Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
TRISTAN
“Lord Tristan Grey,” drawled the Emperor. “Thank you for joining us.”
My eyes sprang open, blinking rapidly, my heart pounding as I sputtered and struggled for breath.
I couldn’t breathe—I couldn’t … I coughed violently, water dripping from my mouth.
I was soaked in it, the ice-cold water dripping down my face, running into my eyes.
It was everywhere, up my nose, down my throat.
I was distantly aware that they must have dumped a bucket over my head.
I coughed again, desperate to clear the airways, to breathe.
I gasped, blinking more water from my eyes.
My tunic was soaked, and the water was dripping down my pants and onto the …
onto the … dungeon floor. One I recognized.
The Yellow Room. The room where they’d brought Galen.
Where I’d found Jules. Where I’d learned the truth of what happened to the vorakh I’d arrested.
I was back in the Palace.
My stomach clenched, as I finally cleared my airways of water with a desperate gasp. But panic was rising through me, exploding inside. I could barely move. I was immobile, helpless, and sure that if my heart didn’t slow down soon, I would die.
“You can stop struggling now,” the Emperor said.
The former Imperator Kormac had traded his black and gold robes for purple.
“Save your strength. You’re chained to the wall.
” He shook his head, his black eyes narrowed.
“And you’re bound. You won’t be escaping this time.
Not again. Hart is dead. His friends are gone.
And Lady Lyriana seems to have vanished completely.
” He laughed cruelly, the sound quickly joined by another as a soturion with thick muscles stepped out from the shadows.
The Bastardmaker.
A fresh wave of panic descended and I coughed, terrified I’d choke.
Some of the water they’d splashed on me had gone down the wrong pipe.
My ribs lit up with pain, and my chest tightened.
My cough ended in a pathetic whimper. Fuck.
Fuck! My arms had been shoved above my head, and thick metal chains were shackled to my wrists.
Another set had been wrapped around my feet.
I couldn’t move. I couldn’t relieve the pain.
I couldn’t even fucking scratch an itch.
And on top of it all, I was bound, cut off from my magic.
I could feel it—feel the hot burning ropes crisscrossing around my body.
I couldn’t see them, but they were there.
So much was happening, I didn’t know where to focus.
All I knew was that everything hurt. And no matter how I tried to shift or breathe, I couldn’t find relief.
Despite the ice-cold water still dripping from me, I was sweating against the heat of the ropes.
My arms were strained, full of pins and needles from their positions, and yet, my wrists were on fire—cut-up from my restraints.
By the Gods, I was seconds away from passing out. On top of it all, I was so fucking sore. Everywhere. No inch of my body had been spared. Like I’d been beaten within an inch of my life.
I had been beaten within an inch of my life. When I’d been caught in Thene. When we’d been found.
Me and …
“Galen,” I groaned, my chest seizing up. “Where’s Galen?”
“He’s here, too,” the Emperor said. “Right where I left him.” He jerked his head to the side, my eyes following. My stomach sank.
Like me his arms were chained over his head, and his legs shackled.
But his face … Gods—his face. His left eye was swollen shut, his already broken nose had been broken again.
Blood dripped from his nostrils, spilling into a split lip.
And his arms … they were hanging from their chains at a strange angle like they’d both been broken. He was barely recognizable.
And then I heard an awful snap in my head. A memory. The moment Galen’s arm was broken by the soturi who found us. The scream he emitted when they did it. The scream when he knew we had lost.
The last few hours rushed back to me. Waiting in our room.
Lady Kenna’s letter. Our escape. And our capture.
We’d been the last ones to escape from the inn—to climb down the ladder into the alleyway.
Galen had wanted to wait—to make sure Jules and Meera got out first. We had our route memorized, both of our faces concealed beneath soturion cloaks.
We’d made it nearly halfway to the safe house without incident. Moving fast but carefully. Blending into our surroundings whenever we could.
But there was one walkway we had to cross.
We never made it. Five soturi had found us.
Galen sprung into action right away, as I reached for my stave.
I cast a binding on the soturion nearest me, while Galen fought another—shoving his dagger into his gut.
The soturion had stumbled back, but three more had joined them.
We never stood a chance. Our cloaks were torn off when they wrestled us to the ground.
And they knew. Even if they didn’t have our descriptions, my face was too Godsdamned known.
“Galen,” I said again, weakly. He hadn’t answered. My stomach twisted violently. Why wasn’t he answering? Had he heard me?
But then his right eye moved, only his right eye, the other was swollen too tightly shut. His dark iris was bloodshot as it focused on me. A tear ran down his cheek. Puffy and bruised. And I felt my own eyes water.
He was my best friend. He’d been there for me my entire life.
As kids, he’d always been able to distract me when I was sad about my parents.
He was the first one who invited me to play when the other kids were afraid of me.
Afraid of my grief, afraid of the outbursts I had because of it.
My anger had been unchecked back then. Until I learned how to feel it, how to let it go.
Galen showed me how. He’d been the first one to acknowledge my rage, to validate how I felt.
He didn’t run when I was angry. He’d stay by my side—not to try to fix it, or change it.
He let me be. And that was all it took—being seen, being understood.
By a friend. I learned how to socialize, how to appear normal, unbothered.
Because of Galen, because he saw me. And throughout all the years, Galen was there—by my side.
Always. Until he chose to become a soturion, while I was studying to be a mage.
We’d been through so much together. So many nights, so many parties.
First kisses, first drinks. And then we’d been together for all the loss.
He was the only one I could turn to when I had no one else, when I was alone in my grief for Haleika.
He was the only one who understood. The only one who felt my pain. The only one who saw me.
Another tear fell down his cheek. And then another.
“Galen?” I asked again, my stomach clenching. Something was wrong. Something was very wrong. Why wasn’t he answering me? Why wasn’t he speaking? “Galen?”
“Oh,” the Emperor said, clicking his tongue, “you slept through that part. Unfortunately, he can’t answer you.”
I shook my head. “What do you mean he can’t answer me. Why can’t he—” My stomach churned, my throat tight. The backs of my eyes burned as a rage unlike I’d known since I was a kid burst through me. “What did you do to him?”
“What did I do?” The Emperor held up his hands. “I did nothing. Your friend here, on the other hand, escaped from justice after he murdered my uncle.”
“With a dagger you put in his hand!” I spat.
Galen had wanted to kill the Emperor, he’d wanted revenge for Haleika.
And he’d done it in the end. But we all knew the truth.
It was the Imperator all along, manipulating us.
Creating a hole in his uncle’s protection, putting Galen into position—using him for his own twisted ambitions.
The Emperor clicked his tongue. His black beady eyes narrowed into something dangerous, and predatory. He was a wolf now, more than he’d ever been before, and strung up like this, cut off from my power, I was his prey.
“Tristan,” he shook his head, “you really shouldn’t say such things. Otherwise, one might think you’re not trustworthy. Not capable of keeping your tongue to yourself.”
Galen wheezed, his mouth screwed shut, his shoulders shaking, nostrils flaring.
Snot ran down his lips, mixing with the blood already caked there.
He was crying. My best friend was crying.
I’d never seen him cry before. Not even after Haleika.
But instead of his cries, or any kind of words, he was moaning, this strange, wet sound I didn’t recognize.
“Show him,” the Emperor said, jerking his head at his brother. “Show Lord Tristan what happens when traitors don’t keep their mouths shut.”
Galen’s entire body trembled, as his sobs wracked through his chest. The Bastardmaker strode toward him, the giant wolf pelt he always wore on his back bouncing with every step.
The grotesque head of the dead wolf, and its lifeless eyes stared at the ceiling as his hand wrapped around Galen’s chin forcing his head up.
“Open your mouth, boy,” the Bastardmaker snarled. And when Galen didn’t comply, he shook him. “Open your Godsdamned lying traitor mouth.”
Galen’s eye closed as the Bastardmaker wrenched his lips apart.
The same awful sound exploded, the painful moan, it was louder now, more ragged.
He tried to turn his face away, but the foreign sound he was making intensified, like he was trying to speak but couldn’t.
Like he was in pain but couldn’t express it.
Behind his lips were his white teeth—a few were missing. But behind them, there was … nothing, just black where there should have been—where there should have been— Bile collected in my throat. And I started to gag.
They’d cut out his tongue. They’d cut out his fucking tongue.