Page 92 of The Shadow Sanctum

I set my jaw as I step forward. I’m the face of resolve. Not dread.

The stairs groan under our weight as we descend. The air shifts—thicker, damper. Stone walls press in and leach warmth. At the bottom, the smell hits me: sweat, bile, fever. It clings to the lungs, heavy and sour, sickness made tangible.

When I peek at Sawyer, his distress is shown without abandon in his expression. Brows pinched, lips sunken, posture drooped. I almost ask him to straighten, but the empathy in his eyes keeps me silent. I’d be a monster for blaming him, not when the sight of the basement curls my own stomach.

I shouldn’t be surprised. But it’s worse than I hoped.

Cots crowd the floor in crooked rows. No mattresses, no beds. A few pillows spared for the sickest children sprawled across the floor, skin sheened in sweat.

We hardly catch the attention of the girls, but those that do meet my gaze look away quickly. I’m no comfort to them—just the monster keeping them caged.

I wonder what they must think now. None should have been at the ceremonial square this morning, but word has no doubt spread. Even if it hadn’t, the message of this basement is clear.

The goal is stopping the spread. Not treating the sick.

For them, we pray. For them, we spare no resources. No water, no medicine, and minimal comfort save for the few Nurturers willing to isolate themselves.

It seems right. Intellectually speaking. Why give them pillows that we’ll have to burn when they die? Why keep them hydrated when it’ll only prolong the suffering?

After all, the strong will survive without the water. In theory.

It makes sense, but with Sawyer looming behind me, it feels wrong. Too cold. Too cruel.

I walk past the bodies with my hands cupped behind my back. My expression is blank while my heart slowly dies.

Finally, I find someone who doesn’t look away.

A girl with curly dark hair, too thin for her age, props herself weakly on her elbows. Persephone’s sister. Her eyes, fever-bright, don’t waver from me.

I kneel beside her cot and brush strands from her clammy forehead. “Don’t be afraid,” I whisper, though I know the words are useless. “Just rest… All is as it’s supposed to be.” With the slightest pressure of my palm on her shoulder, she lays flat. Gorgeous brown eyes—identical to her sister’s—blink at me.

The girl’s lips twitch in something close to a smile. “Only the weak feel fear, Your Grace.”

My throat tightens. If only that were true.

I inhale a breath and open my mouth, but the girl cuts me off. Unapologetically, which I commend her for.

“Father says I’m stronger than Persephone.” Her smile turns sad. “I’ll survive, Your Grace. I promise.”

I swallow. Seconds pass before I find my voice.

“Your sister wasn’t weak.” With a butterfly touch, I pet her hair back. “And neither are you… You’re right, you’ll survive. You’ll all survive… I promise, I’ll make sure of it.”

Her eyes narrow, either confused or suspicious.

Behind me, the stairs creak. A Nurturer descends with Angel at her side. His face blanches at the sight of the children—their small bodies, their rattling breaths. His mouth parts, then closes again.

He drags his gaze to Sawyer. It’s obvious he has something to say.

Patting the girl’s shoulder, I rise and motion for the Nurturers to clear out. They hesitate but obey. Soon all sound comes from the hoarse breaths of the ill.

“Was this your doing?” I ask Angel as I stalk up. I sweep a hand around the room. My voice is cold, and for once, I find it appropriate.

Angel just looks at Sawyer. There’s a question in his eyes. He thinks Sawyer told me.

“Luna,” Sawyer starts.

“I don’t know what you’ve done, but I could hang you for it.” I get close enough that I have to look up.