Let the Hunt Continue
KING ANDREAS
“Where in my gods-damned kingdom is this woman hiding?” I clench my jaw, the crown on my brow feeling heavier than ever. Anger pulses through me, a steady, furious beat that has been my constant companion for weeks.
I curl the fingers of my right hand into a fist. “She has a bright blue Mark in the middle of her forehead. She’s very fucking noticeable!”
Crimson tinges my vision, creeping towards the center of my eyes. I grip the edge of the massive mahogany table that takes up most of the space in my council chamber with my left hand and slam my other fist on the map spread across the shiny surface.
“Myreth isn’t endless,” I snarl. My skin glows a muted red, a reminder of my power. “Where in Esyn’s bloody name could she be?”
The question is not rhetorical, but not a single person answers.
I glare at my twelve council members in turn. They’re sitting like marble statues, all staring at me. Fucking useless, the lot of them.
“Anyone?” I growl, fury bubbling in my chest. My collarbone heats, and embers rise above my fist. A threat. A reminder of who they’re dealing with. Of what will happen to anyone who crosses me.
Anton Varis, the lord of the western province of Hent, swallows and looks away.
Coward.
I shove away from the table, but before I can make my way over to the weakling, a throat is cleared on my right.
“Every person in Grenbloom has been cleared, Your Majesty.” Lord Malachi Darkwater, the ruler of the province of Eskana, taps the map.
His blond hair is straight, and his tunic and pants are well designed, made of the finest linens.
“The girl’s village, her family, and the surrounding area are being watched.
If she steps back in my province, I will know. ”
“Well, at least someone is doing their fucking job.”
Darkwater dips his chin in deference.
I turn back to the other lords. “Anyone else have any news about the woman?”
This damned gods-blessed is ruining everything. Ever since she got away with her sisters and my errant son, finding her is all I can think about, all I can focus on.
Complete, utter silence expands, filling the room.
“Anyone?” The word is a snarl ripped from my chest.
Every one of my council members, save Lord Darkwater, studiously studies the map, avoiding me. Even Samir, my Hand, has nothing to say.
“Useless suns-damned fools,” I snarl, curling my fingers around the back of an empty chair. “We need to find her!”
She stole what rightfully belongs to me.
Fury pulses in my veins, and I fling the chair at the wall. Well made though it was, it smashes into pieces. None of the council members even flinch—they know better than to react.
Gods, these men. I look them over, hatred filling my heart. They rarely have anything helpful to add, and if I didn’t need them to run the country during the Giving Season so I can focus on my Harvests, I wouldn’t even bother with them.
Unfortunately, powerful though I am, I cannot be in two places at once.
“This hunt is vital. The girl must be found. Every day she is missing is another day that could ruin everything.”
It could ruin me.
“What if we don’t find her?” The question is so quiet, I almost miss it.
My eyes snap to Lord Varis. He’s looking at the table with the rest of them, but I know I heard him. How dare he suggest that I might fail all because of a girl?
I’m at the lord’s side in a flash. My hand is around his throat in the next heartbeat. I drag him out of his chair and slam his body into the wall.
Lord Varis’s teeth clatter, and he trembles.
“I’m sorry, Anton,” I grind out. “Did you have something to add?”
The council chamber is silent behind me.
His cowardly eyes widen. “N-n-no, Your Majesty. I just . . .”
“Repeat it,” I growl, my eyes inches from his.
He swallows. “I . . . I . . .”
I squeeze his neck, his pulse racing beneath my touch. “Tell. Them.”
There is no room in my council for people who think I am weak.
The lord’s skin pales, and his lips tremble.
“Say it!” I roar.
Lord Varis shakes beneath me as he repeats the question that doomed him. Then he adds, “Your Majesty, I swear, I didn’t mean to imply that—”
He never finishes his sentence.
Forming a dagger out of crimson magic, I slash it across Anton’s throat. Blood sprays from his severed neck as his body falls. None of it lands on me, bouncing off the shield of magic I erect without a second thought.
I dissolve the dagger, drying my fingers on a handkerchief before turning around. The servants will clean up this mess.
Killing Lord Varis did not ease the living flames beneath my skin. If anything, it stoked them higher. They are burning, burning, burning, waiting to devour me alive, needing to be released.
“If you can’t help me, then perhaps I will—”
“King Andreas!” The door swings open, banging into the wall. A messenger in black is in the doorway, out of breath. “A troop of Protectors sent word from the dungeon. They have a lead.”
The flames beneath my skin reach new heights. “About the girl?” My voice is rough.
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
For the first time in days, there’s a sensation in my body other than complete anger. Finally, someone is doing their fucking job.
I shove off from the table and step around the corpse, leaving the rest of my council without a second glance. They’ll either follow me, or they’ll find themselves as permanent residents in the dungeon alongside the others who have displeased me.
After all, as Lord Varis was reminded, in my kingdom, there are only two options: Do as I say or rue the day you were born.
A symphony of wails greets me as I march into the dungeon. The sounds of pain and agony are a balm to the anger burrowing in my bones.
Sharp talons dig into my shoulder, a welcome presence. Shadow, my bonded eagle, is my ever-present companion. He answered my summons the moment I left the council chambers, and he has been resting on my shoulder ever since.
Even when he isn’t with me, I can always feel him. Our connection is fluid, fed by the Harvests, and his thoughts and feelings flow through me as though they were my own. They have done so ever since the day our familiar bond snapped into place.
Unlike my Hunters, who have forged bonds, I can peer through Shadow’s eyes as easily as my own, feel his emotions as though they originated from me. His anger is nearly as strong as mine, and I know he wants this situation resolved as much as I do.
“Your Majesty, please, have mercy,” a woman with stringy pale pink hair whimpers, her voice grating against my nerves. She’s kneeling at the front of her cell, her clothes reduced to rags. “I don’t know why I’m here,” she sobs. “I didn’t do anything wrong.”
I stride past, ignoring her.
In the compartment next to her, a man with silver hair is staring listlessly at the ceiling. He doesn’t even seem to register my passing.
Shadow and I continue onwards.
A few cells down, the prisoner resembles a living skeleton. He’s of average height, and dried blood decorates most of his body. What was once a tunic now hangs on thin bones, barely covering him.
The moment the prisoner sees me, an unintelligible scream erupts from his lips. It’s sharp and loud and everything wrong with the world.
“Shut up,” I snarl, halting my progress in front of his cell. I’m not here for him, but his shouting irritates me.
Skeletal fingers reach through the bars as the scream reaches heights I never thought possible.
“By the gods, that’s enough!” I yank on my magic.
Crimson explodes from my hands—a flurry of red aimed at the prisoner’s heart. The scream crescendos as flames encase his body. Licking. Devouring. Louder and louder and louder, until . . .
Silence.
Beautiful, serene silence.
The charred prisoner falls to the ground, dead. I do not remember what he did to end up here, nor do I care. Everyone in my dungeon has earned their place.
I can feel the weight of eyes on me, but no one says anything. I continue on my way. Down, down, down. A permanent perfume of death and decay lingers, and my nostrils flare at the scent. The walls are narrower, and the darkness seems more absolute.
The suns’ rays don’t reach this far below the soil, and even the lanterns’ light seems dimmer than earlier.
Darkness sweeps around me like a hug. This is where I’ve always felt the most at home.
Here, in the dungeon, where I can work away from prying eyes.
Delve into the dark gifts that are my birthright, practice wielding the magic I acquire each Harvest.
The cell I seek is a level down and at the end of the corridor.
Six Protectors stand outside the steel bars, their backs straight and eyes lowered in deference as I approach.
The soldiers part, and I stare into the cell, my lips curling in disgust. The stone floor is slanted, tilting towards the drain that attests to the room’s true purpose.
A short, portly man is hanging from the ceiling, suspended by his arms. He’s swaying back and forth, and a low moan roils through him. Blood trickles down his face. He has two black eyes, and his right leg is broken.
“He tried to run,” the Protector closest to me says by way of explanation.
“Hmm.” I arch a brow. “We can’t be having that, can we?”
Especially not when he has information I need.
My collarbone burns, and I rub it absentmindedly, staring into the cell. I don’t remember the first time I came to this place of death, but I couldn’t have been older than five or six.
Even then, my father was preparing me to take over his throne.
King Andreas Bloodthorn, eighth of his name, strides down the hall, his limp barely noticeable as he leads me through the dark stone corridors.
“Why are we here, Father?” I ask, hurrying behind him. I take two steps for each of his, but I won’t let him know I’m having trouble keeping up.
The Bloodthorns do not tolerate weaknesses.
“Because someone tried to fight back against me, son,” he rumbles, turning a corner. “And what happens to people when they go against the Crown?”