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He fears his father, and what is to come. Just as I do.
We should never have ventured down here. We should have gone straight to my father. If we had, we wouldn’t be bound by Heston’s chains, our magic cut off from us.
Nausea crashes into me. Have our actions already doomed Nolderan?
“I believe that’s enough reunions for one day,” Heston declares, turning to his necromancers. “We still have a city to sack and a Grandmage to slay.”
My father.
I barely hear the responding sneers. The drum of blood deafens my ears. Saliva tastes like ash in my mouth.
If Heston threatens my father with my life, I fear what choice he will make. And what Nolderan’s fate will be.
Heston gestures to his necromancers, and two step forth. They haul me onto my feet and shove me farther through the tunnel. I feel weightless, as though I’m drifting over the stone.
As though I’m no longer here.
We enter deeper into the sewers, toward the growling. I think I know what it belongs to, but I don’t dare to admit it—not even in my own mind. Because thinking that thought would make it real.
I edge closer to Arluin, though that’s difficult with the necromancers escorting us. But I get close enough.
His head is lowered, his shoulders sagged in defeat. He must feel my gaze on him since he turns to me.
Fear and guilt cloud his magenta eyes. “Reyna,” he murmurs so quietly I barely hear him over our footsteps, “I am so sorry.”
At first, I don’t know how to respond. This is his fault. If we hadn’t come down here, we wouldn’t be captured by Heston.
But I’m also to blame. I knew what a stupid idea it was, yet I followed him all the same. I should have immediately teleported myself back to the Arcanium. I should have left him. Nothing awful would have happened to him. Heston would never hurt his own son.
Or at least, I think he wouldn’t.
Nonetheless, I squeeze my eyes shut and say, “This isn’t your fault.”
When I dare to reopen my eyes, his shoulders are taut with tension. “I won’t let him hurt you.”
All I can manage is a small nod. It isn’t that I don’t trust the sincerity of his words, it’s just I know he’s speaking from his heart and not his head. Heston’s spell prevents us both from casting magic. And our arms are too tightly bound to wield a knife against him.
There is nothing either of us can do.
The growling becomes louder. As does the rattling of bone against stone.
Finally, we arrive at the source of the noise.
The sewers swarm with hundreds of corpses. Some are skeletal, without even a lick of flesh on their bones. Others are half-decayed, and the rotten smell of death wafts from them. All their eye sockets are empty, aside from the shadows swarming within.
The guttural growls, the clattering of bone—it all proves too much.
I double over and vomit across the stone. The sick splashes onto the robes of the nearest necromancer. His nose wrinkles at the sullied hem. He’s a sun elf, evident by his pointed ears and golden hair. His tanned skin is sallow, however, and his eyes aren’t bright like the few sun elves I’ve seen strolling the streets of Nolderan.
The elven necromancer looks at me from above his hooked nose and snarls, “Get a move on.” He shoves me forth before I have the chance to compose myself.
Heston comes to a stop before his horde of undead and raises his hand. The rabble falls silent and still at his command. Hundreds of empty sockets stare back at him, awaiting his orders.
“Grizela, Virion,” Heston calls. The sun elf who escorted me steps forth, as does the orcish woman with braided white hair. “It is time.”
“Yes, my lord,” they answer, bowing their heads.
“When you have completed your task, return here.”
