Page 110 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

“Don’t . . .” Theron coughed, and Vivian hushed him, forcing his lolling head back.

The master clicked his fingers and smoke exploded in the tent, writhing, cold shadows that probed Samuel’s bare face. He gagged, the lack of life attached to them clogging up his pores as they suffocated him.

A mind-bending moment passed, stretching into eternity, and the tent flaps wafted, a young male dragging his feet into the space. His shoulders hunched, his hands stained black, along with a secondary shadow playing behind him. It jabbed him with every step taken, and the male hissed, his dull eyes wincing.

“You called, Father.”

“Ah, Blake. Please help Ivar undress.”

Blake paused, frowning. He glanced to Samuel, Theron, and Ivar and his eyes shuttered, his jaw clenching. “Undress? Father, I need to intercept the next hawk. Bree wants to plan the wedding that you orchestrated. We need to devise our strategy of attack. Undressing Iv—a prisoner is the last thing I should be doing.”

The master’s hand waved through the air and the shadows thickened.

“Undress him. Now.”

Blake sighed, and Samuel stiffened as he approached. His name was unnervingly familiar, enough for the tiniest flickers of anger to rage within, to crawl, to scratch at the inside walls of his prison. The flaming beauty of fire peered at Samuel, her nose twitching.

“Get away from me, traitor.” Ivar spat at the floor.

“Just give in, Ivar. Trust me.” Blake hauled him up, the veins around his wrists writhing manically as he shoved Ivar to the side. Samuel kept his gaze fixed on the chained female, her bewitching face, her curved figure, her burning locks keeping him rooted in peace. In sanity. The clanks of armour falling to the ground vibrated through his mind.

The sound of freedom.

“Very good,” Barron praised. “Now shadow him.”

Samuel’s head jerked as Ivar yelled, a solid box of shadows closing him in, obscuring his nudity. Vivian laughed as he pounded against the darkness, ripples echoing from his fists. Blake winced, his arms wavering as he maintained the box. Theron yelled in between coughs, slowly slumping in his stool as he reached for Ivar.

The tent entrance opened again and a female walked in, clad in a golden gown. Pressing a handkerchief to her tight face, a pair of dark eyes squinting through the shadows. Her curled hair had been scraped back, a dainty chain of beads looping around her head.

“This place is disgusting,” she murmured to Vivian. “How can you live here?”

“Fighting for a better future requires sacrifices, Rashi,” Vivian replied.

“Lady Rashi,” Barron smiled. “Please, stand here. How is your husband?”

Rashi blinked as she wiped away a quick tear. “The wound is infected. Otto remains at Mossfell Castle with the best healers, but nothing is working.”

“Ah.” Barron’s lack of sympathy caused Rashi to squirm in her affluent gown, layers of lace and crusted gems weighing the corset down as she rolled her shoulders every few seconds.

“I don’t see any of the other noble ladies here,” Rashi huffed, peering at the blood stains.

“Their husbands are still well,” Barron pointed out. “Except Jacinth. She might be the most ravenous among you for power.”

“Jacinth is heartless. At least I love my family.” Theron coughed, wrenching his head up at the lady. She glanced at him once, tutting at his state, her upper lip curling.

“Regardless, I have something to show you. Rommier, come here.” Samuel’s armour forced him into motion, and he glided over to the master with ease, slowly becoming one with the darkness. A cool prowl, a saunter that filled him with dread.

He stopped by the edge of a thick, mahogany desk, lined with green embellishments, every swirl and dip so much like the shadows that encapsulated this tent. Rashi sniffed behind her handkerchief, choking.

“Here,” Barron handed over the weapon. “Shoot the box.”

Samuel paused, his mind fraying every second that passed. His hand wavered before the master’s, his heart racing. Sweat broke out on his forehead, the bile repeatedly rising and swallowing within. The dark fog took over, dampening all thoughts, the agony of the armour blinding him, forcing him to forget the truth.

There was nothing in the box. It was empty.

“Shoot the box, Rommier. Just aim, and pull the small latch.”

He took the weapon.