Chapter 20 Garrett
I’ve served as a Valorian Commander for centuries, and in all that time, I’ve never felt fear quite like this.
We move through the halls of the Palace of Bones silently.
The name fits. Massive rib cages form archways above us, vertebrae rise in stacked pillars, and thousands of skulls have been pressed into the floor to create grotesque mosaics.
Ancient magic hums through every polished surface.
It’s so powerful that I feel it vibrating through the soles of my boots.
Her Highness leads with Svenn—Arescaine, at her side. The vampire’s shadow keeps us hidden from patrols.
I glance at the others following behind them. Lord Rainer walks with one hand resting near his weapon while his Grimsbane, Shade, moves beside him. Cedwyn keeps close to the center of our group, pale but determined. Then there is the wolf.
The creature pads alongside us, massive and silent.
Every time I look at it, I feel something twist in my chest. I am certain it is the same wolf that broke into my room and sank its teeth into my right arm.
The scar still aches whenever I remember that night.
Because of that injury, I failed to protect Rhianelle properly when the Ashmedai attacked us in the human world.
Svenn once told me the wolf was an elf. I could never decide whether he was telling the truth or merely amusing himself at my expense.
Yet, watching the creature now, I can almost believe it.
There is something disturbingly familiar in the way it moves and tilts its head whenever someone speaks.
No ordinary animal should possess that much intelligence in its sapphire eyes.
It reminds me of someone. A person I have tried very hard not to think about.
A Grimsbane who broke my fucking heart when he abandoned me the moment his contract ended.
No. I shake my head, forcing the thought away. That was a lifetime ago.
It is almost amusing that the assassin’s codename was Wolf. Perhaps the gods have decided I have not suffered enough and sent this creature to torment me.
Love makes fools of us all. It finds the weakest place inside a person and hollows it out until nothing remains but longing and regret.
I look at Svenn walking beside Her Highness.
He loved her, and it destroyed him completely.
His devotion is useless because she doesn’t even remember him.
I used to think love was noble. Now I think it just looks like a different kind of dying.
The wolf keeps glancing at me. Each time it does, that ache in my chest grows stronger.
“Garrett.” Svenn’s whisper pulls me back to the present. “Stay focused.”
“I am focused,” I bite back. We’re here to save Landon and stop this war. Personal ghosts and mysterious wolves can wait.
We round a corner and Rhianelle stops so abruptly I nearly run into her.
“What is it?” Svenn asks, already scanning for threats.
She points through an archway that opens onto an interior courtyard. “Dorcha.”
I follow her gaze and feel my blood run cold.
Landon’s wyvern is chained in the center of the courtyard, massive iron links wrapped around her neck, wings, and legs. Her head hangs low. I can see deep gouges, open wounds, and burn marks where scales have been torn away.
“They’re torturing her,” Rhianelle whispers, her voice breaking.
“To break Landon,” Svenn says quietly.
I’ve heard of it. The connection between rider and wyvern is almost as strong as the mate bond between lovers. If Dorcha suffers, Landon suffers. From the state of the wyvern, Landon must be in agony.
Rhianelle darts through the archway before any of us can stop her. Rainer seizes her arm while Svenn catches her around the waist. They drag her back into the shelter of Svenn’s shadow before the guards patrolling the courtyard can see her.
“Let me go.” She struggles against them, reaching toward Dorcha. “We cannot leave her like this.”
“We can’t free her now,” Rainer says, keeping his voice low despite her attempts to wrench herself free. “We’ll come back for her after we have Landon.”
Rhianelle nods, but I see tears streaming down her face. The wolf whines softly, pressing against her leg in comfort. She absently runs her fingers through its fur.
We move on, descending deeper into the palace. The beauty fades the farther down we go. Crystal gives way to rough stone, starlight to torchlight, elegance to something older and darker.
We press against the walls, weapons drawn, as footsteps echo down the corridor.
“The deep cells should be—” Svenn stops mid-sentence, his head snapping up. “Wait.”
“What?” I whisper.
The floor vanishes beneath us.
I reach for the wall, but my fingers pass through the bone as if it has become smoke. We plunge into darkness. Enchantments tear across my skin as we fall through layer after layer of ancient magic, dragged toward the heart of the palace.
Svenn’s shadow surges beneath us at the last moment, spreading into a vast dark canopy that slows our fall.
We still hit the floor hard enough to scatter across the chamber, but none of us break our necks.
I strike the stone hard enough to drive the breath from my lungs.
Pain flashes through my ribs. I force myself up and roll to my feet with my sword already drawn.
We have fallen into a vast throne room. Silver branches twist across the high ceiling, tangled with ancient oak roots that have grown through the bone-white walls. Green flames burn inside suspended skulls, casting a sickly light across the chamber.
At the far end stands a throne made from silver and blackened oak, its branches curling around the seat like grasping fingers. A long table stands at the center of the room, and the figures seated around it make my blood run cold.
The Fae King, Eirik Bloodhound, sits at its head.
Beside him sits another figure, a human—no.
A vampire with eyes lined with kohl.
“Bas,” Svenn whispers, and I hear the anguish in his voice. “Brother, what have they done to you?”
The vampire looks at Svenn with eyes full of sorrow and recognition, but he does not speak.
“He cannot answer you,” a voice says from the shadows. “But I can, brother. Welcome home.”
A man steps forward, tall and dark-haired, with features similar enough to Svenn’s that the blood between them is unmistakable.
“Ruthven,” Svenn says, and the name sounds like a curse.
“Surprised to see me?” Ruthven grins, revealing fangs. “You shouldn’t be. Where else would I be but at the side of my beloved?”
A woman materializes beside him. Morgaine. The Fae King’s human enchantress.
“Lilith,” Rhianelle breathes.
The thing wearing the mistress’s body smiles. “Hello, little queen. How kind of you to accept my invitation.”
“This was all you.” Rhianelle takes a step forward, fury cutting through her fear. “You possessed the king’s mistress. You’ve been controlling the Fae King. You orchestrated this entire war.”
“I did.” Lilith laughs. “But do not grant me glory I have not earned. Eirik summoned the Hunt long before I borrowed his precious little witch. Aelfheim was doomed for war with or without me.”
Lilith moves behind the Fae King and trails her fingers over his cheek in a mockery of tenderness. Ruthven’s smile tightens as he watches her touch the king.
“Isn’t that right, my love?” Lilith asks.
Eirik jerks against the enchantment holding him. For one fleeting moment, something lucid enters his eyes. “Give Morgaine back to me,” he snarls.
Lilith’s smile disappears. “Behave.”
She takes a knife from the table and drives it through the back of his hand, pinning him to the wood. Eirik roars in pain but does not retaliate. His free hand curls into a fist, trembling with the effort of resisting what holds him.
“What do you want?” Svenn demands.
“What I’ve always wanted, my darling creation.” Lilith moves toward him, her movements serpentine. “To reclaim what was stolen from me. I want you back.”
I don’t understand what she means, but I see Svenn’s face go white.
Beside me, Rhianelle begins to tremble. Her eyes are fixed on something beyond the throne. I follow her gaze to the far wall, where a body has been mounted like a trophy upon the massive dead tree that spreads across the bone-white surface.
Landon.
The Herald of the Wild Hunt hangs from the tree behind the throne, his arms spread wide, iron stakes driven through his palms. His right arm is missing below the elbow and his body is covered in wounds.
“Landon!” Rhianelle’s scream tears from her throat, raw and agonized.
She starts running toward him, but Ruthven moves to block her path. “Ah ah ah, little queen. You’ll have to get through us first.”
Rhianelle’s eyes never leave Landon’s broken form. “I’ll get you down,” she calls to him. “I’ll heal you. I promise.”
Landon remains unresponsive.
Rhianelle turns on Lilith. Light gathers around her hands, bright enough to push back the green glow of the chamber. “If he dies, there will be nowhere in any world you can hide from me. I will end you myself.”
“No, you won’t.” Lilith smiles. “Because the moment you move against me, I will have my pets tear your beloved Herald apart. What remains of him, anyway.”
She gestures toward the table. The Fae King raises his head, his vacant eyes fixing on Rhianelle. Bas rises beside him with visible effort, his body obeying even as horror fills his face.
“A king and a Strigon,” Lilith says. “Both prepared to fight the moment I command it. Do you truly believe you can reach Landon before they reach you?”
“Let him go,” Rhianelle says. “Release him now, or I swear there will not be enough left of you for Hel to claim.”
I have never heard my queen deliver a threat before. She does not raise her voice or bare her teeth, yet every hair on my arms rises. For a heartbeat, true fear flashes across Lilith’s face.
Then it is gone.
Lilith knows what I know. Rhianelle is stretched thin. She summoned eighteen creatures from Astefar onto the battlefield, and whatever power that required has left its mark upon her.