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How dare these traitors attack him in his own home when he offered them shelter and sustenance. How dare they.
He needed to tear out another throat.
The guard took a wary step back. “Sir? Lord Draven? What should I tell Lieutenant Delcroix?”
This was a distraction.
“Where is Lady Charlotte?” He scanned the crowd. There were many faces—some in pain, some crying, some stoic, some tending to the wounds of others, some forging order in the chaos—but none of them were the right face. He spotted Lemoine, her head bleeding from a gash but otherwise unharmed. She was useful but not the person his monster wanted. He needed to find Charlotte now. Blood and silver powder obfuscated his senses, otherwise, he’d be able to track her.
“Find her,” he snapped, sending a cluster of guards scurrying.
Delcroix approached, limping, and holding his side. “Lord Draven, we’ve lost contact with the Black Gate. We believe the rebels have seized control of it.”
Yes, definitely a distraction. Did he lead the charge to take control of the gate, or did he go in search of Charlotte?
The audacity of the traitors to strike during a celebration renewed his fury. Where was Stringer? How had no one noticed the obvious stashing of weapons? This was a failure on several fronts, and it worked because he had been focused on Charlotte.
He had to find her. It was no choice at all. He only hoped he was not too late.
Charlotte
The Aerie
The Dungeon
Charlotte clutched the compass around her neck as her eyes adjusted to the darkness. She wasn’t lost, only temporarily inconvenienced. She was in a cell, complete with straw on the floor, a bucket in one corner, and metal bars.
No doubt also with rats and fleas. She itched just thinking about it.
Something moved in the dark. She was not alone. The lights flickered on again.
Shielding her eyes against the sudden light, she made a form in the cell next to hers. A massive form. Green and in chains.
It shifted and grew taller, chains clanking as the length uncoiled. Standing, she realized, feeling minuscule compared to the mountain now lurching forward. Its face was all harsh angles, and two tusks jutted out from its lower jaw, deforming its lips into a snarl.
Charlotte withdrew her silver dagger. The orc rushed forward, reached the end of the chain’s tether, was jerked back, and roared in frustration.
Curiosity won out against her sense of self-preservation; she took a step forward. The profile was familiar. She had seen it in the journal Draven had been so upset to find her reading. This was a victim of the Nexus mutation.
Orc, her mind supplied. This was an orc, an unheard-of mutation but recognizable enough from Old Earth fairy tales and legends. And not an it. A person. Nude and male, judging from his equipment on display.
“Hello,” she said, taking a cautious step forward.
The creature lurched forward. She moved back quickly, holding her little dagger out like it would do anything more than tickle the orc.
“Ethan,” the creature said, his voice rough from infrequent use. “Where’s Ethan? Where’s Ethan?!” He roared, the sound vibrating off the stone walls.
Charlotte felt it in her chest. “I don’t…I don’t know,” she managed to say.
The creature did not like that answer, apparently. He yanked on the chains, the muscles in his arms and shoulders straining. The chain gave a concerning groan, then snapped. He pounded his fists to the floor, the loose ends of the chain flailing wildly.
Charlotte backed away as far away as possible, the cold iron bars digging into her back. Her foot kicked against the bucket, toppling it over. Its contents spilled across the floor. She held out the dagger, her hand shaking.
The creature paused in mid-rage and sniffed the air. For some reason, that terrified Charlotte more than him snapping the chains. His head tilted to one side, and he turned in her direction, as if he suddenly remembered her existence, and rushed forward. He gripped the bars, tugging and pulling with such force that they rattled. Dust and crumbling mortar rained down. She thought snapping the heavy chains was terrifying? She was wrong. This was worse. So much worse. She had little doubt that if he put his mind to it, he could rip the bars out.
“Ethan,” he demanded.
“I don’t know where Ethan is,” she said, still clutching her emotional support dagger. “I don’t know who he is.”
