“The area should be clear of guards,” Adalyn whispered. “As long as we’re inside the walls of the castle, we need to be as quiet as possible. Nothing louder than a whisper.”
Brenna nodded, letting Adalyn know she understood.
They walked slowly down the long corridor, glancing into each cell, searching for signs of majik. Several men, scruffy and unkempt, stared off into the distance with no idea they were being observed. Adalyn didn’t recognize any of the men behind the aged iron bars. Most of the prisoners sported a shiny silver bracelet. Adalyn knew firsthand her mother used them to deplete a person’s majik. The wearer would be unable to do any sort of majik until the bracelet was removed. When she had first seen them, she thought they were silly. After all, how hard was it to remove a tiny sliver of silver from one’s arm? What she hadn’t realized at the time was the bracelets were spelled and could only be removed by one of the guards with a specialty key that was also spelled with majik.
Adalyn felt her majik waning with each step. They would have to speed up their search if she had any hope of remaining invisible with Brenna in tow. Adalyn picked up her pace, and waved her free hand, sending out tendrils of majik to search for anything unusual. Seconds later, she felt the undeniable pull beckoning her toward the last cell.
They rounded the bend and skidded to a stop, unsure of what they were looking at. A young man, cleanly shaved, hair perfectly cropped, gazing at the stone wall in front of him. He looked vibrant compared to the others housed in the dungeon.
Brenna reached out slowly, testing the majik around the cell. She glanced back to Adalyn, trying to silently convey what Adalyn already knew. There was indeed a strong majik around this man.
Adalyn closed her eyes and whispered an ancient chant, one she’d been taught by her grandmother. The chant would allow them to see the truth without breaking the cloaking spell. Mariska would be none the wiser.
Brenna gasped as the cloaking spell slowly flashed away for a brief moment. The true image of the man was one of absolute horror. His long dried out hair reached his waist. A shaggy beard fell nearly to his stomach. What had once been the strong body of a berserker now resembled that of a captive who had been denied the most basic of nutrition. The sight of the once proud warrior broke her heart. Just when she thought the image couldn’t be any worse, he turned—almost as if he sensed he was no longer alone and faced them. The haunted look in his eyes shattered what remained of her broken heart.
Her friend. Her Alpha. Tortured and held captive for decades.
