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A single person’s applause rang out across the space.
Wilder whirled on his feet, not feeling the broken glass beneath his soles, or the wounds from the previous brawl that had worsened. Panting, he spied the jewellery-clad inquisitor of Harenth’s dungeons in the furthest doorway, and beside him a robed man he didn’t recognise, whose face was contorted in a smug smile.
Wilder heard Aemund’s intake of breath. ‘That’s the Archmage of Chains,’ he whispered, cowering as the man in question came forward, his eyes not leaving Wilder’s heaving form.
‘Aren’t you something?’ the Archmage said, an eager lilt to his voice.
Wilder took a step towards him, ready to wrap his hands around his throat —
‘I like your tattoo,’ the man said unexpectedly, that oily smile still on his lips. ‘It’s not often I see scripture of the ancient tongue of the Furies…’
‘What do you know about it?’ Wilder growled.
‘Glory in death, immortality in legend,’ the Archmage of Chains recited, his eyes sparkling in the torchlight.
An icy talon raked down Wilder’s spine, exactly where those words had been inked: a vow and a motto he and Malik had lived by, now sullied by the vermin before him.
‘I’m glad you’ve shown us what you’re capable of, Warsword,’ the man taunted. ‘You’ll become a legend among monsters.’
Several powerful, invisible hands grabbed Wilder, and he struggled against their grip, horror dawning.
They had meant for him to see every nightmare imaginable within this place. They had wanted to witness his strength against all odds.
The Archmage of Chains smiled as he revelled in Wilder’s realisation. ‘You will be our best creation yet… A general of darkness in Artos’ growing forces. A weapon of our own making…’
Wilder thrashed against his manacles and his captors, against the horrific fate that awaited him as they forced him down onto a table.
Darkness swallowed him whole.
CHAPTER FOUR
THEA
Thea was restless, but she didn’t take her eyes off the towering monolith casting long shadows across the desolate landscape. Day and night were barely discernible; it was the guard change that marked the passage of time, and Thea was more than ready to spring into action. They had waited and watched long enough. Somewhere in there, Wilder was suffering, and she wouldn’t stand for it a moment more.
‘You ready?’ Talemir asked, shadows dancing in his palms.
‘I was born ready,’ Thea replied, faint sparks of lightning crackling at her fingertips in kind.
‘You need to be careful with how much magic you use…’ the older warrior warned.
Thea nodded. ‘I’ll only use a little,’ she reassured him. ‘It knows him, so will be able to scope out where he is and alert him that I’m coming.’
Talemir frowned, gauging the distance between their hiding spot and the gates of the tower for the hundredth time. ‘If they discover who you’re after, they’ll know it was you. No doubt Artos already suspects your loyalty lies elsewhere. And if you use too much storm magic, any remaining cover you have will be blown. They’ll know that the heir of Delmira and Althea Zoltaire are one and the same. The world will know exactly who you are, and who’s important to you.’
Thea centred herself, letting her Furies-given strength interlock with her power, fuelling her from within.
Strong of mind, strong of body, strong of heart, she reminded herself.
‘Then the world will know that if they hurt him, I’ll burn them all to the ground.’
Talemir nodded. ‘So be it.’
Wrapped in his shadows, they passed through the gates, past the trio of wraith guards undetected. Talemir’s power was born of this place, and like recognised like amid the darkness.
But his disguise couldn’t cloak lightning, and so when the pair reached the drawbridge that lay across the moat to the tower, Talemir turned to her.
‘Don’t get yourself killed,’ he told her, his wings flaring at his back.
