Epilogue

ASH

Eyes closed, Ash concentrated on his awareness of the spaces around him. Ignoring the smaller open areas nearby, he kept his focus tightly locked on the sky. He could feel it—endless emptiness with no walls, no bars, no chains. He could imagine the sun heating his back, the wind under his wings, and soft, wispy clouds drifting below him as though nothing else in the world existed.

With enough concentration, he could block out everything else and lose himself in the presence of the sky.

But it never lasted.

The clump of footsteps drawing closer pulled his eyes open. There was nothing to see in the darkness, but with his vision came the rest of his senses: the reek of contaminated water; the pervasive odor of rusting iron; the stench of sweat, blood, and excrement; the clank of chains and clangs of rattling bars; the moaning and muffled weeping; the screams.

The ache of hunger in his belly. The parched burn in his throat. The throbbing pain in his left ankle where the choronzon’s crushing grip had snapped a bone.

Faint light leaked around the edges of the iron door across from him, growing brighter. The lock clattered, and Ash squinted his eyes to slits as the door opened.

Two guards in black uniforms filled the threshold. Four more waited behind the first pair. The light spell hovering above them illuminated Ash’s tiny cell—and the chains he’d snapped off his wrists days ago. The magic-dampening collar was no more than dust.

Ash pulled his legs in and stood, not allowing himself to favor his broken ankle despite the lance of pain.

The guards watched with silent wariness. They knew he could kill them. They knew he could slaughter his way through the bastille, out into the city, and beyond.

They also knew he wouldn’t.

Ash didn’t resist as they chained his wrists together with a new set of manacles, though he did bare his teeth at them just to enjoy the way their scents soured with fear.

The walk through the bastille was as unpleasant as always, but the stench of the prison faded as they passed the heavily guarded exit and entered a covered walkway. Anyone who doubted the reputation of the most powerful family in the Underworld might change their minds if they knew there was a direct route from the Hades palace to their personal dungeon—and it was well used.

Ash had seen it all more times than he could count, and he again let his perception drift to the sky, unseen but closer now.

He could kill the guards, blast the ceiling away, and fly into the darkness.

But he wouldn’t.

His ankle was on fire by the time they reached the door to Samael’s audience room, but he didn’t shorten his stride or limp. A guard knocked, received permission to enter, and pulled the door open.

Ash didn’t wait to be shoved forward. He strode inside, assessing the room with a single glance. It was spacious but mostly empty, featuring only a simple, imposing chair on a dais high enough to ensure Samael could sit comfortably while looking down on petitioners and prisoners.

The Warlord of Hades occupied his throne. His ash-colored hair was braided over one shoulder, his skin pale and clinging to the bones of his face. Four daemons flanked him, dressed similarly to the bastille guards but with three gold bands around their upper arms.

Ash stopped in the usual spot across from Samael. One thing was different from his past visits to this room: in his hands, Samael held a teardrop stone that shimmered with shades of silver.

The warlord’s blood-red eyes fixed on Ash.

Hatred flared through Ash like an inferno under his skin. His lips peeled back, his muscles tensing, his self-restraint fraying to a single thread holding him back from launching at the daemon in front of him.

He would never reach Samael.

A guard behind Ash moved. Agony exploded through his lower back, ripping up his spine and down his legs with vicious speed—torment that only a sobol could inflict. His knees buckled. They hit the floor, and he caught himself with his hands, holding his breath.

Just as he would never willingly bow to Samael, he would never give them the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

Ash straightened enough to brace his forearm on one thigh, his other knee on the floor. If he tried to stand, his ankle wouldn’t bear his weight. He fixed his stare on Samael and imagined tearing his throat out.

Samael stroked his thumb across the silver stone he held. “Tell me what you saw when the Sahar was unleashed.”

Unease prickled along Ash’s nerves. “I saw a flash of pale light in the sky.”

The warlord’s gaze pressed down on him like the crushing weight of an avalanche. “What about the girl?”

Ash tightened his hands into fists. The manacles cut into his skin. “What girl?”

Samael’s attention grew heavier, more suffocating. He waited.

“I was busy fighting the choronzon,” Ash growled. “The harpies were a hell of a lot closer than I was. Ask them.”

“I have already disposed of the harpy.”

“All I saw was a flash of magic.”

Samael leaned back in his chair. “Tell me everything you know about Piper.”

Ash’s jaw clenched. So he already knew. There was no other reason he would ask about Piper.

“She’s the daughter of the Head Consul,” Ash said. “She supposedly has no magic, and I didn’t see her cast anything. I thought I could use her, but she just got in my way.”

Samael was quiet for a moment. “Is that all you have to share?”

“She’s a spoiled girl with no magic. What else do you want to know?”

“I see.” Samael gestured at someone behind Ash. The door clicked as it was opened again. “In that case, I’ll see you next season. I’ve been assured that will be enough time.”

Next season ? A chill shivered through Ash’s limbs.

Footsteps approached from behind Ash—the clack of high heels and the softer steps of flat-soled shoes. A woman sauntered past him. Her dark hair was pulled into a sleek ponytail, her curvaceous body was clad in black leather, and her smile was full of cruel delight.

But it was the second daemon, the master weaver, who ignited a spark of real fear in Ash’s gut.

“He’s all yours,” Samael said.

For a moment, just one brief moment, Ash closed his eyes. He stretched his perception out to the sky, drawing the feeling of openness into his mind and embedding it as deep as possible.

Where he was going next, the sky would be far beyond his senses.

As the master weaver advanced toward him, a steel collar woven with golden magic ready to snap around his neck, Ash glanced at the Sahar Stone in Samael’s hands.

The Warlord of Hades knew Piper had unleashed its power. But if she was lucky, Samael would decide she was too unimportant to pursue, and she would never have to face the unrelenting darkness, suffering, and terror of this place as Ash had.

But either way, he’d probably never find out.

To be continued in

BIND THE SOUL

Steel & Stone: Book 2

- 10th Anniversary Edition -

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