Page 147 of Of Iron and Moonlight

“What’s wrong with you?” the other guard asked, violet eyes flashing with annoyance.

The first clawed at his cheek as though something crawled beneath the skin. “You didn’t see that? Something hit me!”

A snort. “I’ll wager the goddess herself descended with the singular purpose of smacking your face.” Then he yelped, clapping a hand to his cheek. “Ow! What in—”

“See?” the first cried, panic sharpening his voice. “As I said!”

Njall leaned forward, muscles coiled.

The second guard went pale.

“Your face…” His voice pitched higher. “Redscale.”

“Not possible.” He scraped harder with frantic fingers. The blotches deepened.

“Well, you have it,” the second guard said grimly, taking a decisive step back.

The first stared at him. Then his violet eyes widened. “You. Too.”

“Oh, my Selvara…” he swore, nails carving desperate lines in his cheek.

Both lunged for the snow. One rubbed his face into the frost like a wild animal. The other followed, scooping fistfuls of it against his skin with pitiful whimpers. The two guards patrolling nearby turned at the commotion and wandered closer.

“Now,” Njall breathed, motioning for Kalaetzu to follow.

The guards, too consumed by their sudden misery or horrified curiosity, did not notice as they slipped through the archway and into the prison’s shadowed maw.

They were met inside by the stench of decay, the damp touch of mildew, and the sensory assault of iron that overpowered it all. It was in the bars, the chains, the hinges. Every breath scraped at Njall’s throat, and he understood at once why so few guards patrolled within. Kalaetzu lifted a hand to his nose instantly, green eyes flickering from shadow to shadow.

Somewhere, a chain scraped across stone.

Njall flattened against the wall.

Kalaetzu mirrored him.

He listened a few beats longer, then nodded and continued toward the stairs, following the path Elara had etched in the snow until they reached the cell-block door below.

Even through leather gloves, the iron latch sent sharp pain through Njall’s arm. His strength faltered. The hum of magic in his veins guttered. Still, he did not dare move quickly. He pulled the door open with painstaking care, slow enough that the hinges barely whispered.

Several cells sat in the dark, unlit room. Only one was occupied. Elara crouched in the corner, her features drawn tight with fear.

A body lay sprawled on the damp stone before her, half lost to shadow. Its skin had gone waxen, marked with the dull stain of dried blood. Thinner than Njall remembered. So thin ribs pressed sharply against torn fabric. So thin Njall thought he was certainly looking at a corpse.

“He’s not moving.” Elara slid her fingers through Gavriel’s matted hair, as though bringing order to it might wake him. Tears trembled in her eyes.

Njall entered the cell, careful to avoid the iron bars, then touched Elara’s shaking hand and gently guided it aside before he crouched and pressed his ear to Gavriel’s chest.

Nothing.

Then a faint rasp. A thin, shallow breath. Beneath it, the weakest tremor of a heartbeat.

“He’s alive,” Njall said, the words leaving him like released weight.

Kalaetzu stepped briskly inside, uncorked a small vial, and let a few drops fall onto Gavriel’s lips. The liquid vanished into the cracks of his parched mouth. “That will dull his pain,” Kalaetzu murmured. “But like this… he won’t walk out.”

Silence settled, heavier than before. Elara bowed her head and tears slipped onto Gavriel’s ruined tunic. The sight sparked a nearly ungovernable fury in Njall.

He grunted, more feeling than sound, and unstrapped the swords from his back. After handing them to Elara, he stooped, slid his arms beneath Gavriel’s frail body, and lifted him over his shoulder. The weight was almost nothing. Wrong in a way that turned his stomach.