Samson shook his head, the effort itself making him dizzy. “I won’t go.”
At this, Ren laughed. “Oh, you will.”
He pulled, but Samson locked his legs, surprising himself. He did not know where this strength came from. Maybe it was panic, desperation. He tugged back, eyes wide.
“I won’t go,” he repeated, voice high.
But Ren yanked him forward. He kicked, floundering, and Ren slapped him across the face.
His neck whipped to the side as pain exploded down his cheek. Samson stumbled, and then Ren wrenched his face toward him, his breath hot and rancid across his burning cheek.
“Remember. I will fucking drag you.”
The bastards had brought him tohis mine.
He saw the silver serpent snaking down the gates. Recognized the milky-white stalactites hanging above the tall cavern. From the tunnel on his right, he could hear the echo of machines, the shouts of men, the ringing of tools.
And beneath it all, he heard the whisper.
It was like a stream that ran beneath the stones, everywhere all at once. How many suns had his men spent mining for Farin while trying to find the source of that voice? Power lay beneath this mountain. He had sought it for so long as a free man. It was with a sick sense of irony, then, or fate perhaps, that they would lead him back here now, chained and broken.
Ren and a soldier led him through a tunnel he did not recognize, the muffled shrill of drills and the thump of hammers growing louder. He did not remember his men ever mining this area. They had kept it untouched, instead mining up north while secretly exploring passageways that dove deeper into the mountain. But the thrumming beneath his feet was unmistakable. The Jantari had found his secret.
The walls hunkered closer. The shadows slunk down, latching around his ankles and pulling him forward with cruel delight. They grew bolder the deeper they went. Licking his face, his hands, his feet. Encroaching on his vision. Samson trembled, his breaths short and panicked. His eyelids felt hot, feverish, and he tried to touch his face, to somehow open his mouth and shove air into his chest because, skies above,he could not breathe—
He crashed to his knees, gasping. Ahead, the Jantari soldiers turned. He tried to call out for help, to tell them he could not breathe, but Ren simply grabbed him and threw him over his shoulder. Samson struggled, but Ren marched on without pause into the access shaft.
They dropped, fast. Samson whimpered as the sound of machinery grew closer. When the platform abruptly stopped and the doors opened, it hit him full blast.
The screech of drills, the sharp barks of overseers, the tired grunts of laborers. Samson tried to twist out of Ren’s grasp, but the officer held him tight. The indignity and hot shame of being lifted and carried like a sandbag knifed through his gut. He still had his pride, damn it.
Ren dropped him suddenly, and he landed on his hip. Samson hissed in pain. By the time he regained his bearings, he realized the mine had fallen silent, save for the whispery drip of water.
Butcher, it crooned.
Through bleary eyes, Samson saw his brethren. The miners had stopped working and were staring at him, some surprised, others troubled, a few already retreating in horror. He could not tell who was more crushed.
Him, realizing that he had returned to this place of terror.
Or the Sesharians, realizing with shock that their hero, their tormentor, was trapped just like them.
Samson saw their hope perish in their eyes.
And he hated himself even more for it.
“Samson Kytuu has returned to die,” Ren called out. “So. Let’s give him a warm welcome home.”
Samson could not bear to meet their eyes, but he could feel their weight. Their disappointment.
Ren paraded him past. Samson tried to hold his head high, to look brave, but their gazes hooked into him, peeled him apart. One Sesharian caught his attention, then quickly looked away. They could do nothing to help him, and neither could he do anything for them. An acidic lump rose in his throat. He tried to call his Agni, to save whatever shred of dignity he had left, but the iron bonds tightened around his wrists, cutting off his blood flow.
He tried not to shiver, found he could not stop shuddering. His legs cramped. A wave of exhaustion suddenly struck him, and Samson swayed. He closed his eyes. For a moment, he wondered if it would have been better to die in Tsuana. Better to bleed out on a beach than the cold, hard stones. Better to die a martyr than a failed hero.
Samson opened his eyes, his chains rattling behind him as he continued his march.
And then a young girl stepped forward.
She was a child, too young, too small for the dark confines of the mine.Dusty black curls crowded her forehead, but her eyes shone with a light that would give the Jantari pause, if only to remind them of what they could not kill.
