Chapter 56
ChApter
Fifty-Six
Dante
The valley lies before us like a graveyard of twisted hemlock, gnarled and blackened by the relentless cold.
Mist hovers low to the ground, swirling in ghostly tendrils around the horses’ hooves.
Every breath clouds the air in front of my face, the chill sinking past my cloak and numbing my skin beneath the layers.
We’ve been on the move for days, the world narrowing to a rhythm of hooves, creaking saddles, and the rasp of weary lungs.
Sleep comes in fragments, stolen in shifts against hard earth and colder stone, and even then, it never holds.
When we move, we move with precision, and every mile closer knots the tension tighter between my shoulders.
At dawn, we made the choice to split our forces—an old gamble but a necessary one.
A column of soldiers peeled north, tasked with circling wide and cutting off any retreat.
Another squad veered east, skirting the ridges to find higher ground.
And now the rest ride with me: Celeste’s squad keeping close, Sir Holden and Sir Donovan grim-faced and watchful, and General Kormak out ahead, clearing the way with the efficiency of a man who’s lived half his life in the wild.
The silence among us is telling. No one dares waste words when the wrong sound might carry.
The soldiers glance at the trees as though eyes hide within the twisted bark, as though the forest itself resents our intrusion.
I catch the same unease in my companions—the stiffness of their posture, the way hands linger near sword hilts.
We’re enveloping a predator’s den, and every instinct screams that it already knows we’re here.
We move slowly, each step a struggle. The thick carpet of hemlock grabs at our boots and the horses’ legs, making the beasts snort and toss their heads in protest. Mylo rides ahead, his hatchet flashing now and then as he hacks a path through the thickest snarls.
The sound of it—thwack, thwack—echoes eerily through the valley, swallowed almost instantly by the heavy fog.
I tighten my grip on the reins, my knuckles white against the leather. I can feel my horse’s unease—hear it in the restless stamping of his hooves. As if even the animals know we are deep in enemy territory.
Giorgi rides to my left, their sharp eyes scanning the broken terrain ahead, even as the mist thickens around us. Their presence is a steady reassurance. If anyone can guide us through this cursed valley without getting us killed, it’s Giorgi.
But even their skill doesn’t ease the knot in my gut.
I lean forward slightly in the saddle, my heart hammering in my ears, as if somehow, I can will myself to hear her voice across this cursed wasteland.
“Celeste. I hear you.” I know she can’t hear me, but I send the thought anyway, fierce and desperate. “Hold on. I’m coming.”
There is a faint shift in the air. So faint, I almost miss it, but a whisper brushes against the edge of my mind. Not words, not fully, but something. A feeling. A flicker of fear… and hope.
I stiffen, jerking my gaze upward.
“Did you feel that?” I rasp, barely above a whisper.
Mylo glances back at me, frowning. Giorgi shakes their head once, scanning the mist. No one else felt it.
But I know I did.
I clench my jaw, urging my horse forward, heart thrumming painfully against my ribs. She’s alive. She’s fighting.
And he has her.
The thought of Torbin—of my deceitful brother—touching her, threatening her, sends a white-hot surge of rage through my chest. My hands tighten so hard around the reins that the leather cuts into my palms, but I don’t care. I won’t care until she’s safe in my arms again.
A low branch snaps against my shoulder as we push through another thicket of hemlock. I barely feel it. My mind is a tunnel of single-minded fury now, aimed straight at the heart of Dulcamar.
Torbin will pay for this.
I swear it on every breath I have left.
Ahead, Giorgi raises a hand, signaling for us to slow. The mist parts just enough for me to make out the outline of a crumbling wall—stone, ancient and weatherworn, cloaked in the same ghostly vines that infest the valley.
Beyond it, shrouded in shadow and fog, looms the fortress of Dulcamar.
My pulse pounds harder, my breath frosting in the air.
“There’s a side entrance,” Giorgi murmurs, barely audible over the creaking of leather and the distant moan of the wind. “Northwest corner. Looks like it’s fallen into disrepair. If we’re careful, we can get through without being seen.”
I nod once, sharp and decisive. “Let’s move.”
We dismount near a crag of broken stone half-hidden by the mist. The fortress looms above, its black towers dissolving into the clouds, walls crusted with frost and lichen.
The air is sharp enough to cut skin, and as I fumble with the reins, my fingers ache with the cold, stiff and clumsy inside my gloves.
Mylo ties off the horses quickly, whispering soothing words to them as they shudder against the icy ground. Kormak checks the straps twice, ever methodical, even as the wind bites at us with each passing second.
Aila comes up beside me, tugging her cloak tighter around her shoulders. Her breath billows white into the air as she glances toward the fortress.
“You’ve literally gone to the ends of the earth for her. She must mean a lot to you,” she says, her voice low but not accusing.
I tighten the knot on my horse’s reins and stare up at the monstrous silhouette of Dulcamar.
“She is my life,” I say, the words scraping raw against my throat. “Without her… there’s nothing left worth living for.”
Aila watches me for a moment, her dark hair plastered against her cheeks from the damp wind. Then she nods once, firm and sure. “Good. Then you’ll fight like hell to bring her home.”
I meet her gaze. “Nothing will stop me.”
Not the tsar.
Not Torbin.
Not even the gods themselves.
Giorgi finishes securing the last of the horses and signals that they’re ready.
We fall into a crouch, moving low across the frozen earth toward the crumbled breach in the wall. The wind tears at us, carrying the smell of smoke and cold stone. Each step feels heavier, not just from the thick hemlock tangling at our boots, but from the weight of what lies ahead.
The fortress waits, silent and watching.
My blood thrums in my ears as we slip into its shadow, ready to tear it apart stone by stone if that’s what it takes to bring her back.
All at once, the sky seems to crack open.
A thunderous boom echoes across the grounds, as sharp and sudden as a war drum. I jerk my head up just in time to see the glass windows of the fortress explode in a hail of shimmering shards, like frozen stars flung from the sky.
The squad drops lower by instinct, shields half-raised, but there are no arrows—only the echo of shattering glass and the sharp, startled shouts that follow.
Then a voice carries over the courtyard. Cold, commanding, unmistakable.
“Seal the halls! Find them! I want them alive!”
Torbin. His bark of authority reverberates off the stone, snapping the guards to attention.
Lorne stills beside me, head tilted just slightly, like a wolf catching a scent.
“That him?” he asks under his breath.
I nod, pulse thudding. “That’s him.”
Lorne grins, teeth flashing in the dark. “Good. I can work with that.”
He means his voice magic. I smirk in return. He’ll have what he needs when we breach deeper.
We slip into the fortress through a gap in the crumbling outer wall, the stones slick with ice, the mortar between them cracked and blackened with age. The cold wraps around us like a second skin, repressing every breath, numbing every movement.
But the fire in my chest burns hotter than ever.
Inside, the air is worse—stagnant and metallic, heavy with the scent of burning wood and something fouler beneath it. I grind my teeth as I creep forward, my hand brushing the hilt of my sword to steady myself.
Aila moves like a shadow beside me, her crossbow drawn and ready.
Mylo’s boots make almost no sound despite his massive frame, and Giorgi leads us with quick, sharp gestures, their navigation senses tuned sharper than any of ours.
Isaac brings up the rear, his hand tight around the grip of his crossbow.
We weave through abandoned corridors and service tunnels, the stones beneath our boots slick with frost. The only light comes from the occasional torch sputtering weakly on the walls, casting warped shadows that lurch and stretch across the uneven ground.
Giorgi halts us at an intersection, their hand shooting up in a clenched fist. We press to the wall, holding our breath.
Footfalls.
Two guards, cloaked in Dulcamar’s black and red, their breath misting visibly in the freezing air, round the corner ahead. Their hands rest lazily on the hilts of their weapons, unaware.
Kormak signals something to the squad. Giorgi flicks two fingers to Isaac, who nods, slipping into the darkness.
The moment the guards pass, Isaac moves. As swift and silent as a striking viper, he takes one down with a quick arrow to the throat. Giorgi disables the second with a brutal strike to the temple, catching the man’s body before it can hit the ground.
No noise. No alarm.
We move again.
Every step draws us deeper into the beast’s belly, where the cold seems to seep into our bones, where even our own heartbeats feel too loud.
The floor suddenly begins to tremble, and we freeze. The disturbance lingers, and I swear I hear a low, grumbling growl. We exchange glances until the sound dissipates.
I tighten my grip on my sword, my jaw clenching so hard, it aches. Every instinct in me howls to run ahead, to tear apart every stone until I have Celeste in my arms again. But I force myself to stay with the others, to move carefully, methodically.
If I get reckless now, I’ll never reach her.
As we climb a flight of stone stairs, heavy footfalls echo from the hall ahead—guards shouting to one another, their voices bouncing off the stone like sharp blades.
“Seal the main floor!” one of the guards shouts. “No one gets past—by order of the prince!”
We press ourselves into the shadows of an alcove, backs against the cold stone, breath low and shallow. The clatter of boots grows louder. Too many of them. We’ll be cornered if we don’t act fast.
Lorne creeps forward, his hand cupped around his mouth, eyes glinting with anticipation.
“Hold,” Dante murmurs.
Lorne’s calls out, clear and sharp—but it’s not his voice. “All of you—back to the east wing! Double the guard there, now!” Torbin’s voice. Commanding. Absolute.
The guards stumble to a halt mid-stride. For a heartbeat, there’s confusion—then swift obedience. They turn on their heels, boots hammering the floor as they rush in the opposite direction.
When their footsteps fade, Lorne turns back to us, a smug glimmer in his eye. “That’ll buy us a bit of time.”
I flash him a nod. We push deeper into the dark, the path ahead clearer, though the stakes only grow heavier with each step.
We climb a narrow, stone stairwell, the steps slick with frozen dew, and Giorgi motions to a heavy, wooden door up ahead.
Aila gives me a look, fierce and certain, as she readies her sword. Mylo hefts his hatchet, Isaac holds up his crossbow, and Giorgi readies a short, wicked blade.
Kormak looks back at us with a nod before throwing open the door.
We mean to barge in and strike fast, but for a heartbeat, the world stills.
The corridor is filled with chained carnoraxis.
They surge from the shadows—hulking beasts of twisted flesh and sinew, their black claws gleaming under the guttering torchlight.
Their snarls are low and guttural, their eyes burning red as they lunge toward us with terrifying speed.
Their collars are connected to chains bolted to the brick walls, but they can still reach us.
“Hold the line!” Kormak roars, his sword already singing from its sheath.
The first carnoraxis slams into me, claws raking out.
I pivot, driving my sword clean through its throat, but not before its jagged claw tears a deep gash across my forearm.
The blood splatters warm and fast against the icy stone before I even feel the sting of pain.
I grit my teeth and swing my falchion, slicing it through before shoving the creature’s body aside.
I continue to slash through the horde, but I take in the battle in my periphery.
A beast barrels toward Isaac, who twists just in time, but not fast enough.
A curved claw scores a brutal line across his cheek, blood spilling bright against the pale stretch of his skin.
Isaac staggers but doesn’t fall. His crossbow releases a bolt, and the creature crumples at his feet.
Aila looses an arrow at another beast, striking it clean between the eyes—but the recoil jolts her injured arm, and she hisses in pain, clutching it against her chest.
“Mylo!” she snarls, backing toward him. “You better be ready to cover my ass!”
Mylo swings his hatchet in a vicious arc, cleaving through another carnoraxis with a roar. “I was born ready, lieutenant.”
But in the chaos, he doesn’t see the creature lunging at him from the blind spot behind his shoulder.
Aila does.
Battered arm and all, she steps in, wielding her sword one-handed. It hits home, the beast collapsing mid-lunge.
“You owe me.” She pants, flashing him a wild grin.
“Buy you a whole tavern if we survive this!” Mylo growls, swinging again.
A stairway comes into view, and everything inside of me is telling me I need to climb up. Celeste is near. I can feel her presence like a pulse beneath my skin, a frantic drumbeat calling me home.
“Go!” Aila shouts to me, planting her boot into a carnoraxis’s chest and slamming her sword into its throat. “We’ll hold them!”
I bolt through the chaos, boots pounding up the narrow, stone stairway sodden with ice and blood. My lungs burn with each breath, the wound on my forearm slick and seeping, but I don’t slow.
Nothing matters but getting to her.