She paints another sizzling trail across his chest, down his tensing abdomen. Rekk jerks and jerks—fierce, primal satisfaction shaping The Other’s features into a vision of savage glee.
“Then I’m going to use your own metal spurs to dig holes all over your body, before slashing what’s left of you with that whipping tool you cart around.”
Another groan as she digs the poker deep … deeper … then tosses the thing. It clatters across the stone floor, coming to a halt by the wall.
Rekk chokes and heaves, his wide, wild stare bouncing around the room, like he’s searching for something that can help free him of this predicament. Too bad for him, the one she loves was thorough with her preparation. Impressively so.
There is nothing here to save him.
“Vaghth,” The Other whispers, and Rekk’s gaze whips up to meet hers.
She hears his heart skip a beat. Feeds on the pulse of his surprise as a bulb of flame flutters from the open fireplace and settles in the palm of her clawed hand.
She can almost hear the thump of his thoughts, no doubt churning over the fact that she can wield three elemental songs—not just Clode and Bulder as he’d witnessed in the Undercity.
He doesn’t know about Rayne. Doesn’t know it’s actually four. Neither does the one she loves, The Other having gone out of her way to absorb Ignos’s spitting, scalding tune so it doesn’t trigger her strong but delicate host.
Until she’s ready.
She tilts her head, the motion smooth and animalistic. “Do you know how it feels for a Moonplume to scald in the sun’s harsh rays, Rekk Zharos?”
He shakes his head, whimpering, his stare flicking between the fire in her hand and her rattling leer.
“A bit like this,” she sneers, then paints his face in flames.
There’s a coldness about this place that digs all the way to your marrow.
I blame it on the fact that I’m not used to it. That I was born and raised north of the wall. Toss me amongst endless plains of snow, flurried storms, and breaths that make your lungs feel frostbitten, and I’m suddenly questioning every life decision that led me here, to this moment—walking through the sable halls of Arithia’s grand Imperial Palace dressed in the stark-silver garb of a servant.
My long, flowing skirt rustles with every step, a plain blouse buttoned to my nape where it meets a collar of fur that matches the tufted cuffs around my wrists. Not nearly enough layers to battle this bone-biting chill.
The vast size of this palace is boggling, the building cut into the side of a jagged, snow-covered mountain like spears of obsidian shot up from the ground, reaching for the numerous rounded moons nesting in the sky. All of Arithia is cast in a whimsical pearly glow that penetrates through the many windows in this haunting palace. So many windows that, with every turn up the obsidian stairway, I’m granted another fragmented view through panes crafted to look like shattered glaciers, made from thousands of shards in every tone of blue, silver, and white.
On and on I go, up the ever-winding stairs that are buffed to a high gleam, skirt shushing in my wake. Unsure why I’m going up.
Something in my gut, I guess. Not something I want to look in the eye any longer than I have to.
Get in.
Get the diary.
Get the fuck out.
Coming to an ornamental mirror on the wall, I pause, tucking strands of pale hair behind my pointed ears, checking my sharp, pretty features and blue eyes for any cracks in my imitative appearance—jarring as it is to see myself as not me.
Truly, very weird.
My silver, appearance-altering bangle hangs heavy around my wrist as I rearrange some strands back into place. A bangle with a hidden spike I used to poke both my finger and that of the female now bound, gagged, and unconscious in a cupboard in the servants’ quarters on the ground floor. With a pillow under her head—because I’m nice like that.
Too bad I didn’t think to ask the poor thing for directions before I knocked her out. This palace is a labyrinth, each doorway bracketed by stern, silver-armored guards known as Thorns, the hallways haunted by a constant stream of stone-faced maids bustling about the place, keeping its many sharp edges perfectly polished.
A bit like a gleaming trophy Tyroth is obviously very proud of. The fuck.
A dark-haired female dressed in the same garb as myself pours down the stairway in a swish of silver, her eyes widening when she sees me. “Ayda?” She nips a glance over her shoulder, her next words a quiet hiss. “You’re not supposed to be down here.”
Ayda.
Guess that’s my name. Good to know.
She slows, frowning. “Are you okay? What are you doing?”
Hunting for the ancient diary of Elluin Raeve Neván, hoping it hasn’t turned to compost in a wall somewhere.
“Well, you see—”
“Have you already been up there?”
That’s a baited question I certainly didn’t prepare for. Beginning to think I might’ve pricked the wrong maid …
“No?”
Her eyes almost bug out of her head. “You’re expected in the King’s chambers right now.”
My heart lurches.
Actually, that’s exactly where I need to go.
“I lost my way,” I say, offering her an awkward smile. “I didn’t sleep well. In fact”—I rub my temple—“I’m suddenly all confused about the levels. I think I lost track somewhere down—”
She snatches my arm, tucks it into the crook of hers, and tugs me farther up the stairs, past two Thorns moving against our grain before she leans close, speaking in a hushed tone. “We’re on eleven. You have another twenty-three to climb.”
“Of course.” I let loose a soft laugh similar to the one I heard the real Ayda make while I trailed her momentarily in the bowels of the palace, right before I knocked her unconscious. “Silly me.”
The female pulls a silken dusting stick from the pocket of her apron and wraps my hand around the cold handle. “You need to at least look useful going in there or the other females in the palace will talk, and that will displease him greatly. You know what he’s like.”
Yes. I do know what he’s like.
Sadistic.
Fucking.
Asshole.
I flash her another smile. “Thank you. I left mine … somewhere.”
Muttering something beneath her breath, she peels away, then turns back down the stairs, disappearing from sight.
I keep shoving up the twisting stairway that seems to go on and on, doing my best to count the levels. Easier said than done since some are stouter than others. Some, the stairway is woven through the air of wide-open atriums like a black squiggle—the atmosphere spiced with the sweet, intoxicating smell of illuminated flowers in full bloom, their glowing heads tipped to the windows.
I step onto a level with a lofty ceiling veined in silver threads, a grand double door directly ahead that’s bracketed by two sets of Thorns, their shoulder pads flaring to pointed peaks. Silver helmets cover most of their faces, wings splayed from the sides that accentuate the tapered tips of their ears.
Each of them wields a long iron sword, pointed down, both hands wrapped around the hilt. Swords that are almost longer than me.
My breath catches at the sight of the door, something inside my brain wiggling like a worm I can’t quite manage to pluck free and inspect.
Even if it weren’t for the extra guards, I’m somehow certain this is the place.
This is the sleepsuite where Elluin died.
My gaze darts from guard to guard. “I’ve got … dusting to do,” I say, waving my stick.
None of them even glance my way, though one of them raises a brow.
Right.
Permission to proceed.
Clearing my throat, I move forward when the door swings inward, releasing a familiar ashen scent.
My heart leaps into my throat.
I slide back a step, dipping my head.
Holding.
Paralyzed.
In my direct line of sight, a silver thorn-tipped boot pierces my view as I’m shoved within the crackling atmosphere of Tyroth Vaegor. Heart thrashing.