The temperature dropsas Marin descends through Azhareth Castle’s corridors. Not drastically. Not enough for most to notice. But she does. Because nothing in Azhareth is accidental—not even discomfort.
Everything is engineered, curated, designed to be felt at the extreme.
The guards do not stand as she approaches. They watch the door, listening for sounds of movement. They’re not guarding him—they’re guardingfromhim.
This should be fun.
“Open the door, Vynton,” Marin drawls, her unfazed tone a trained act.
The guards exchange a look. “You’d be crazy to enter, Princess. He’s… gone mad. He doesn’t speak words anymore. Just sounds. An animal,” Vynton explains, worry creasing his brows.
Marin exhales an exasperated sigh, and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Queen’s orders, ladies. Now get out of my way before I make you.”
“Who you callin’ ladies? We’ve been watchin’ him this whole time. Went in to feed him, too,” Vynton counters, hands on hips like he’s proving a point. Like he’s speaking about an animal gone savage.
“Wow. So brave. Maybe mother will offer to let you feed the hounds next,” Marin retorts, her mouth pulling taut in a fake smile.
She pushes past the men, kicking the door open with her boot. She waits for the door to slam closed. Waits for the steel latch to click into place before stepping forward.
The sound echoes too long. Like the room is bigger than it should be. Or emptier. And then she lets herself feel everything, because when she takes him in, the contents of her stomach lurch into her throat.
Emotion floods her. Dread. Terror. Recognition of the hold the Decay has on him.
Holy fucking Stars.
This is the King of Zerynthia. Or what remains of him.
Chains of lillath are clamped at his wrists, wearing a track of blood and raw skin all the way around. The metal has bitten so deep it looks fused to him. As if it belongs there. His arms are stretched wide, the chains bolted to the walls—allowing him no peace.
Barbed wires twist around his skin, tearing at his flesh, forcing him to still all movement. Black blood seeps out of hundreds of cuts, crusting on his skin in dried patches.
The same black blood floods through every vein, spidering across his flesh like a web. It pulses. Not with his heartbeat—but with something slower. Hungrier.
Marin swallows thickly at the sight. At the sight of a warrior brought to heel. A king brought to his knees. And still somehow more dangerous than any man in this fortress.
Marin knows exactly what it looks like when powerful people are broken down into weapons. She sees it every time she looks in a mirror.
Kael’s head hangs, his chin almost resting on his chest.
Marin’s heart thumps in her chest. She steps closer, muscles taut so she can reach for her sword in a heartbeat.
Then—Kael lifts his head. Slowly. Deliberately, so he does not disturb the barbed wires that snag his skin.
His eyes find Marin’s, and all that stares back at her is the endless, depthless dark of Decay. No recognition. No hesitation. Just awareness.
A shiver snakes down her spine, unsettling her. She does not recoil, but every instinct wants to.
A low, guttural growl rumbles through his chest. A warning. Not human. Not entirely.
Marin drops to one knee, rests an elbow there, though she makes sure she’s out of striking distance.
“I should kill you,” she taunts, voice a cruel snarl, testing him.
Kael’s mouth twitches. Almost a smile. A laugh. Something cruel. “You should try,” he rasps, voice hoarse from disuse.
“I think you’ll kill everyone in your path, Kael. This thing inside you has you by the balls. I don’t think you can stop for all the coin in the realms,” she admits, voice lilting with false confidence.
Kael snarls, baring his teeth.
