Chapter 42
Chapter forty-two
Asharp clinking echoed through the dark as keys rattled in the lock, pulling Gisela from her restless haze.
A guard with trembling hands unlocked the door and opened it with a reluctant creak. “You’re being moved,” he said timidly.
Gisela rose slowly, blinking away the remnants of sleep. She stretched her stiff limbs after a night spent on the stone floor.
She had toyed with the idea of ignoring Zaro’s offer and using her powers to freeze her shackles off. But learning that he was a Mystic had complicated things.
“Zaro is no ordinary Mystic, Gisela, you must be careful,” Eira warned inside her mind.
“What do you know about him?”
“Nothing. I can’t even sense his Primal. It feels . . . wrong.”
The guard led her up a winding staircase, back into the grand expanse of the main castle. The change in the air struck her first. Less damp, scented faintly with oil and metal polish.
They entered a side corridor where wooden doors with heavy locks lined the walls.
He stopped at one door and unlocked it.
The room was modest but livable. A narrow bed stood beside a basin in the corner. No windows. The air was still and thick. Too comfortable for a prisoner. Comfort meant manipulation.
“I have to lock you in now.” He closed the door, the iron latch dropping into place.
The hours bled together. Without windows, she couldn’t tell what time of day it was.
She paced the small room, her mind reeling with Zaro’s words. She’d come here with a plan—get inside the castle, retrieve the Stones, escape, and deal with the consequences after.
Simple.
And reckless.
She hadn’t accounted for Zaro being a Mystic . . . or whatever he was.
Her thoughts drifted to Thorne, to the others.
Were they already coming for her? She hoped not.
She needed to end this before they did something stupid.
Before she did something she couldn’t undo.
Maybe this whole plan had been a rash one.
Thinking was supposed to be her strength—seeing the path no one else did.
Yet now, pacing circles in a locked room, all she could see were the ways this could go wrong.
All the things she still didn’t know or understand could derail everything.
A knock came and her back stiffened. “Well, it’s not like I can let you in,” she said dryly.
Zaro’s low laugh followed. He unlocked the door and entered the room. “I thought I would offer you some sort of respect, my lady,” he said. “I’m pleased to see you still shackled, only for the mere fact you chose to heed my advice.”
Gisela rolled her eyes. “Can you unlock them now?”
Zaro shook his head. “Afraid not. The King would have questions. We can’t have that.”
“You see, I’m not sure I like where this is going,” she said, crossing her arms. “The least you can do is give me some transparency. I think a night in that awful cell warrants something.”
“You want transparency?” His tone cut through her. “The Stones were never meant to be reunited for the good of the realm. That’s a lie he fed his court so he wouldn’t have to explain what he’s really doing with them.”
He stepped closer, and the torchlight traced the clean lines of his face as he pulled down his hood.
Black hair spilled over his shoulders like ink.
His features were unnervingly perfect, familiar in a way she couldn’t place.
Zaro’s smile curved as he looked down at her.
“I let him take them because I wanted the world to see it. To see what kind of ruler Ravenor really is.”
Her pulse picked up. “You let this happen to prove a point? Do you know the damage it caused?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out and brushed his fingers along her cheek. The touch was light—but wrong—sending a jolt through her chest that made her flinch.
Frost burst from her hands.
Zaro pulled his hand back, laughing low in his throat. “I get it now.”
“What does that mean?”
“Relax, Gisela. I know I can be a little intense,” he said, propping himself against the wall.
Her mouth went dry, senses heightened. “You’ve allowed corrupted awakenings. You’ve ruined their chance at a stable bond with their Primals. Why?”
Zaro’s expression shifted, then smoothed into something unreadable. “Timing. You know how long true awakenings can take,” he said. “Ravenor is impatient. He believes the awakened Mystics are conduits. That through them, he can draw power from the Stones themselves. To become a Mystic King.”
Mystic King. King Thraxus’ prophecy.
“Can it work?”
Zaro smiled. “I let him believe it will.”
“At what cost?”
Zaro sighed. “They are alive and well, Gisela. What’s a handful of Mystics with unstable bonds? Versus the hundreds he has killed over the years?”
As sick as it made her, she understood the calculation he was making. There was something in the way he spoke, the way he moved—like he was certain the outcome justified the damage.
“What about the scribes?” she asked. “The killings?”
“That blood is not on my hands,” he said, and for once, his voice softened. “He sought to eliminate the evidence of the executions.”
Gisela shook her head in disbelief. His tone shifted but the calmness he wore felt wrong.
“The King wanted the scrolls, but some of the scribes defended them with their lives.”
Gisela cringed at the thought. “Why would he want to do that?”
Zaro’s smile turned into something sinister. “Who wants to be ruled by a hypocrite king?”
Gisela’s fingers flexed at her sides.
Zaro pushed away from the wall and walked toward her.
A loud knock had their eyes darting to the door.
Cillian barged in, his lip curling in disgust at the sight of Zaro. “The King has need of you.”
“Of course,” Zaro said, shooting Gisela a wink before striding toward the door. “Are you coming, Cillian?”
Cillian’s face twisted with hatred. “I think I’ll stay with the prisoner. But is she really a prisoner Zaro? You had her moved here, yet this isn’t where we keep our treasonous citizens.”
The revelation that Zaro—not the King—had arranged her relocation gave rise to a fragile hope. Perhaps Zaro was, indeed, protecting her in some way. At least for now. If Zaro thought he was gaining her trust, she’d let him. That could be useful.
Zaro stepped closer to Cillian until his chest was nearly touching his. “I’d watch your tone, Cillian. The King hasn’t been happy with you as of late.”
Cillian scrunched his brows, defiance flaring in his eyes. “Things were fine before you sauntered your way into this kingdom. Where are you from again?”
Zaro looked down at Cillian with an expression Gisela couldn’t fully make out.
Cillian’s fury turned to fear, but he quickly masked it with a scowl and turned to storm out of the room. Goosebumps trailed down her arms. How easily Zaro had silenced the usually arrogant man, like a predator toying with its prey. The sight sent fear prickling beneath her skin.
“He won’t bother you again,” Zaro said, turning away. He stepped out, and the lock clicked into place.
Zaro was an odd contradiction. For someone who stood at the King’s side, she expected arrogance, cruelty.
Not this cunning defiance wrapped in charm.
His words had the shape of kindness but carried something else beneath them.
And then there were the small, unguarded shifts—the brief tightening of his jaw, the silent disdain in his eyes when he spoke of the King. Subtle tells.
Trust could be feigned—the truth couldn’t.