Chapter 10

The moon drenches the city in a stark luminescence that fails to seep into the clefts between lofty buildings. I weave along these paths, tracing that charcoal map now etched into the folds of my brain.

The alleyways become tighter with every turn, the thick, puddled shadows making it hard to see the odd slumbering lumps tucked against the walls, their faces shrouded within the frayed hoods of their patched cloaks. I pull my own hood farther down, ensuring my face is cast in blackness.

A layer of mist swirls underfoot as I ease onto a wider street, the end barricaded by the steep wall—a foreboding presence holding the city in its illuminated embrace. Blazing turrets line the top, reaching for the blackened sky like the points of a gilded crown.

I drag my hand along the wall and follow its gentle curve, edging between buildings nesting close, until I find one that leaves just enough room for me to work with—a four-story structure with a flat roof that’s half the height of the mammoth wall encompassing the city.

Tucking my satchel, sword, and cloak behind a wooden crate, I peer upward. The grooves between the rocks are like hairline fractures, but my toes are nimble.

So are my fingers.

I press my hands against the adjacent structures, using the force to hoist myself up so I’m suspended between the two, enabling me to ease up the empty space in a spider-like shuffle. I make quick work of the four stories, though every breath burns by the time I’m edging onto the roof, shaking out my hands and feet as I look up at the abrupt terrain I still have left to scale—this time without the backbone of the adjacent building to brace my ascent.

Easing my toes off the roof’s lip, I tip forward and stamp both hands upon the stone, finding a frail cleft to delve the tips of my fingers into. I do the same with my right foot, then drag a deep breath, swing my left foot forward, and dig my toes into a groove, shifting my weight to the wall.

Heart pounding, I locate the next feeble divot just above my head and push.

Reach, pull, repeat.

The wind tousles my hair about my face and threatens to peel me off.

Yank me down.

There is no pump of thrill. No blood-zapping excitement.That part of me fell off the cliff with him, leaving this heavy sense of impending relief sitting on my chest like a boulder—ready to lug me toward a swift and sudden death the moment I let my guard down.

Refusing to look that thought in the eye, I keep moving.

Keep climbing.

My thighs and calves and shoulders burn by the time I slap my hand upon the top of the wall, face contorting with a silent snarl as I push all my strength into my arm and shove. Throwing my weight forward the moment my ribs scrape against the honed edge, I swing my other arm out and snatch a metal peg impaled in the stone.

Legs dangling, I haul myself onto the smooth, flat surface drenched in firelight by two blazing turrets. I roll onto my back and toss out my arms, one hand hanging over the lip while the wind weaves between my throbbing fingers. Gulping sea breeze, I stare at the winking stars that look almost close enough to touch, sweat trickling down my face …

Fuck.

I tip my head sideways, frowning when I realize I could roll five times before tumbling off the other side.

Another cooling gulp of air, and I ease onto all fours, crawl toward the outer edge, then peek over the side.

My gaze plummets in symphony with my guts.

I’m not sure what I expected to see, but it certainly wasn’t … this.

The cramped city has nothing on this stout band of civilization squashed into the broad gully between the wall I’m standing on and another—running parallel with this larger one as far as I can see both ways. Like the bands of a rainbow, but far less pretty.

Small ramshackle dwellings appear to have been crudely constructed with all the broken bits the rest of Parith had no use for; patched roofs held haphazardly together with uneven planks of wood. Between some of the dwellings are strings draped with frayed material and ragged clothes ruffled by the slight breeze.

There’s an eerie, sad silence disturbed only by the bellowing roar of the flaming turrets and a forlorn wail coming from somewhere below …

Skin prickling, I cast my gaze along the outermost wall, following its path into the distance left and right—perhaps protecting its inhabitants from the outside world. From the Vruk attacks that will eventually make it this far south.

That have made it this far south.

But the wall over there … it’s shorter, lined with stumpy turrets that cast it in weak, rusty light. From my perch I can see that it’s thin, crumbling in places, as though whoever is housed in those derelict dwellings are considered less than those inhabiting the city side.

Another keening wail echoes through the stagnant air, followed by a gurgling cough, and I frown.

Who are the people down there? Why are they isolated from the rest of the city?

I notice a pail and coiled rope tethered to another metal peg much closer to the northern edge. Lips pursed, I inch closer and peek inside the bucket, noting the oily sheen as I choke on the rank smell of rendered lard.

It must be what they use to haul up replacement oil—fuel for the blazing turrets.

I use my blade to slice the bucket free, then tuck the dagger away and give the rope a tug, checking it will hold my weight before I gather the length and toss it over the side. The end thwacks against the wall about four feet from the ground.

Heart pounding hard and fast, I grip hold of the rope and turn, blowing a shuddered breath as I edge backward down the wall one blind-footed shuffle at a time—dropping farther from the quenching sea breeze. Deeper into the stagnant stench of sour milk, dirt, and something foul that coats the back of my throat.

A faint drone gets louder … louder …

Drawing closer to the soft thwap of the rope slapping against the wall with my descent, I glance over my shoulder, drag a breath, and drop.

A swarm of flies lifts off the ground as I land in a crouch, dirt blowing up my calves. I use my collar to barricade some of the rotten stench clogging my lungs, flies landing on my arms and face, tickling my skin. I slap them away, straighten, then spin and take in my surroundings.

Shadows spill off cramped shacks too small to house anything more than a whelping dog. I turn my attention down a crooked path that weaves between them, illuminated by the firelight pouring from above.

I frown, noticing what appears to be a child’s wooden rattle discarded in the dirt. Pausing, I crouch, reaching out to touch it—

Movement catches my eye.

I look to the right, squinting into the shadows.

Reeling back, my heart skips a beat at the murky outlines of people lumped on the ground, spilling from their crooked doorways.

Big people. Small people. Big people cradling much smaller people.

They’re huddled together, perhaps seeking comfort from each other. And it’s silent … No wheezing exhales. No whispers. Even the tragic wailing has ceased.

Something latches onto my left hand and grips tight.

My breath snags, head swiveling, an itch flaring across my clavicle.

A man eases from the shadows, his face pocked with craters of decay riddled with maggots grubbing at his weeping flesh.

A scream lodges in my throat as eyes that might have been blue once wobble around sightlessly, his pupils blown so wide there’s only a frail ring of color left, fringed with dark dents to match his hollow cheeks. “Help m-me …” he rasps through pallid, cracked lips, flashing nubs of decaying teeth. “P-please …”

Blight.

He has the Blight.

He releases a gurgling cough, and I stumble back a step, another, gasping the stagnant air—tripping on cracks in the dirt while prying my hand free, gaze darting from him to the many people now groaning to consciousness. Lifting their heads. Easing from the shadows.

Looking in my direction with tragic, vacant stares.

This isn’t just another ring of the city. It’s a graveyard. It’s the place the sick have been sent to be forgotten about.

To die.

Rhordyn was right. I shouldn’t have come.

“I’m so sorry,” I rasp through a thickening throat, clambering toward the wall. I snatch the rope and haul myself up one frantic pull at a time, arms burning, hands straining. I’m halfway up when I realize the rope is jolting beneath me.

One glance down, and my heart plummets into the pit of my rotting conscience.

A young, black-haired woman is attempting to climb the rope. Other than her hands being riddled with weeping lesions, she appears healthy—her face luminous, almost beautiful. As though the sickness has only just begun to nibble at her.

Like it’s yet to sit down and truly feast.

A wave of deep sadness sweeps through me.

By the light of the blazing turrets, I can see the desperation in her gaze. Her desire to live.

The backs of my eyes burn as realization stakes me through the chest.

If I let her climb free of this macabre pen, she’ll spread sickness throughout the city. She’ll kill hundreds, maybe thousands of people.

With a pained groan, she hauls herself closer … closer … while others hobble and crawl across the hard-packed dirt, coughing and spluttering, edging toward the rope as though it’s the dangled key to their salvation.

All I can see is the painting of Zane’s older sister—the tiny child who bore the same love heart birthmark on her thigh as I do.

Viola.

All I can smell is her mother’s tears as Gunthar recounted the young girl’s death. The same vicious death now clawing up this rope, threatening to take more lives.

To spread.

Cainon’s voice cuts through my foggy thoughts like a blade …

Sacrifices.

I close my eyes, biting down on a scream threatening to charge through my teeth as my thorny emotions spike, slash, and saw. I reach for the sheath wrapped around my thigh—hating myself. Hating the fact that Cainon’s my voice of reason in this fucked-up moment.

Wrestling my bucking conscience, I pull my dagger free and drop my hand to the taut stretch of rope beneath me, releasing a mangled sound.

I force myself to catch the girl’s wide-eyed stare as I set my blade against the coarse fibers.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

She stills, her mouth falling open. I squeeze my eyes shut and run the blade through the rope in one hard, clean swipe.

I feel the weight fall from the end of the line. Hear her too-short scream … the meaty thump that cuts it off.

“I’m so sorry,” I sob, refusing to look at the scene below, the words ash on my tongue. Because it doesn’t matter what I say, how I feel, it won’t unbreak her body. Won’t save these people from their suffering.

From being a human wall that buffers Cainon’s treasured city from any army that would dare break through.

Rhordyn was so desperate to quell the deadly wave attacking his territory, while Cainon’s busy wielding his as a weapon. Lacking the empathy to give them a comfortable end when his city is steeped in gold.

Fury slashes at my ribs. Devastating, destructive fury that saws me to shreds from the inside out.

My wild, unruly emotions … they’re just as savage as my caustic blackness.

Just as deadly.

And right now, they’re frothing for me to bring Cainon to his fucking knees—just like Zali said.

Except that’s not what we agreed upon.

My face contorts, and I tip it to the sky, fiery rage billowing up my throat in a raspy scream I pour upon the stars.

I pluck beads of luster from my dim and dusky insides, molding them into a small stack of crystal domes I use to catch my hate, my hurt, my sorrow. Separately, I button each wrestling emotion against my ravaged insides, then pluck the petals of my morality, too—stuffing them beneath a fourth dome. Sealed away like a sparkly mushroom patch.

A heavy calm settles upon me as my scream tapers. Still, I study the stars while chilling cries and gurgled moans echo from below, the souls of the dead rising up to haunt me, dragging their ghostly fingers across my pebbling skin.

Sacrifices.

I think I’m finally starting to understand.