Page 109 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

Ivar.

Samuel winced as his name broke through the smoke clouding his mind. Sweat trickled down Ivar’s wan face as he bared his teeth at the Dark One, pain evidently consuming him from the tortured twist of his lips.

He was . . . fighting the dark magic. Resisting the temptation to give in.

It’d been too long for Samuel. It knew how to haunt its wearer, to manipulate their mind until they no longer remembered what they’d done an hour ago. Samuel huffed at Ivar’s attempt to survive, knowing he’d soon lose his spark and succumb to the shadows.

It was easier that way.

He glanced to the male placed to his right. Cropped curls and strong features, eyes like the darkest umber surrounded by streaks of black tears. Tattered clothing drowned his malnourished frame, and sores peppered his dark skin, leaking with pus as he wheezed with every breath.

No armour. Not even a hint of a shadow. His little flame also watched the dark male warily. Something about him caused a flicker of irritation, as though his mere presence was intolerable . . . but familiar.

“Sam?” the male to his right coughed the word out. “Sam, are you alright?”

He knew him.

“He’s under Barron’s persuasion,” Ivar gritted out, every word forced through bared teeth. Sweat poured across his brow as his slender hands clenched around thick rope binding his wrists.

“Sam! Can you hear me?”

Samuel grunted in response. Theron. The infuriating sentinel. The know-it-all who was truly their prince.

“Silence!” His mistress backhanded Theron, the slap echoing through the crimson tent. Barron liked to stand out from the sea of darkness. The beacon of death, the conductor of misery. Even the rugs lining the wooden pallet floor were splattered with blood, finished with gleaming golden tassels.

“Ivar, Theron,” his master smiled. “You’re about to witness history.”

“This is sick Barron,” the pustulous male wheezed. “Look at what you are doing! Sam doesn’t even know who he fully is. He doesn’t recognise us!”

Barron laughed. “The perfect soldier.”

Within a blink of an eye, Barron yelled as Ivar lunged, screaming with anguish as he reached for the Dark One. Vivian shrieked, her hand rising to summon her magic. Vines erupted through the floor, clasping around Ivar’s ankles, dragging him back to his stool. All the while wheezing, clutching at his chest as the armour constricted his ribcage as punishment.

“Intriguing you’ve resisted the stone for this long, Ivar. Perhaps you possess a natural magic deterrent.”

Shadows parted around the Dark One, revealing a shining, silver barrel in his hand. Samuel inhaled sharply as a memory of cannons filled his mind, before evaporating like thin air. Etchings marked the metal as it shone in the light, connected to a moulded hilt with a curved hook. His little flame gasped, her hands shaking as she attempted to reach for the weapon.

“That simply won’t do in my world.”

Bang.

Samuel’s wildfire screamed, yanking on her chain as smoke drifted from the barrel of the weapon. Yet, nothing happened.

“I’m . . . alive,” Ivar panted.

In the centre of his chest plate, a singular piece of shining metal had dented the black and malachite stone.

“Excellent,” the master replied. He rotated the weapon in his hands, marvelling at it within the low light. “Truly excellent.”

“This is unnatural,” the little flame whimpered, violently shaking as her hands collapsed to the ground by her muddied knees.

Samuel twitched, his body screaming at him to go to her, to take her fire and burn with her until the end.

But he couldn’t. He never would.

“Ivar, you may remove the armour,” Barron commanded, his shark-like smile glinting from the shadows.

Ivar paused, his narrowed eyes surveying the room. His black hair was lank, plastered to his sweat-soaked scalp.