The man watches Fhord for another moment and then dips his chin sharply. “I agree,” he declares, claiming Fhord’s order as his own. “She must be held for the Dróttning. Follow me.”
Spinning, he turns toward a hallway to the left. Fhord stalks back to grab my chain and drag me along behind him. He doesn’t speak to me again, but I hadn’t expected him to. He’s said what he could to try to earn my trust back—as if I would believe he plans to help me—and can’t risk talking to me in front of the commander.
We walk for a long time, entering a part of the prison I don’t recognize. And I’d know. The memories of my time here are engraved on my psyche, an ever-present etching through which every part of my life must pass. But while I can’t see anything I recall, the stench already has wriggled inside me to drag out emotions I never wanted to experience again. My insides crawl with every hint of rot and shit that slithers up my nostrils, and I struggle to hold back the retch that plays in my throat.
I’m almost relieved when we reach my cell. Almost. While I’m ready to get away from these males and try to find some semblance of calm amidst the horror that is the Nest, I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’ll suffer as I wait for the Dróttning. The smell here is somehow worse than I remember—dominated by the sulfur I’d grown to despise—and the cell itself is nothing more than an empty space with a hole in the ground. No cot or blankets or water source. But I shouldn’t have expected any of that.
“Key.” Fhord drags me closer and holds out his hand.
The commander watches for a moment then gestures toward my new abode. “She’ll keep the band. She may have magic and that’ll help control it.”
I realize with his pronouncement what I’ve been missing since they wrapped the metal around my throat. I hadn’t felt Fhord, but he’s gotten good at shielding against me so that wasn’t surprising.
I don’t feel Tindera at all. I haven’t heard anything, although she comforted me before.
Worse, I can’t cast out my psyche to find any other mind. The splattering of thoughts that always sieges me is quiet. No fears respond to my own. No thirst for vengeance. No despair. No hope. No desire.
Nothing I can manipulate and control.
Nobody I can shape into my unwilling ally.
No way to escape.
And that’s what finally breaks me. I stumble into the cell and slump to the ground, my fingers holding on to the shackle that will spell my doom. They’ve found a way to hold my mind. I have no idea how I’ll get past this barrier they’ve created.
“Make sure she’s fed and kept safe.” Fhord’s words echo through me, but I don’t look up. I can’t see his face again. His betrayal cuts me more sharply than the knowledge I have no way to escape. He won’t see me collapse. He won’t see what he’s done to me.
The lock clanks, echoing through the corridor, and I hear them stride away, boots pounding on the stone floor.
Silence surrounds me, heavy like a thick cloak, and I lift my gaze and stop fighting. The tears start as a trickle, soon growing into an inferno as the grief burns through every bit of my skin and muscle and blood and sinew. For an hour, I let myself be consumed by fear and despair. But just for an hour.
Those emotions won’t help me survive.
When I feel like my broken parts have started to mend again—and I can let go of Fhord and the ache of his treachery—I straighten my back, sucking in a deep breath.
Grief won’t get me out of here. Anger. Resolve. Retribution. They are my most potent weapons. My need for vengeance—against Fhord, the Dróttning, and every single being who helped create this fucked up world—will be my salvation. Those are the emotions I’ll need to escape and exact my revenge.
So those are the emotions I nurture.
I meditate on Fhord’s betrayal, letting myself remember the game he played and how effectively he fooled me. I can’t deny it any longer. He drew those guards to Astarot and me in the cave. My dragon must have been healthier than he expected, so he pretended to help us escape, only to ensure more guards would find and capture us.
He deserves to die, but I don’t know if I can do that to Tindera. I’ll find some way to hurt him as badly as he hurt me.
Then my fury turns toward the Dróttning and everything I’ve learned about her. The words of the dead king in the grove come back to me, and I wonder how I can use his information against her. Because she must pay. She’s created a horrific world to feed her vast ego. Elves and dragons suffer the most, but they’re not the only ones.
Maybe I’m here to tear it down.
And I’ll need every bit of my strength if I’m going to do that.
Chapter twenty-three
Fhord
We've Made Our Decision
Thatgods-damnedmanaclearoundSifa’s neck is going to fuck up everything.
I’d hoped it wouldn’t work. The Dróttning had it developed after Sifa escaped and tested it on a lot of elves, but nobody as strong as my little rabbit. When they put it on her, I knew. I can’t even sense her presence. It’s smothering her magic.
