Spotting Greer across the room, I don’t miss that her gaze is set on Wilder just like it is when we’re training. She doesn’t trust him, and I don’t blame her. He and his rebels want nothing but for us to suffer with them. I look forward to choosing King Malachi over Wilder and putting an end to this.
Greer’s silver eyes shift with Wilder’s every movement. They’re a touch lighter than mine, and sometimes I swear they’re not silver at all, but white. Greer has yet to reveal what magic she wields, but the soft white glow to her aura is unlike anything else in this room.
“Elorie, I’d like you to meet Lord Alasdair Merikh.” King Malachi snatches my hand, spinning me toward him.
His hand rests on my bare lower back, and I have to fight the urge to push him off me. It’s still unclear what his intentions are for our relationship, but I prefer it when he ignores me for Selia,who is currently walking away with Wilder following close behind.
“Alasdair has been a friend for many centuries. One of the few true ones,” the king praises, while I meet Alasdair’s dark gaze.
There’s nothing kind in his eyes. Only a merciless darkness. His long chestnut hair falls over his shoulders, barely hiding a scar that paints a ring around his neck.
“A pleasure.” Alasdair takes my hand and kisses the back of it.
His lips are a bee sting to my skin, and I pull back, trying to settle what darkness just stirred between us. Some Fae are better at masking their magic than others, and while I can’t sense what he wields, something awful brews in his aura.
“Nice to meet you.” I press my lips together.
“Alasdair monitors the battlefront from his territory, Rohldova, while my adviser, Cyan, coordinates from the palace.” King Malachi continues his introductions, waving at a male standing nearby.
Cyan doesn’t approach as Alasdair did. He doesn’t offer a hand. He gives nothing more than a simple nod and a disguised scowl as he looks me over. His dark-brown hair hangs loosely at his chin, but there’s something familiar in his stare.
His expression is cold and empty as he leans forward, whispering something to the king.
King Malachi waves a hand, and Cyan leaves us.
“Alasdair brought us a little present,” King Malachi continues. “Something for you to practice with.”
That catches my attention. “What kind of present?”
A slow, wild smirk curls in the corners of his mouth. “Let’s go see.”
The king doesn’t take his hand off me as he guides me through the room, and I notice guards don’t follow like they usually do. At a throne beside the king’s sits Hazel, watching me leave with her brother.
Her pitch-black hair is pulled over one shoulder tonight, revealing her pale neck.
Hazel never interacts with anyone. Instead, she sits on her throne and watches her brother move from one group to the next. Her shadows stir at her fingertips, and anytime I get near her, something endless opens. A deep, magicless void.
Hazel’s nearly black eyes catch mine the second before I step out of the room, and a shiver runs through me.
King Malachi and Alasdair turn in the opposite direction I’m used to going, down a series of hallways I don’t believe I’ve seen before. The paintings are unfamiliar, and the halls get narrower the farther we go until we reach a door that leads to a winding stone staircase.
Alasdair goes first, which I notice is common for the king, as his Guard scopes out any room before he enters. When Alasdair is a few steps ahead, I’m guided to follow.
The staircase winds downward in a tight spiral. Nearing the bottom, my nose is flooded with the all-too-familiar stench of death.
We step into a room that reminds me of the dungeon I was held in when I was first brought to the palace. But there are no cells, simply stone walls with vines creeping over them. Torches light the space. Not even the king bothers with his magic here. No one needs to see better to know what lies before us.
Bodies.
So many of them. Lined on cots in perfect rows.
A few guards stand at the other side of the room. I nearly heave when King Malachi pulls me to the side of one of the cots.
These aren’t like the bodies I tended to on Alyssium. They’re rotted. Skin eaten by creatures, some missing entire limbs. I’m thankful I haven’t had dinner, or I’d lose it.
Trying to hold my breath, I look around the room. So muchdeath. But worse than that, so many souls that have yet to be properly blessed and sent to the After.
“You don’t burn your dead?” I ask, regretting speaking when the taste of the stale, rotten air clings to my tongue.
