I need this.
My voice is sharp as I snap, “Training starts now. Get all the males dressed and into the yard immediately. It seems I've been away for too long.”
CHAPTERELEVEN
Rooke
The surly Prince Tauron takes me back to the dungeon, the iron chain wrapped tightly around his fist as he yanks me forward. He doesn't attempt to use any of the side hallways or service entrances, instead walking me through the most populated areas and ignoring the way the entire castle stops to stare at us both. They look at him with pity, as though being so close to me is going to ruin his life, but he ignores them all as his hands jerk the iron chains to get me moving faster.
My memory is better than most, and even with the expansive footprint of the castle and the dozens of winding hallways we take, I map out the path. It's a subconscious habit that was trained into me and has become such an integral part of who I am that I don't even notice I do it anymore. I have no intention of escaping from the dungeon and the magic that flows within the dark and cramped space.
Though the Savage Prince threatened me with death, I don't truly believe he's going to kill me. The Fates have tied his hands; he just doesn't realize that mine are tied just as tightly.
Coming back to the Southern Lands was the last thing I wanted to do.
The high fae that walk the halls here do nothing to thaw out the frost around my heart and mind. None of them look deserving of salvation or mercy; they all look like the villains in this story. The Grand Hall has banquet tables overflowing with food and drink, a gluttony of provisions, when everyone else in the land is starving.
I pity them all a little more.
As we descend the staircase, I notice the taut lines of the prince’s shoulders, the way that he’s holding himself very carefully, and his gait as he walks me down to the cells.
He hates it down here.
The air must feel suffocating to him; unable as he is to tap into his own magic to understand what the earth is crying out for, it must feel like a vise around his chest. The high fae have fallen so far from the way of the world—as far as the witches of the south have, just in drastically different ways. The Unseelie witches chose to turn away from the Fates and the order of nature, but the high fae simply forgot what they’re supposed to do. I knew this before I left the Ravenswyrd Forest. Generations have passed since the high fae stopped practicing their rituals, and even in our isolated home, the Favored Children knew.
If the high fae hadn't lost access to their magic, Kharl’s evil would never have been able to spread the way it has.
After he shoves me into the cell, the prince unlocks the iron bands from my wrists. Then his gloved hand shoots out to grip one of my elbows hard enough to bruise and yanks the arm up so that he can inspect my skin.
Jerking me forward until he’s looming over me, he snarls, “Why isn't it burning you? Why are you unmarked from this iron, even though Soren’s dagger seared you? Tell me, witch.”
He knows my name, and the gall of him to continue to ignore it bites at me. I owe this male nothing, not my truth or my respect, so I simply raise an eyebrow at him.
His eyes are icy cold and malevolent as he bends down to stare at me, his face close to mine as he inspects every inch of my dirty features. Antipathy curls his lip.
“We both know you can take the chains off—you killed two high fae soldiers without a scratch to show for it. You’re down here pretending you’re nothing but a meek little mouse, but I see through the lie. What other games are you setting up? Play them with me, witch, I’m not such an easy opponent. Merrick and Lysen were caught unawares. I won’t be.”
The absolutenerveof this high fae.
To keep me as a prisoner in these dungeons, parade me around the Unseelie Court unbathed and appearing broken, and stillheaccusesmeof misconduct.
I take a slow step backwards into the cell and away from him, then another, and another, until my back hits the cell wall. His eyes narrow as I slowly slide down to sit once more, assuming the same position I’ve been in for the long days I’ve been held here. Ignoring him, I take a deep breath and settle into the dark embrace of the cell and the land beneath it.
When it’s clear he’s going to keep standing there, I answer, “You obviously don't know much about magic or witches if you're asking me stupid questions. Maybe you should read some history books…or is that beyond the Unseelie high fae? I suppose a royal like yourself would get someone else to read them for you.”
His eyebrows creep lower and lower until he looks as though he’s plotting my death at his own hands. “That’s not the way to win my favor. You're our prisoner, you should be trying to convince me not to kill you, not pissing me off even more.”
I shrug at him and then let my eyes slip shut, the ultimate dismissal and the only one I have at my disposal. “It’s not my job to teach you about the ways of the world, prince. You'll have to figure it out for yourself.”
He yanks the cell door shut and locks it before giving it a tug just to be sure it’s secure.
I open my eyes just a crack to observe him. He’s so sure that my ability to touch the iron won’t aid my escape if the cell door is locked, and if nothing else had tipped me off to their underestimation of me and their ignorance of magic, that would have done it. He steps a little farther away and grabs the small, rough-hewn stool each guard has been sitting on and places it on the ground across from the cell door.
The surprising part is that he sits facing me, arms crossed, and continues to speak, none of the surly silence I prefer from him to be found.
“The mercenaries’ chains burned you, so I'd wager it takes prolonged exposure to inflict damage. You have some sort of resistance to iron, but the bars here will keep you secure. Tell me where you hail from, witch. Convince me to keep you alive.”
A smirk stretches across my lips. “I will convince you of nothing, and I've already freely given you my name. You've offered me nothing in return.”
