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“Move aside.” Serano appeared over Rufus’ shoulder, and the brute obeyed, releasing me to slump forward once again. “The king wishes an audience with the prisoner.”

The attempt to lift my head resulted in it swinging back and forth lightly. Serano tsked softly, raising my face with thumb and finger digging painfully into my wounded chin. I gritted my teeth as well as I could to prevent giving him the satisfaction of a wail.

“This won’t do. Here.”

I didn’t try to stop him as he emptied the small vial into my mouth, shoving my forehead back with his hand afterward to be sure it trickled down my throat. The cries I’d been determined to keep inside escaped as my body stitched itself back together, jaw cinching into place with an agonizing snap. The sorcerer stayed mere inches from me as I shook and jerked uncontrollably. His dark eyes sparkled with pure enjoyment as he watched me heal in a way far more painful than the torture that had broken me in the first place.

I wished I could say I was used to it by now. But each time, the violence of it stole the breath from my body.

When it finally stopped, Serano stepped out of my personal space and gestured. Freezing water rushed over me, the spray so harsh it was bruising, and the feel so cold it stopped my heart for a solid moment. By the time I finally located the hose held by two armed men, I was soaking wet and breathing hard.

“Can’t have you looking like you’ve been rolling in your own filth for an audience with His Majesty,” Serano tutted, hands tucked casually behind his back. “Put him in some fresh pants and bring him to the king’s quarters.”

With the tip of a sword at my back, I was washed, clothed, blindfolded, and marched up an endless set of winding stairs. My hands were bound behind me, and my ankles shackled with a mere foot of chain between them, making the journey treacherous. Whenever I tripped on the uneven steps, arms would shove me roughly forward and half drag me back to standing.

Healed though I was, I had also been starved and weakened over the past month, fed scraps and given just enough water to keep me alive. It had made me weak. By the time we arrived at what I assumed were the king’s chambers, I was out of breath and couldn’t keep from falling into one of the guards beside me. I was roughly shoved back until I stood on my own.

“So, you do still live.” The sound of the king’s voice so close, when I could do nothing about it, made my eyes burn with the threat of frustrated tears. It wasn’t hard to hold back, considering I was so dehydrated I doubted I could produce actual tears.

“Leave us.”

The sounds of men retreating sped my heart. I was alone with the king. If only I could find an opportunity to end him, even if my own life were forfeit with it. But in my current state, I had no real hope of doing more than glaring at him. If he removed my blindfold, that is.

I was shoved forward, not by a person, but by air magic. I recognized the power. I’d felt it from Galan on so many occasions, and even Nyah, who had perfected it. The powers he used now I knew had been stolen from Tromodia. From my people.

“Walk,” the king demanded. Not waiting for me to comply, he shoved me forward with magic again.

Blind, thanks to the cloth over my eyes, I stumbled forward. Hate stoked in my veins as the same magic forced me down yet another set of curving steps and onto a stone floor. The air pressure shoved me to my knees and held me in place as the piece of cloth was finally removed from my face.

I was in a circular chamber with something like an alter in the center where an enormous crystal sat, pulsating with an eerie white glow. Before me were three large stone doors with runes carved on them. The one on the left was open and empty, just large enough to resemble a vertical tomb. The center one had a flat, pointed crystal above it which glowed violet, and the one on the right was simply a closed door before which stood the evil bastard himself.

He was the same as I remembered from the Imrati: not particularly tall or imposing, but sharp features with dark hair, pallid skin, and shadowed eyes that sent a shudder through me.

His clothing was simple black leather, but over it he wore a cloak of burgundy velvet and a chest piece that matched the armor of his guards. And in his hand was the staff I’d never seen him without, inlaid with the crystal of Centos. But there was something different from the last time I’d seen it. It had a second crystal inlaid below that—the one Torvo had so foolishly handed over from Astridon. And I noted below that there was a spot waiting for a third stone.

One he would never get because only I knew where it was.

I smiled at the thought, and he smiled back, just as deadly.

“Your name,” he demanded.

“All you need to know is that I am the one who will watch the life drain from your eyes, and my face is the last one you will ever see.”

He laughed, his entire chest shaking with the action. “Brazen words for someone on his knees before me. I will have your true name momentarily, and then this mystery will be solved, and I can move on with my life and my plans while your corpse rots here on the floor.”

I was a mystery? What did he care who I was? Yes, once upon a time my family name was important, but he’d already ruined that. Staring, I waited for whatever came next.

The king moved aside, aiming his scepter at the stone in the center of the room. It lit up, growing a deeper and deeper shade of purple, then a beam of light struck the door he’d been standing beside. Thick rock scraped along the floor as it opened, but it was the sight beyond that sapped the remaining strength from me. I fell back onto my legs, hands cold and trembling behind me.

A woman sagged, chained to the wall. She was completely nude and had stopped struggling the moment our eyes connected. Her long, raven hair fell in unruly waves to her hips, and the tips of her pointed ears poked through on either side, just as I remembered from so long ago. She looked the same—had somehow not aged. Not that elves did so quickly—we tended to live longer lifespans than humans—but still, not a single wrinkle marred her beautiful face or smooth, skin the shade of Ceder bark.

“You monster,” I growled, strength rushing back through my veins along with a surge of magic that immediately caused the choker on my neck to tighten. I didn’t care. I thrashed against the bonds that held me, and I may have broken through had the king not shoved me down with air pressure that felt like the weight of a dragon.

Against the wall, my mother shook her head either in disbelief or sadness. Her coffee-colored eyes glazed with moisture as she watched me struggle.

“You know each other?” Balram addressed my mother—the woman I’d thought had died almost twenty years before, when men had come to the boat to tell me they’d seen her attacked by a sea serpent on the annual pilgrimage she’d made to the Synbari Isles.

That was when I’d turned my back on the gods. When they’d taken the only adult I’d had left in my life, whose only crime was an attempt to pay them homage.