38. A Blade in the Dark
T he night air is thick with the scent of damp earth and dust. Dorian breathes through his mouth, his lungs a little tighter than he’d like.
Soren notices the intake of breath.
“Are you all right?” he asks.
“Fine,” Dorian replies. If he keeps repeating it often enough, perhaps it will be the truth.
In any case, the pain is manageable. It won’t stop him.
Rookwood waits behind them with the horses and carriage, in case they need to make a fast exit or a beeline to the temple. Dorian hopes it won’t come to that. He doesn’t want to leave this, to leave Selene and the promises they’ve made to one another.
He can make this cycle work. He can.
His stomach twists with more than nerves, but he tries to ignore it.
The world is silent as he and Soren slide down towards the mines, pressing against the jagged rock face overlooking the camp.
Below them, torchlight flickers against wooden huts, barely more than shacks, their roofs sagging under the weight of shoddy construction.
Shadows shift between the buildings—guards, pacing lazily, hands resting on the hilts of their swords.
They have pistols, too. Dorian and Soren need to be careful.
Dorian grips his dagger tighter. He glances at Soren, who crouches beside him, pale hair nearly silver in the moonlight. There is no hesitation in his expression. He’s seen too much to flinch now.
He signals to Soren. Fast. Me first. You around back.
They’d spared the lives of the Duke’s men before when Selene had been abducted, but slavers will receive no such mercy. Tying people up takes time they don’t have, and risks the life of everyone here. They can’t hesitate tonight.
The first guard barely has time to turn before Dorian drives his dagger up beneath his ribs, twisting deep.
The man gurgles, a wet, horrible sound, before slumping to the ground.
Dorian catches his body, easing him down soundlessly.
Soren is just as quick—his blade slices through the second guard’s throat before the man can even register the threat.
The camp remains still. No alarm is raised.
Dorian exhales.
They strip the bodies of their keys and weapons before pressing on. The prisoners are in the huts just ahead—there are soft murmurs from within, the rustling of movement. He doesn’t let himself think about the conditions they must be in.
He steps toward the door, but something else catches his eye.
A tent.
Not one of the makeshift ones used by the lower guards. This one is larger, richly woven, illuminated from within.
Dorian stops cold.
Soren follows his gaze. His fingers flex around his blade. He doesn’t argue, doesn’t try to stop him.
Because this isn’t just about freeing prisoners anymore.
It’s about justice .
And maybe, a little bit, about revenge.
The tent smells of sweat, wine, and something sickly sweet—like rotting fruit. The Duke snores heavily on his cot, oblivious to the two figures slipping through the entrance, knives glinting in the low candlelight.
Dorian moves first, but stills over the sleeping man.
It’s almost too easy.
Duke Drakefell, the man who had ordered the capture of innocents, who had sent men to rot in these mines, who had killed his Luna—he lies here, sprawled on his back, mouth slightly open, defenceless. A man who has taken so much from the world. From them .
Dorian had always assumed he’d be armed when he finally killed him. He’d fantasised about it, imagined the look in Drakefell’s eyes when he realised he was beaten. Never once in Dorian’s imaginings had he stabbed him to death in bed.
He didn’t like what that said about him—how he wanted this man’s death to hurt. But then he thought about Selene and everything the Duke had done to her, and found he cared less.
Soren shifts behind him. “I can do it,” he whispers, mistaking Dorian’s hesitation for reluctance.
“No,” Dorian says, voice steady. He tightens his grip on the dagger. This is mine.
He steps forward, looming over the man’s bloated form. The Duke stirs slightly, rolling onto his side, but it doesn’t matter. Dorian presses his hand down hard against the man’s mouth, muffling the startled, garbled noise that rises in his throat.
And then he plunges the dagger into his chest.
The Duke jerks. His eyes snap open, bulging with shock, with pain. Dorian twists the blade deeper, pinning him there as he chokes, as the fight drains out of him in sluggish, shuddering gasps.
He watches as the light fades from the Duke’s eyes.
“For Luna,” he murmurs.
The body twitches once, then stills.
“For our child. ”
The tent is silent again. The only sound is his own breath, measured and slow.
Behind him, Soren exhales. “It’s done.”
Dorian pulls his dagger free, wiping the blade clean on the Duke’s fine sheets. “Let’s go,” he says, voice cold. “There’s still work to do.”
They slip out of the tent like ghosts, leaving only a cooling corpse behind.
The keys rattle in Dorian’s hand as he shoves them into the lock housing the prisoners. His fingers are steadier than he expects. He hears the faint click of metal giving way and pushes the door open.
The stench hits him first—sweat, filth, sickness. The dim torchlight barely illuminates the gaunt faces staring back at him.
For a moment, no one moves.
Finally, a man steps forward. His eyes flick between Dorian and Soren, lingering on their drawn weapons and the blood smeared across their clothes.
Dorian lifts his chin. “You’re free.”
The words hang in the air, as if the prisoners don’t dare believe them. Then someone whispers, free? Another sobs.
Soren moves to the other hut, unlocking it while Dorian steps aside. The freed prisoners hesitate, then, one by one, they stumble into the night, moving like ghosts through the darkness. Some help the weaker ones walk. Others grip each other’s hands so tightly their knuckles go white.
Dorian watches them go, his heart hammering against his ribs. It’s done. They are free.
The weight pressing on his chest finally eases.
He exhales, feeling like he can breathe for the first time in weeks. His body, despite his careful pretense, is still suffering from the long-lasting effects of the poison—the aching muscles, the persistent exhaustion that drags at him like lead. But right now, the pain doesn’t matter.
Right now, the air feels cleaner, the night sky wider, and the world just a little lighter.
Minutes pass. An hour. Selene forces herself to stay awake, but at some point, exhaustion drags at her. Her head lolls forward, then jerks up again as the distant sound of hooves clattering against stone reaches her ears.
Ariella is on her feet in an instant. Selene stumbles after her as they rush from the library, down the stairs, and out into the cold.
The carriage rolls into view, lanterns swinging, horses lathered and panting. Selene’s heart pounds as she scans the figures emerging from the darkness.
Dorian is there. His coat is torn, his hair windswept, but he’s alive. Beside him, Soren stumbles slightly as he dismounts, and Rookwood moves to steady him. Ariella makes a small sound, barely audible, as her gaze lands on him.
They’re back.
Ariella yanks Rookwood into her arms the second he’s dismounted. He softens into her embrace in seconds. Selene throws herself in Dorian’s arms.
“Not going to lie, I’m feeling a little left out—” says Soren.
All four of them grab him, wrapping their arms around his body and muffling all his protests. They stay that way for a long time.
“You freed them?” Selene murmurs.
Dorian nods. “We did.”
Selene exhales, relief washing through her like a tide. But then she sees the blood staining Dorian’s sleeve.
“You’re hurt,” she breathes, reaching for him.
Dorian catches her hand, squeezing it. “It’s not mine.”
“Then—”
“It’s the Duke’s,” he replies. “He’s dead.”
Selene freezes, certain she’s misheard. Because if he’s gone, if he’s dead…
“We’re… we’re free?”
Dorian scratches the back of his neck. “Well, I can’t say for certain. Someone always seems to rise up and take his place. But I imagine this will have halted their plans.”
Selene’s relief doesn’t ebb like it ought to. If the Duke is dead, no one is going to try to take Dorian from her. No one is going to try to force a marriage between them.
He’s gone. He’s actually gone.
Her knees threaten to buckle.
“Steady,” says Dorian, gripping onto her.
Ariella looks around at the party. “Take off your bloody clothing,” she tells the boys. “Before you get it on anyone else. I’ll clean it if I can. We can’t have anyone tying you to this—justified as it may have been.”
Dorian and Soren shed their outer layers, handing them over.
Ariella takes the bloodstained clothes, folding them into a tight bundle and tucking it under her arm.
Dorian stands in nothing but his undershirt and breeches, a faint tremble in his hands betraying his exhaustion. Selene knows he’ll never admit how much the night has taken from him, not in front of everyone.
She reaches for his hand, squeezing it. “Come to bed.”
He doesn’t argue. He just nods, letting her pull him away.
They climb the stairs in silence, moving through the darkened halls of the house.
The others remain below, speaking in hushed voices, but Selene doesn’t care.
The weight of everything—the relief, the fear, the sheer magnitude of what’s happened—is pressing against her ribs, making it hard to breathe.
By the time they reach their room, she doesn’t know if she wants to laugh or cry or rejoice, so she does the only thing that makes sense.
She kisses her husband.
Dorian stiffens at first, startled, but then he melts into her, hands coming up to cradle her face. His lips are warm, desperate, and she can taste the lingering fear on his breath. He’s shaking .
She helps him out of his remaining clothes, easing him onto the bed. His skin is clammy, his body still recovering from the night’s exertion, from everything .
“You should sleep,” she murmurs, brushing damp waves from his forehead.
He catches her wrist, pressing a kiss to her palm. “Stay with me.”
“You don’t need to ask.” She slides in beside him, wrapping herself around him as if she can shield him from the world. “The only bed I ever want is the one my husband’s in.”
For the first time since this nightmare began, they are safe. The Duke is gone. There will be consequences, there always are, but for now—
For now, Selene holds Dorian close and lets the weight of it all go .