“I thought I’d bring your queen to watch you bleed,” Farin said as a guard offered him a zeemir. He took the weapon and ran a metal finger down its spine. “You have led me on quite the chase, Samson. I have been looking for this place for decades, led astray by twisted myths and your false reports. Funny, then, that the man who helped me find it was one of your own.”
Samson stilled. “Mine?”
“Akino, I think,” Farin said. “He makes such fine weapons, like the horned dagger.”
And then Samson remembered. In the dark of the trees, in the slivers of moonlight, a dagger with a dragon’s mouth had sunk deep into his chest. He remembered that his attacker had looked familiar. That the hand, gripping the hilt, had often crafted and molded weapons of his own.
“No,” Samson said, trying to stand, his body already realizing what his mind was slow to comprehend.
“He also told me the curious tale of this monster here,” Farin said, pointing toward the translucent snakeskin with the zeemir. “‘Blood of the son of sea will give rise to thee.’ Isn’t that how your prayers go? Have your tales always foretold that your blood will activate the amrithi?”
“Farin, please,” he choked out. It was not his blood, but his fire. “If you kill me, you’ll only anger the goddess—”
A soldier shoved Elena forward, and she bit down on a cry. Despite himself, Samson’s heart lurched. He moved to catch her. She grasped his arms, her grip tight, her eyes wide with, what—relief, regret, grief?
“I’m sorry, Ruru,” she gasped.
Farin motioned to the guards. “Bring him to the pool.”
“No—” An officer pulled her back, and Elena yelped as the cuffs tightened around her wrists. “Samson, run!”
At the sound of her pain, at the sight of the king’s nonchalance, something snapped within Samson. In that moment, he did not care about her lies, or Farin’s, or his own. In that moment, in the stony hell of his oppressors, he saw only a familiar face, calling to him.
Samson roared, surprising Ren. The Jantari officer tried to block him, but Samson rushed forward, slamming him down as the others shouted. Elena twisted, reaching.
“Sam!”
“Elena,” he cried.
He grasped her hands, then her face, trying to commit to memory the touch of her skin on his. Elena clutched his arms, her grip like a vise. For a fleeting moment, their foreheads pressed together, and he whispered harshly, quickly, so only she could hear as the Jantari darted forward.
“Do you remember the boat? Do you trust me?”
She nodded, her nose brushing his. “For you? Anything.”
In that moment, he loved her. It was not a pure, hopeful love, full of promises and beauty and softness. They had hurt each other far too much for that. Their love was carved from cruelty. Wrenched from betrayal, forged by anger. It was monstrous. Unholy.
But it was wholly, utterly theirs.
Her lips touched his—too quick for a kiss, too desperate to be meaningless, enough for him to crave more—and Samson reached for her Agni.
CHAPTER 70
ELENA
What if the three goddesses were to become one? Who then remains the most monstrous? The one who folds quickly, or the one who withstands the longest?
—fromA Critique of the Ancient Gods(note: debunked by historians)
Cold in the shape of a beast sank its teeth into her flesh, spearing her bones, snapping her veins, flooding her with agony.
Elena screamed.
It was as if she had been submerged underwater and set afire. She was only dimly aware of the mountain shaking horribly as Samson gripped her face, his nails cutting into her skin.
A deep crack echoed through the chamber. It sounded like a laugh, like a memory. Her Agni screeched, twisting, and Elena felt as if every cell within her body had been set ablaze twice over.
She could only clutch Samson.
