrivals—when life still clings to their skin. “Useless.”
The madness inside me swells, and I round on the next soul—a grizzled man with a cruel sneer still plastered on his face, even in death. His red hair is short, all harsh planes of his cheekbones jutting out at unnatural angles, yellow eyes narrowed at me. His armor is bloodied, but he stands with the arrogance of a man who has yet to grasp the hell awaiting him.
This one will talk.
Aggonid steps forward, his hand glowing with dark energy. “You’ll want to answer his questions,” Aggonid murmurs.
Aggie and I make such a great team. I’m the big, beautiful, scary mate—the one they can’t stop looking at, even when they’re terrified. And Aggie? He’s the lean, razor-edged nightmare. The predator who doesn’t have to raise his voice to make a room go cold. While I’m all fangs and chaos, he’s the quiet promise of a fate worse than death.
The soldier’s sneer falters, but he says nothing.
I step in front of him, close enough that I can smell the rot of his blood and feel the trembling in his limbs that his face betrays. “Where did they take her?” I growl, my fingers twitching with the need to tear him apart if he doesn’t speak.
His lip curls. “You’re too late.”
My patience snaps. I grip the back of his neck and squeeze, forcing him to his knees as he gasps for breath. “Talk, or I’ll make sure your eternity here is worse than anything you’ve experienced in life.”
He lets out a ragged laugh, one that grates against my last nerve. “They took her to the woods ... but you’ll never find her. They’ve hidden her too well.”
“Which woods?” I tighten my grip, my claws digging into his flesh, but he only smirks.
Aggonid’s magic pulses beside me, the putrid scent of brimstone curling through the air, suffocating in its intensity. He steps closer, his hand lifting, tendrils of power curling around the soldier’s throat. “Where?”
The man’s sneer fades, his eyes widening in terror. His voice cracks. “Not in Romarie ...”
Finally, we can rule something out.
But something still gnaws at me, a sense that this isn’t the full picture. This man may have given us a clue, because of course King Valtorious wouldn’t make it that easy. He’s not going to take her where he knows we’ll look first.
So, where the fuck are they?
Earth?
Aggonid tightens his magic, forcing more words from the guard’s throat. “How did they mask her?”
The soldier's eyes flicker with unease. “Blood. Blood magic ... and her cuffs. I don’t know anything else.”
Of course it’s blood magic.
“Fucking Azazel,” I seethe .
“He’s the asshole that killed me,” he heaves out.
My head snaps up. “What did you say?”
“Bastard son killed me because he didn’t like the way I restrained the captive.”
I still. “Are you saying you’re the one who restrained my mate?”
The soldier’s face pales, but he can’t hide the hint of twisted pride that flashes across his eyes. "Aye, I was the one. King’s orders."
Something deep inside me shifts, a predator recognizing its prey, as I close the distance between us. The soldier’s breath stutters, his smug satisfaction crumbling under the weight of my scrutiny.