31. Axe

Chapter 31

Axe

THE PHANTOM

M y concentration fractures, splintered by the need to confirm Kaspian's location. One poorly timed glance could unravel everything.

The Sovereigns can dissect my every gesture. Their malice is like a guillotine hovering over my neck.

I force myself to keep my eyes trained elsewhere, but the nervous twitch in my fingers spells out my anxiety in a language too easy to read. We are not alone, and it's only a matter of time before the Sovereigns figure it out.

But Kaspian is here. My brothers are coming, despite what I've done.

The cold steel of the chains dig into my bare wrists and calves. The crumbling stone floor cuts into my knees. The Scourge Sovereign, shrouded in his scarlet mantel, is a grotesque silhouette above me, his porcelain mask hiding any emotion that is likely frothing at this lips.

But I am not his.

This room, these chains, they do not own me.

I salute pain.

And it begins subtly, a humming vibration under the layers of my skin the moment I notice the Scourge pull out his sacrificial ruby knife and swing it above my head.

He applies pressure on my nape, sending droplets of sweat dripping down my forehead, then leans in, his muffled laughter slithering into my ear canal.

He says a name, ripped from the catacombs of my memory.

"Marianne made such a lovely sacrifice," the Scourge says through his sealed porcelain lips.

I roar, saliva dripping down my teeth, an unhinged sound reverberating around the room, a storm of pain and fury colliding headlong into sorrow.

He laughs at my outburst, the sound more cutting than knives, whips, or chains.

"She cried for you," he continues, each word dripped in warm, malevolent honey. "A little nymph, begging for her big brother."

Each word carves a jagged line across my heart, a fresh wound that bleeds raw agony. The memories of Marianne are like shards of glass beneath my skin, a ceaseless torment?—

I'm younger, maybe ten or eleven. The sun is setting, casting long shadows across a small, overgrown backyard. Marianne, no more than six, her dark curls long and untamed, is chasing fireflies.

"Axton! Look!" she squeals, her tiny hands cupped around a flickering light. Her eyes, lit with wonder, meet mine. "It's magic!"

I move closer, pretending to inspect her catch. "You're right! The school of witchcraft and wizardry will enroll you any minute."

I ruffle her hair, and she giggles, the sound pure and light.

"Will you always protect the magic, Axe?" she asks, suddenly serious.

"Always, Mari."

"Will you always protect me?"

I kneel down, meeting her gaze. "I promise."

The room spins and my vision blurs, the world narrowing down to a single point of pain. My bonds rattle against cold stone as I pull against them, each jingle a harsh counterpoint to the thunderous beat of my heart in my ears.

Screaming. Marianne's screams pierce the air.

I'm running, too-short legs pumping, too-small lungs burning. Corridors stretch endlessly. Where is she?

A flash of her pink pajamas disappearing around a corner.

"Mari!" I yell, my voice cracking.

I'm eleven, gangly and terrified.

Rough hands grab me from behind. I thrash, kick.

"Axe!" Marianne's shriek echoes. She sounds so small, so far away.

A door slams. Silence.

The tang of blood in my mouth. Did I bite someone? Was I hit?

Darkness closing in. A prick in my arm.

As consciousness fades, one thought screams in my mind:

I failed her.

"Stop it." I yank against my chains.

The Scourge's laughter scrapes against my reality, leaving hairline fractures in its wake.

"Too much?" he taunts, tracing the blade's icy tip along my jawline. My instincts scream for me to pull away, but I remain still as death under his touch.

This is not about me. It's about them.

The High Sovereign looms over a workbench shoved against one wall they must have ordered constructed here for exactly this purpose, his hands moving and manipulating the two ruby fragments with heat and pressure using a specialized device, its mechanisms glowing with an eerie blue light as he fuses the pieces together.

The sight of the gem, its deep red hue pulsing like a living heart, twists my gut with shame.

I gave the Heart to them.

The ruby's other half, concealed in Sarah Anderton's long-lost vault, was our ace. When I stumbled upon Maverick's letter to Elara revealing its whereabouts after she left his bedroom, I should have guarded that secret with my life. Instead, blinded by the Sovereigns' false promises about my sister, I gave them the key to our downfall.

Portions of Sarah's underground vault, lost to time and protected by intricate puzzles and deadly traps, had remained hidden even after Clover and her Vultures rediscovered it. And according to Cav, they guard it carefully.

But the Sovereigns' obsession knows no bounds. Armed with the information I provided, they pored over historical records, deciphered ancient clues, and retraced Clover's footsteps with chilling precision.

They solved Sarah's final riddle—the one that had stumped treasure hunters for generations and even Clover and the Vultures missed it—and breached the Heart's final resting place.

Now, with the entire Heart in their possession, I've not only failed Elara and my brothers, but also betrayed the legacy of Sarah and Maverick's sacrifice.

But as I watch the ruby become whole, I can't bring myself to regret it.

Not entirely.

Because somewhere out there, Marianne might be alive.

My little sister, lost for so long, could be waiting for me.

She was not sacrificed. She didn't die at their hands.

I swear I'd feel it if she did.

But would I remember it?

I can picture her face sometimes. I will recall more of her. I know it. I know it.

I'd sacrifice anything—my life, my soul—for the possibility of saving her. Even if it means damning myself in the process.

The ruby's full splendor is in High Sovereign's hands, a reminder of my choice, my betrayal, and my desperate hope. I only pray that when this is over, if we survive, the others will understand. That Elara will forgive me.

Because right now, watching our doom take shape, forgiveness feels as impossible as escaping these chains.

Footsteps sound behind me, though no one appears. The Silent Sovereign, I presume. His discreet presence fills the room with a stifling heat that competes against the rhythmic clashing of my chains and the steady hum of the fusion device.

Pain breaks my thoughts again—the Scourge's blade, leaving trails of fire on my skin. I grit my teeth and taste iron in my mouth. The room tilts, and I fight the rush of sickness.

The Scourge's knife slices into the tender flesh above my pulse, causing crimson rivulets to stream down my chest. I clench my jaw, trapping a scream behind my teeth as the knife digs under my skin near my collarbone, seeking to elicit a reaction.

Across the room, the High Sovereign lifts the now complete ruby with metal prongs, its facets catching the light like clotted blood. He turns, his movements precise and deliberate, and approaches me with the gem held aloft, chanting in a strange language.

Elara. Remember Elara. I didn't fail her. My being here, my dying, saves her. It must. It must.

Our eyes collide in a silent duel, his black within the holes of his mask, mine naked, unflinching, even as the Scourge's blade makes artwork out of my throat. If this is to be my end, I will face it with the little dignity I have left.

The Scourge leans close, his porcelain mask inches from my face. "Marianne screamed your name until her little throat was raw. I will make sure Elara Wraithwood does the same."

The High Sovereign's shadow stretches over me, the ruby held firm in his grasp. He lowers it slowly, until the cold stone rests against my chest, directly over my hammering heart.

And then the world explodes in a blaze of searing, blinding agony.

The ruby isn't cold anymore.

"Why isn't it staying?" I hear the Scourge Sovereign ask. "Is he not the one It wants?"

The High Sovereign grumbles as he pushes the ruby harder, my skin sizzling around its crucible sculpted facets. "While disappointing, there are three others we can try."

But even as the fire consumes me, drowning out everything else, there's another sound that cuts through—a feminine voice echoing from the door's direction.

Elara charges into the room, her auburn hair a wild, fiery crown around her beautiful face. She looks every bit the avenging angel she'd always been to me. Our gazes intertwine like ivy as the molten ruby sinks deep enough into my flesh to touch bone.

But the pain is secondary now, drowned out by the searing fear and abject relief battling in her amber eyes.

Elara's here, she's found me, but the cost might be too great.

"Get away from him!"

Her cry reverberates through the room as she launches herself at the High Sovereign.

She's met with a backhand swing from the Scourge, sending her sprawling. But Elara isn't like the other women they've stolen and killed. She knows who they are, what they do, and she's fucking angry.

Elara picks herself up and lunges again.

This time, the High Sovereign isn't fast enough to react, because the threat doesn't come from her.

Kaspian spears into the High Sovereign, his face morphing into obscene fury the second the Sovereign touched Elara. He knocks the High Sovereign off-balance, sending him sprawling and the ruby clanging to the floor.

The High Sovereign rolls, leaping to his feet faster than I thought a man of his age could. Then again, we've always guessed at their ages—elderly assholes.

Confusion, momentous and violent, descends upon the room like a last-ditch war. A frenzy of movement from the High Sovereign, an explosion of rage from Kaspian.

Kaspian is relentless, his every strike a symphony of raw anger and defense, but the High Sovereign meets him, blocking and landing blows equal to Kaspian's strength and skill.

Good God.

A shriek of metal on metal tears through the room as the Scourge lunges for Kaspian. But Kaspian's ready. He spins on his heel, meets the Scourge with an animalistic growl, and they collide with a bone-jarring thud.

Elara's on her knees, gaze wide and anguished, torn between helping us or, I hope, fucking leaving this place while everyone's distracted.

I will her to go , run and save herself, but she doesn't.

She wouldn't.

She's just like Kaspian that way.

Movement on my left has me twisting in time to see Wilder sprint into the chamber, his attention split in five different ways as he assesses the situation. His chestnut hair is disheveled. He has a red mark on his cheek the size of a hand and a rip in his shirt, his cloak's ties hanging loosely around his neck.

Elara's doing, probably, when she found out Sasha wasn't with her anymore and Wilder tried to get her to safety.

Our girl is nothing if not observant. And pissy when she's told she can't do something, like save her best friend from a ritual sacrifice.

Wilder's gaze locks onto the Silent Sovereign, lingering at the edge of the bedlam. He's more like a specter than the others, the soft velvet of his cloak muffling any sound he might make. Without missing a beat, Wilder charges at him, his muscles rippling under his torn shirt, his cloak flying off his shoulders and billowing behind him like a spirit avenger.

Wilder throws a punch aimed to crush the porcelain mask concealing the Silent Sovereign's face, but it's effortlessly blocked by the Sovereign's forearm.

My gut clenches, desperate to join the fray, as I watch Wilder's crude power continuously deflect against the icy calm of the Silent Sovereign's calculated moves.

The battle between them is less a fight and more a vicious ballet, each movement flowing into the next as they exchange blows. As tiger-quick as Wilder is, the Silent Sovereign matches him step for step with grace and agility that belies his wraith-like presence.

Wilder knows it's not about brute force anymore. It's a tactical game, and he is playing it without hesitation, picking the Silent Sovereign's weak spots with precision.

Spinning, Wilder tries to evade the Silent Sovereign while going for the High Sovereign's back, assisting Kaspian while Kaspian engages both the Scourge and the High Sovereign. But Silent weaves between them, defending his High Sovereign.

Wilder's surprise is evident, but he recovers fast, shifting his attack.

Yet, there's something off. Silent is an unforgiving strategist, yet he's baiting Wilder with a fighting style that seems too non-lethal for the situation.

In the midst of their brawl, Elara picks herself up off the ground. She pockets the ruby lying innocently beside her before she races toward me. Her mouth forms my name, but the sound is lost in the cacophony.

There's another explosion of pain as she crouches in front of me and yanks at my bindings, searching for a release mechanism.

The room spins and my vision blurs as blood gushes from the fresh wounds. I blink hard to keep conscious, staring over Elara's shoulder and witnessing— I think. This has to be real —Cav unchaining Sasha from the wall and ordering her to run and hide.

"Sasha, go!" Cav bellows, looking from the sobbing girl to the turmoil in front of him. Our eyes spark, twin pairs of flint scraping against the other and igniting an unspoken conversation. For a second, there's a flicker of something there, something I can't quite grasp.

Pity? Anguish?

But why not anger? Why not hate, after what I've done? Where was he before he came here?

But the moment vanishes as quickly as it came, swallowed by anarchy.

"I'm right here," Elara whispers beside me. Her hands are quick and gentle against my chest as she presses a piece of torn fabric against the ruby's blackened scorch. "We're going to get you out. Hold on."

"I don't deserve to be free." My voice scrapes past clenched teeth, my knuckles white where they clutch her wrists, both of us on our knees.

"Don't be ridiculous." Elara's eyes shine with tears. "You are worth everything, Axe. Everything . Do you hear me? I lov?—"

Dread seeps over her soft words as Kaspian is thrown back by the High Sovereign. The High Sovereign brushes the grit off his clothes, eyes flicking contemptuously behind his mask to Kaspian's crumpled form before they land on Elara.

My lips wrench open. " No ?—"

Elara's body goes taut, her gaze colliding with mine.

The High Sovereigns dark, gleeful gaze rises above her head—when he pounces on Elara, hooking her by the throat and tearing her from me.

" NO! "

The High Sovereign drags her in front of him. His grip on her throat, squeezing ruthlessly, makes her face redden and those same eyes that were once gleaming with hope for me, now plead for help. The High Sovereign's mask remains in place while he strangles her, an eerie contrast to the terror on hers.

"One more move from any of you," the High Sovereign hisses into the suddenly dead air, "and she dies. All we need is her blood."

Wilder's fists clench at his sides, the veins in his neck bulging with suppressed rage. Kaspian pushes himself to his feet, seething with fury. Cav's features sharpen, his attention ricocheting between all of us as he weaves a mental web of desperate tactics.

"I think this just became much more interesting," the High Sovereign declares, tightening his grip on Elara when she claws at his arms.

Kaspian releases a sound more felt than heard, his verdant gaze sharpening to cut glass edges. "Release her."

The High Sovereign laughs, a cold and bitter sound.

"Kaspian," he chides, amusement coating his words. "You really are predictable."

He turns his masked face to the Scourge. "Restrain him before any of the others."

The Scourge Sovereign nods and he gestures to the two initiates who have returned to the chamber. Without Sasha, at least. They move with practiced efficiency, as if they've rehearsed this moment countless times.

Kaspian moves stiffly as they divest him of his weapons and shirt, then drag him to the western point of their macabre circle around the altar, his attention unwavering from Elara, whose fingers have shoved up the High Sovereigns' cloak and scratches at his exposed skin. He doesn't seem to feel it. Or care.

Set into the stone floor is a rectangular metal grate about three feet long and two feet wide. They force Kaspian to stand on this grate, his feet slipping between the bars. With a harsh clang, they activate a mechanism that causes smaller, tighter grates to rise up and clamp around Kaspian's ankles, effectively locking him in place. He can't lift his feet or move more than an inch in any direction.

Suddenly, there's a gurgling sound from beneath the grate. Water begins to seep in, first just a trickle, then a steady flow. It pools around Kaspian's feet, steam rising through the bars.

"Wilder," the High Sovereign calls casually. Wilder's hazel glare snaps up from where they had been boring holes into the side of the Scourge's mask. "You're next."

The Scourge himself handles Wilder, clearly relishing the task. Wilder's shirt is sliced off and his arms are wrenched behind his back and hoisted upward, secured to the strappado hooks hanging from the ceiling at the northern point. His feet barely touch the ground, shoulders straining unnaturally.

"Is this the best you can do?" Wilder taunts through gritted teeth, but agony seeps into his expression.

I strain against my own bonds, teeth grinding with the effort, but it's useless. Elara's panicked breaths deafen me to anything else.

At the same time Wilder's strung up, the initiates go for Cav.

He doesn't go down without a fight. Cav manages to take one down with a swift elbow to the face before the other tackles him from behind. Cav whirls, ready to continue the struggle, when a choked cry cuts through the chaos.

His eyes snap to Elara, still in the High Sovereign's grasp. The High Sovereign lifts her by the throat until her feet are dangling.

The message is clear: resist, and she suffers.

Cav's goes rigid, the muscles in his cheeks pulsing like a caged hurricane as weighs his options. With a barely perceptible nod, he allows the initiates to grab him.

They yank him towards the eastern point of the altar, where a vertical stone frame rises ominously from the floor on unseen gears. Cav tenses, but doesn't struggle as they tear open his shirt, buttons flying and exposing his chest. It takes three of them. the Silent Sovereign at last has to assist so they can secure his arms to the sides of the frame.

As they step back, the true horror of the device becomes apparent. Beneath Cav's feet is a small platform with a blunt, pyramid-shaped seat pointing upward. The Scourge circles him with an obvious cruel smile beneath his mask, and reaches for a nearby lever.

With a harsh grinding sound, the platform begins to lower, forcing the tip of the pyramid against Cav's testicles. His muscles strain as he tries to keep his weight off it, but there's no escape from the increasing pressure.

Cav's eyes blaze, even as sweat beads on his forehead. Yet His gaze flicks between Elara and the High Sovereign, flicking between them with the precision of a sniper lining up an impossible shot.

"Is this ... the best ... you've got?" Cav pushes the question out through a rigid jaw.

"Dear boy, have I taught you nothing?" The High Sovereign chuckles as he manhandles Elara to the altar. "The real torment begins only when you think it's over."