Page 39 of Prince of the Phantom Sky

The Emerald Forest rumbled, vines looping over his legs and feet as her eyes rippled with power.

“I’m an outcast,” her voice became otherworldly. A tone that Samuel could admit made him a coward. He dropped to a knee instantly, bowing his head. “I’m on the side of the people. My husband may have a warped vision of the future, but I will ensure he is steered into the righteous path of the Dark One.”

“Aye, mistress, I-I apologise,” Samuel stumbled over his words, his heart hammering as she approached, her bare feet padding the ground. Her green gown swished around her ankles, and she laughed as she trailed her fingers through Samuel’s hair. The armour squeezed again, sucking the life from every pore, every fibre of his being.

A damp, cool sensation blanketed him, and his mind fogged as Vivian lifted her leg, placing her foot on his knee, exposing the supple skin of her thigh as she pulled her gown back.

“Now, please me, before my husband returns,” his mistress commanded, just as she had many nights before. “We return to Ironwharf Outpost tomorrow, and I want you all to myself tonight.”

Samuel could barely speak with the armour suffocating him, so instead he brushed the exposed skin of her leg with his fingers. Vivian smiled, lifting her skirts higher. A swirl of tattoo peeked from the cuffed armour across his wrists and Samuel frowned, unable to recall what ink covered his skin. What had he felt so passionate about to mark his skin permanently?

“Focus,” Vivian ordered. “I want everything you can give.”

Samuel exhaled as he trailed his fingers higher, up her inner thigh. She practically purred, putty in his hands as he explored her skin. Except, it wasn’t exploration. It was like designing a map repeatedly, re-tracing the same lines over and over again until he knew every inch of flesh intimately. He could unwillingly wander the plains of her skin with his eyes closed.

And that’s what he did. With a final exhale of dread, Samuel shut his eyes, summoning a pair of orange-ember irises to his mind, framed by an intricate circle and flaming red hair, as he dove into darkness’ cruel mistress.

Part Two

Mistros city

16

Kora

You can stay in here.” Raiden pushed open the creaky door to a small cabin. Kora trembled as she crossed the threshold. A single cot lined the right wall, with barely enough space between it and the simple armoire to the left. A single porthole broke through the grey wood above the cot.

“It’s not much,” Raiden hovered behind her. “But it’s nicer than most.”

Kora sank down onto the bed, her blue skirts billowing around her. She shivered as the ship rocked, sailing across the sea . . . to Galen. She swallowed down a gag as her body threatened to heave up the forced food from Barron’s dinner.

“Do you need anything?” Raiden asked, filling the doorframe like a giant. Kora couldn’t meet his gaze, couldn’t even speak as what happened finally settled into her. Moments passed and Raiden eventually sighed, closing the door.

“Thank you,” Kora whispered. The door froze before it shut, and Raiden’s fingers flexed around the wood, almost as if he were deciding to enter. “For rescuing me.”

A sharp inhale responded, Raiden’s warmth lingering in the space. As the door closed, Kora collapsed back on the bed, her tears streaming silently. She wiped one from her face, peering at it on her finger. It was clear, no trace of Barron’s magic lingering, no sign of his possession over her remained.

With a disgusted exhale, Kora tore the infernal ballgown from her body, not caring if she ripped the fabric. Glistening beads scattered onto the floor, rolling and disappearing into the cracks of the wood. She pushed open the porthole, stuffing the dress through it, relief washing over her as it disappeared beneath the waves.

Talmon Island was still visible, and Kora choked on her sobs as she eyed the treeline, the darkness shrouding the island. She could see it now. The stain left by Barron, his mark upon the land. Talmon was infected, and he wanted to spread it across the world. Once again, she had left Samuel, Ivar, and Theron in Talmon.

She was a failure.

Crushing guilt sliced through her, so desecrating that she couldn’t hold back her scream. Kora bowed over the bed, her fingers clawing at the thin sheets as she cried out at her failures. Her tears poured, soaking the cot, drowning her in despair.

They were suffering.

They were dying.

Agatha was already dead.

And it was all. Her. Fault.

The door slammed open and Aryn rushed in. Upon seeing Kora, he quickly shut the door, and spun to face it.

“Kora you . . . sorry! I should leave.” He could hardly look at her, his cheeks flaming red. Kora glanced down, dressed in underwear and a band of fabric across her chest. Her bones protruded through her skin, mud and blood caking every sharp line. Did he find her as disgusting as she felt?

Aryn reached for the door. “Please,” Kora whispered. “Stay.”