Page 30 of The Shadow Sanctum

As it swings open, I step inside, my eyes sweeping over the room. The Dregs who are left standing drop to the ground with their arms obediently stretched in front of them.

"I have something for you." My voice bounces off rock as I pull the loaf from the burlap sack. The smell of fresh bread wafts through the cell, and I watch as heads look up and nostrils flare. My eyes pause on a man who licks his cracked lips.

"But first, I need information." I tuck the bread away with apples I had to go into town to retrieve. Yeast nurtured with my own hands. Never in my life would I have thought I’d go to such lengths for degenerates.

I try not to think of what that means.

Only when every starved man has eyed the bag do I continue. "I’m looking for a shell necklace. Small, dull, and chipped. Strung on a leather cord." My voice is perfectly level, as if it’s meaningless contraband I’m after. The worst mistake would be giving away its … emotional importance.

Even as my chest tightens in the silence, I resist the urge to shift my feet. I must be a statue. "Who knows where it is?"

Five quick heartbeats pass before the cells erupt into chaos.

"Cliff!" one Dreg shouts in a voice crackling with desperation.

"It's Cliff! He's got it!" another echoes, and soon a chorus of voices fills the cell, all shouting the same name.

I scan the room. "Is Cliff here?"

There's a commotion in the back corner. I spot movement as a skeletal man begins to stand, but before he can fully rise, another Dreg tackles him to the ground. They grapple in the filth, a tangle of bony limbs and ragged clothes. A third man dives into the fray, yanking at Cliff's shoe while others join, clawing and scratching like animals.

I watch the display of human desperation with practiced detachment. In the beginning, it was difficult not to sneer. It’s been years since I’ve had to remind myself these pigs are useful.

Finally, a Dreg emerges from the pile, clutching something in his dirt-encrusted hand. He rushes toward me, head bowed so low his forehead nearly touches his knees. He extends his hand, palm up, revealing the necklace. Sawyer's necklace. The shell has been snapped in two places to create a sharp tip, a mediocre weapon. Though the crusted blood tainting the dull color suggests it’s been useful.

"Your Grace," he whispers, his voice trembling. "Please."

I drop the burlap sack at my feet, the apples tumbling out alongside the loaf of bread. Immediately, the Dregs scramble. They snarl and claw at each other, fighting over every morsel with savage intensity.

The useful one’s outstretched hand shakes with impatience, but to his credit, he doesn’t abandon me for the food. I pull a spare apple from my pocket and lightly toss it at his chest. He catches it with a whine while I take the offered necklace, careful not to let my fingers brush against his skin.

The shell is filthy and broken, but cool against my palm. Sawyer isn’t a man who requires perfection. He’s one of the only men I know who don’t.

I curl my fingers around the shell and close my eyes against the shudder that knocks something loose in my chest—relief, I think, because I don’t dare consider more.

When Thorne’s hand rests on my shoulder, I back out of the cell.

I hand the necklace off to Thorne without comment, but as our eyes meet, he must see inside of me because an understanding passes between us.

"I'll make sure he gets it," Thorne says quietly, tucking the necklace safely away.

The sounds of the feeding frenzy behind us grow more frantic as we turn to leave. At the clang of the cell door, a ragged voice calls out: "Did he ask you to increase our rations?"

I turn my head halfway. A Dreg stands near the bars, braver than the others, his eyes feverish with hope.

"I saved Sawyer’s life," he continues, just a little too bold. A little too problematic. "That's worth more than a necklace, isn't it? Your Grace?"

I don’t respond. Because I don’t dare consider what Sawyer’s life is worth. And because whatever lies or false promises he made to ensure his survival are his own—grateful as I am for his clever tongue.

I turn to Thorne. "Wait for me outside?"

Creases form on either side of his lips as he frowns so deep, I’m sick with a moment of regret. If only I hadn’t let my loyalty stray. If only I could reach out to him without risk of looking weak to the Dregs…

Later. I’ll tell him I love him, that I’ve always loved him. And that I forgive him. Even if none of it is true.

When seconds pass, I give up waiting for Thorne’s response and start toward Aiden's cell, pushing thoughts of Thorne and Sawyer aside. Yet even as I walk away, I feel the ghost of the necklace against my palm, a tangible reminder of the man I won’t be able to give a proper goodbye to.

In the prisoner quarters of the mines, cramped in the only occupied cell, Aiden’s head lolls like a man close to death. Bruises line his face and cover the arms that dangle from chains secured above his head.