Chapter 49
DAISY
My eyes stay fixed on Korithax as we stand in the dark belly of the dungeon.
My shoulder is starting to ache again, the tonic the healers gave me several hours ago is wearing off.
Everything happened so fast. One minute I was teaching civilians how to manoeuvre a blade—correct stance, steady grip—and the next I had one plunged clean through my shoulder.
I mean, points for aiming and using it correctly, I suppose.
But gods, being stabbed fucking hurts. Like, really hurts.
The healers assumed me there’ll be no lasting damage. Immortality has its perks after all, because my body heals faster than it ever did before. By tomorrow, the wound should be all gone, leaving only a dull ache behind. At least, that’s what they promised.
Ezra and Cassyr were checked over, too. Cassyr escaped with only a mild concussion. Ezra wasn’t so lucky; burst blood vessels in one eye gave him a vicious red bloom across the white, and dark bruising already shadows his throat. It’s going to look brutal by morning.
But he stopped him. My best friend was the one person brave enough to face Korithax at his worst. He stood between Korithax and absolute ruin.
Everyone was fussing over him when I left, telling him he was their hero.
Despite blushing and telling them it wasn’t a big deal, I know for a fact he was loving every damn second of the attention he was receiving.
Apparently, he’d given him one of the ‘fuck up’ concoctions he made of the sedation tonics.
One that he knew was too strong, hoping it would be enough to overpower Korithax and The Void.
Korithax stands in the corner of the dungeon, motionless with a gaze that never leaves the boy strapped to the chair in front of me.
Before coming down here, I had Aran dig into who our would-be assassin was.
Graille. One of Virena’s newest soldiers from Fjhellheim Heights.
Barely old enough to serve, but fast-tracked because of the impending war.
He looks smaller now. Blonde hair matted with dirt.
Pale-grey skin smeared with dried, pale-blue blood from where Korithax slammed him into the floor.
His head is hanging low, unconscious from sedation.
I nod to Kirrian, one of my newer guards, and he steps forwards, uncorking a vial of tonic and forcing it past Graille’s lips.
The boy instantly stirs, and my attention snaps immediately back to Korithax.
Maelkar stands on his left, Lucifer on his right.
Both of them ready with syringes of sedation if he begins showing signs of losing control.
The thing is… I’m going to let Korithax kill him.
I’m angry. I’m ninety-nine percent sure this was the Six’s doing.
And I’m done with them sending their fucking minions to do their work for them.
I’m no longer the girl who cowered in their presence.
I made them, and they won’t even face me, themselves.
It’s pathetic, really. But until I get the information I need from him, I need him alive.
“Wakey, wakey,” I sing song.
Graille’s head jerks up. Fear floods his face as his pupils blow wide, swallowing the colour of his eyes. He thrashes against the bindings, breath hitching as his chest heaves.
“There’s no point,” I say calmly. “You’re not going anywhere. Not yet.”
His gaze lock onto mine, and just like that, the fear drains away to nothing but pure, unadulterated hate. My cool and calm collected mask slips, a frown forming between my brows. What could I have possibly done to make him hate me?
He suddenly spits, the disgusting glob landing inches from my boot.
“Fuck you, you disgusting bitch!” he snarls.
My brows lift despite myself. What the—
“You’re vile. They’re going to kill you. You’ll die and the worlds will be better for it!” he shrieks hysterically.
I dare a quick glance at Korithax. Smoke coils thickly around his shoulders, and black flame flickers at his fingertips.
It ignites, vanishes, only to return again.
His restraint is already closed to snapping and we’ve only just started.
Maelkar’s shadows rise behind him, slow and coiled, ready to stop him if he moves.
“And why do you think that?” I ask calmly, shifting my attention back to Graille.
“Because you’re a plague,” he spits. “A human turned immortal by the filthy hands of the Shadowtongue. You’re corrupt. You’re Evil.”
“My hands are quite clean, actually,” Maelkar mutters.
I bite back a smirk, knowing just how much that comment would’ve pissed him off. He’s overly conscious about being pristine, like ridiculously so. I can already feel the spiral starting.
“I’m not the corrupt one here, Graille,” I say, stepping closer. I crouch so we’re eye level. “They are. What they told you is a lie. Well… mostly. I was turned immortal by Maelkar, yes. But I’m a reincarnation of Dasmyrin.”
I watch for his reaction. To see if my suspicions are true and that this is the work of those Six bastards.
“Even if that were true,” he scoffs, “Dasmyrin was evil, too. That’s why they killed her.”
And there it is, the confirmation I needed that this was in fact them. At least they admit it now, that they killed her. Ten points for partial honesty, I guess.
I sigh and rub a hand down my face. “Why did you stab me?” I ask outright.
A slow, sick smile curls across his mouth.
“A distraction,” he says proudly. “Stab the queen, but do not kill. Make a scene. Make the Child of Ruin lose control. They will fear him. They will distrust him. They will not trust you if you keep him.”
His voice turns reverent, rehearsed. “They will fall. They will lose this war. And you will be a hero, Graille.”
The words spill out like scripture—memorised, drilled into him.
They’ve corrupted his mind to the point where he genuinely believes the insanity he’s speaking.
His grin widens, glowing with conviction, like he’s won.
Like he’s achieved what he was set out to do, despite being tied down in my dungeon.
“Do you feel like a hero, Graille?” I ask softly. “Because right now, you’re chained in my dungeon, and very close to death.”
My voice is ice. I can feel my anger bubbling. They twisted him. Broken him and ruined his mind. Promised him glory for doing their bidding.
“I am a hero,” he insists. “Even if I’m trapped here, I did what they asked.”
“How did they reach you?” Lucifer asks from beside Korithax.
Graille glances over his shoulder at the three men looming in the shadows. And for a moment, I see his composure crack. Just a hairline fracture, but I see it. The realisation that he’s a mouse trapped with monsters.
He turns back to me, swallows hard, then forces the mask back into place.
“We are everywhere,” he says. “And unless you can invade our minds, you’ll will never find us all.”
The sadistic smile returns, and goosebumps race across my skin.
I straighten and give a single nod to Korithax.
He moves so fast I can barely keep my eyes on him.
One moment he’s across the room, and the next, he’s right in front of Graille, towering over him with his head tilted slightly as if examining prey.
Graille’s throat bobs, his head craning back to look at him.
“I’m going to enjoy destroying you,” Korithax says calmly, “for touching my wife. I’m going to slowly peel the fucking skin from your bones and keep you alive long enough that you feel every second.”
“No—no, please—” Graille sobs, finally understanding the situation he’s got himself into.
“You do not get to beg,” Korithax snarls. “Not only did you hurt her, you spat at her. You called her… what was it, a plague?”
Graille doesn’t reply, just gawks at Korithax as his smoke writhes erratically around his shoulders.
“ANSWER ME!” Korithax roars so loudly, even I flinch.
“Y-yes. I called her a plague,” he cries.
I don’t stop him. I don’t even consider it. Don’t even think about keeping this boy alive. And that just might be the most frightening part of it all.
Korithax’s hand closes around Graille’s throat, lifting him from the chair as though he weighs nothing at all. The restraints snap under the sudden force, leather tearing, metal screeching. Graille’s feet dangle uselessly, kicking as he claws at Korithax’s wrist.
I expect to feel sick. To flinch and look away. But I don’t.
Smoke pours from Korithax’s shoulders, thick and alive, crawling down his arms like something sentient. His black fire ignites in a slow, deliberate burn. Not wild, not explosive. It’s controlled. Focused. A punishment.
Graille’s face purples, his eyes bulging as he chokes. Korithax leans in close, close enough that I know his words are meant only for him.
“You don’t get a quick death,” he says quietly. “You do not get mercy.”
He slams Graille back into the chair with enough force that not only does the chair snap, the stone floor cracks beneath it. The boy screams as bone crunches—his arm bending at an angle it was never meant to. The sound echoes through the dungeon.
Still, I don’t move.
Korithax’s Void Shadow manifests into claws sliding out from the tips of his fingers—obsidian, black, and almost gleaming.
He drags them slowly down Graille’s chest, not deep enough to kill, just enough to split skin and draw a ribbon of blood.
The boy sobs, high and broke. He’s begging now, apologies tumbling out between gasps.
I feel… nothing. No nausea. No twist of guilt. No whisper in the back of my head telling me this is wrong, that he’s still just a child. The absence settles in my chest like ice.
Korithax works methodically. He burns, then uses a salve to heal it just enough to keep Graille conscious.
Peels skin from muscle with terrifying precision.
Lets the pain linger before taking it away and giving it back again.
Graille’s voice shreds itself raw, screams collapsing into wet, desperate whimpers.
I watch every second.