A tall figure wearing all black pauses ahead of me, but all I see are those golden eyes.
“Miss me, Starfire?”
Chapter 11
Elorie
That voice.
When the prisoner spoke to me on Alyssium, his voice was raspy from years locked in a cell. It echoed through the obsidian walls, and with my mind swimming from blood loss, I didn’t recognize it. It isn’t until those three words leave his lips that I realize how familiar the prisoner’s voice is.
It’s the voice of the island. Except, it’s not.
It’s him.
My eyes narrow.
“Did you prefer thinking you were talking to yourself all those years?”His amusement tickles my thoughts, sparking the gold in his gaze.
“How are you doing that?”
“The same way you are.”
“Wilder Riven, back from the dead and out of your cell.” King Malachi steps forward, interrupting our conversation, if that’s what it is.
“You know how difficult it is to keep me in one place too long, Malachi. Disappointed?” Wilder’s stare sharpens.
Wilder.
It’s strange to put a name to those golden eyes. To see the evidence in front of me that what happened in the prison wasn’t a lie. He died; I saw his heart snuff out. He was gone.
And now, here he stands, alive and dripping with power.
I resurrected him.
“Can’t say I’m disappointed when it’s been a boring century without a proper challenge. But I am surprised we’re standing here talking instead of fighting this time around,” Malachi says plainly. “Did a century in a cell finally teach you some patience?”
A century? My stomach turns, considering the few days I apparently spent in that place. I lost track of time and self. What would a century do to someone?
Wilder’s eyes meet mine like he heard my thought and is considering my question, but he doesn’t speak. The darkness in his gaze answers for him.
Nothing good.
“How are you out of the prison?” I blurt out, realizing when the king glances at me that I probably shouldn’t have said anything.
This is his court, and from the hushed silence surrounding us, I sense I’m supposed to be quiet like everyone else. But I can’t help it. It doesn’t make sense. I resurrected Wilder within the walls of the prison—a prison that is specifically spelled so the Fae can’t leave alive. He shouldn’t be standing in front of us right now.
Wilder takes a step closer, and the energy radiating off him makes my chest tight. “I see your great king skipped over explaining the intricacies of Fae arrangements even as you’re about to enter into one.”
His eyes fall to the goblet in my hand, and my fingers grip it tighter. He continues to slowly close the distance, stopping barely a couple of feet in front of me. I angle my chin up, refusing to break stares with him.
His mouth twitches at the corner like he finds my fearlessness amusing. “The terms of all spells and rituals must be specific, leaving room for loopholes if they’re not worded carefully.”
“Only the dead can leave the prison. You’re alive. What’s more specific than that?”
“Onlyonce deadcan a Fae leave the prison,” he corrects me.
Once dead.
