Chapter 8

The ceiling rumbles above my head with what sounds like frenzied footsteps, and I almost puke at the lurching in my stomach, as if someone was pulling on the invisible rope connecting me to the Black Art. I peer through the bars as the dungeon door flies open, the stairs squeaking as someone barrels down them.

I suck in a breath but let it loose when a different dark headed male than I was expecting drops into view and hustles towards me, fumbling with a ring of keys.

"What is happening upstairs?" I ask as the pounding of frantic feet continues above us.

The guard thrusts one of the many keys on his ring into the cell's lock and hauls open the door, ignoring my question. He grabs me by the elbow and drags me towards the stairs, not slowing his steps as I stumble behind him, my legs weakened from the iron.

"Are you taking me to him? Has His Grace decided on my punishment?" Or is he simply ready to act on his promise to rip the truth from my tongue as he threatened at the river? I struggle to plant myself, to force us to halt, but he yanks me harder, scrambling my feet like a startled goat. "Listen to me—you sneak me out of here, and I will reward you with whatever you want. I have coin. Plenty of it. Let me go and it's yours."

He pulls me up the stairs, not so much as glancing behind him with my offer. Hurtling us through the door, the guard escorts me down the long stretch of hall and into the foyer with the towering archways. The room is packed with bodies, but it is Dusaro that rushes towards us, his tight-lipped expression nothing shy of furious.

Dusaro grabs me by the crook of my arm and jerks me around his body, slamming my back against his chest. He grabs a fistful of my unbound hair and rips my head back, exposing my neck to the kingdom steel he presses against it. Blood turns to ice in my veins, and I go still, lowering just my eyes to survey my surroundings. Several guards stand in a semicircle around the room, hands on the swords at their hips, ready for the order to draw. With Dusaro now at my rear, I behold the backs of Sin and a woman at the far end of the room. She is tall with a petite, slender frame, loose midnight curls coiling around her waist. She angles towards me and—

Goddess above.

Ileana.

Legion hadn't held onto Ileana for her arcane talent—she was as mundane as they came—but she helped orchestrate an attack against the rebellion that ended in her capture. This was during my first stint with Legion, several years ago when I confessed my secret to their leader. It wasn't that Ileana was a die-hard kingdom supporter; she simply hated the destruction Legion wreaked in the cities and heard the rumors they were recruiting soldiers by force. She and a few others managed to take out a quarter of the camp with arrows before they were on them. Cathal killed her friends but insisted they keep her alive—that death was too merciful for a woman with a tongue as spiteful as hers. They chained her up and delighted in her suffering as they dragged out her punishment. Not going back for her the night Cosmina snuck into the camp and freed me has not ceased to be my biggest regret. I cowered in the moment I needed to find my strength the most, and she continued to suffer because of it.

How in the gods' names did she end up here?

A muscle feathers in her brown cheek, and I follow her menacing stare to the man slumped on his knees before her, twin swords at his neck courtesy of the two guards hovering above him.

The sight of him flares my chaos, and the iron colors my wrists with matching amethyst bracelets, reacting to the magic bubbling there, antagonized by the mere image of him breathing in my presence. Our presence. Because kneeling before her, an arrow protruding from his makeshift armor, is the man who tortured us both.

Given Cathal's human form, the arrow must be iron tipped, preventing him from shifting. He rolls his head back to look at Sin with those glaring blue eyes—eyes that watched as his friends kicked me into submission, beat me into misery, and violated me into nothingness.

"I only knew it was a matter of time before you'd grace us with your presence again," Sin smirks at the Legion commander.

They attacked. While I've been rotting in a cell beneath our feet, Legion stormed the stronghold—again. And clearly were unsuccessful given their leader now kneels in a crimson pool before the Black Art.

"That eager for another beating, Singard?"

Sin shakes loose a gravelly laugh. "Admit it, Cathal—you're out of resources, out of bodies, out of time." He clicks his tongue, crossing his arms as he stares down at the man that defiled my body. "You're almost making it too easy to win. I rather enjoy a good fight. But I'll bite—tell me, Cathal—why are your men outside my keep, starting a fight they cannot win? Please, enlighten me."

"You have something of mine," Cathal's eyes flash to mine, "and I want it back."

"Ah… yes. I suppose there is the matter of the witch. What can we do about that?" Sin begins to pace, his footsteps clacking against the stone floor with each measured step.

My blood pounds in my ears, my breathing turning ragged despite my attempt to remain calm, to not show a flicker of emotion in a room full of enemies. Even an apex predator knows when it is outnumbered.

"Give her to us and we'll leave," Cathal muses, his mouth twisting with dark amusement as if he knows his proposal will stoke the Black Art's pride. The kingdom does not negotiate.

Sin's footsteps come to a halt, the sudden silence in the foyer deafening as he stares at his feet, deliberating his next words. My heart races under Dusaro's arm, exposing my panic under my mask of collectedness. I would rather throw my neck into Dusaro's eager dagger than leave as Cathal's bartered pet.

"Sure… I could hand her over… be rid of her and your miserable men out there." His green eyes, now glistening with verdant wickedness, dart to mine. A smile equally as nefarious settles on his lips, and he takes a casual step towards me. "But I have a better idea."

Suddenly his hands are on me—wresting me from his father's grip—and he whirls me around his body, fitting one large hand around the base of my throat and wrapping the other across my chest like a steel band. A shaky yelp spills from my mouth before I can swallow it. I regret it instantly, but I swear his grip on my neck relaxes slightly.

Sin angles his head towards me, his breath a torrid caress along my nape. Gently, he drags the tip of his nose up my neck, all the way to the underside of my chin. I stop breathing, my palms sweating, every nerve in my body ordering for my magic to surge, and every one being struck down by the iron at my wrists. He holds us here, his mouth hovering inches above where my pulse pounds wildly in my throat, when he says in a voice soft as sodden roses, "You surrender… or I rip her throat out."

My lips mash together, heat nearly radiating from my body as my power claws against its iron shackling. From my periphery, I glimpse as Sin parts his lips slightly, his teeth admiring the soft skin of my jugular.

"You won't kill her," Cathal calls his bluff, deviousness twinkling in his dark blue eyes like vicious stars. Goddess above, I hope he is bluffing, but my nostrils flare as the scent coming from Sin shifts into virile hunger.

"I swear on my life if you don't surrender right now, I'll rip her throat out with my own teeth," he snarls, jerking me tighter against him.

Cathal lets out a low laugh, seemingly unaware of his own blood pooling around him. "You really think I'd call off my men to save that bitch's life? You're even dumber than I thought, Kilbreth."

"Last chance, Cathal. I would love nothing more than to sit here and bear witness as you watch your love bleed out."

"My love? Oh, now that is good," he cackles, his words transitioning into a boisterous, manic laughter. "I wouldn't love her if she was the last living thing to fuck. Kill her." Cathal shifts his focus to me. "Don't worry about your friends, Wren. We'll take real good care of them," he says with a wink.

My hands ball so tightly into fists, my nails prick my palms. "Don't you fucking go near them," I choke out under Sin's grasp.

"That dark-haired sister of yours—wonder if her snatch is as tight as yours."

My blood turns to lead, and I strain to look at Sin, the back of my head still forced against his shoulder. "Kill him. If you kill me, you fucking kill him too."

Cathal grins, his lapis blue eyes sparkling as he licks his lips and laughs quietly to himself. He shifts his attention back to Sin. "It doesn't surprise me the kingdom has resorted to using bloodwitches now."

I stop breathing. His words echo in my head, each one promising swift death.

Bloodwitch.

With one final breath, I close my eyes—I refuse to let Cathal be the last thing I see before Sin delivers my fate. The kingdom does not spare bloodwitches—mages whose collectives are rooted so deep in bloodshed they cannot trust themselves to remain in control once they take a life. We absorb the energy of those we kill whether we want to or not, amplifying our power and making us stronger and harder to stop with each body that falls limp from our blood-stained palms.

"You let a bloodwitch into our home?" Dusaro asks with chilling calmness. "Such stupidity."

Sin's grip on my throat tightens slightly at his father's comment, and heat ignites into a vicious necklace along my neck. I flinch from the sudden onset of pain, and the burning simmers out a moment later. And here I thought my father and I were the epitome of troubled relationships. Seconds tick by as I wait for him to banish Dusaro for his insult, to order for him to be taken to the dungeon or worse, but Sin remains a bronzed statue behind me.

There is no use in pleading for my life—there has never been bargaining with the kingdom, and even if there was, I'm not sure my life is one worth begging for. Not when it puts my sister, who will surely risk her own neck to save mine, in danger. My chest hardens to granite beneath him, but I can't slow my pulse thudding against his hand, my body fighting for life even if my mind has accepted its demise. Seconds feel like minutes. My chest rising and falling in rhythmic breaths, a pendulum ticking down my final moments. Sweats beads along my nape, shoulders, lower back—just get it over with already.

"You wanted to weaponize her against us?" Sin breaks the thunderous silence.

"Had she cooperated a little more, it would have worked. Was a stellar plan, actually. But she's a resistant bitch. She's too big a liability anyway—better for both of us that she doesn't remain alive." Cathal's too-casual tone sends a heap of red-hot coals tumbling through my core.

I grit my teeth as I wait for Sin's dagger to send me to the next realm. Or maybe he wasn't exaggerating when he threatened to rip my throat out. Is that how I'll jump from this life into the next? Slipping from his grasp as I fall into a ruby puddle, thoughts of Cosmina and Eldridge and Morrinne pirouetting behind my eyelids as my heart gives out. It's better than the alternative, I suppose. As much as I hate the kingdom for their prejudices against my family, I'd rather die by the Black Art's blade than bleed under a Legion knife. With a steadying breath, I relax my shoulders and wait for death's sweet, promising kiss.

"Lock them both up."

My eyes fly open, and Sin thrusts me away from him, into the hands of two uniformed guards. Another two pull Cathal to his feet and steer him behind us, our footsteps echoing in singular purpose as we head back towards the dungeon stairwell. Cathal yells something back to Sin, but I don't register his words, my mind spinning as I try to make sense of what just happened.

I'm alive.

My knees take the brunt of the fall as one of the guards shoves me back into my cell, and I barely take notice as they lead Cathal, still muttering to either himself or his own escorts, around the corner that continues out of sight. At least he is being kept far away from me, far enough I can't see that diabolicalness in his eyes, or hear that maniacal laughter in my ears.

I touch the chilled stone beneath me. Real. I run my hands over my arms, my face, through my hair. Real.

I am real.

I don't allow myself to remember how his blue eyes had looked in the dark.