Page 97 of Of Iron and Moonlight

A guard jogged forward as they disembarked.

“I need four subjects,” Haskir barked before the male could speak. “Two brought to the laboratory. Two loaded on the ship.” As the guard hurried away, Haskir turned toward Damlor with a smug wink. “The High King requested a demonstration for you.”

He led them through wings lined with cells, where humans crouched behind bars of pale alloy. Some slumped where they sat, others rocked endlessly. Most had swollen eyes rimmed red, pupils stretched wide as if fever burned behind them.

“Why do they look like this?” Njall asked quietly.

“The oraivane mixture has… consequences,” Haskir said, failing to soften the truth.

“These are the humans with only traces of color?” It was Damlor.

Haskir nodded, savoring the implication. “The rarer ones, those with stronger manifestations, are housed in the western wing. We reserve more specialized procedures for them.”

Damlor nodded and walked on as if passing livestock.

Njall followed, nausea rising with every step.

They reached a vaulted laboratory thick with the scent of herbs, smoke, and the sharp metallic sting of what Njall could only assume was oraivane. Shelves lined the walls, crowded with jars, dried roots, and vials of sap so dark they swallowed the light. At the center of the room, bent over a cluster of simmering glass vessels, stood an elderly fae. Hair that had once been a burnished copper had dulled to grey at the temples.

“Kalaetzu,” Haskir barked.

The botanist looked up slowly, green eyes steady, and straightened with the calm of someone long accustomed to being summoned without courtesy.

“These are the High King’s attendants,” Haskir said. “Prepare a demonstration.”

Kalaetzu inclined his head politely, crossed to the shelf of vials, and lifted one that was black yet pulsed faintly with a blue glow, like day breaking through night before the dark swallowed it again.

“We are borrowing him from the Tsuchitsans,” Haskir added with satisfaction, then winked to underscore his delight. “They are unaware of the arrangement.”

He turned toward the guards. “Bring the subjects.”

Njall tried and failed to suppress a shiver. The muffled sound of suffering flowed in from the corridor beyond as the door opened, then closed.

Moments later, a guard dragged in a girl no older than sixteen. Brown hair hung in tangled ropes around her face. Her eyes were the same color, except for a thin violet ring circling each iris. Terror lived plainly in her expression, though compulsion kept her docile.

Haskir brightened with false warmth. “Let us see what you can manage with a little assistance.”

The guard forced her to her knees and wrenched her head back. Kalaetzu uncorked the vial and let a few drops fall past her lips.

Her body convulsed as if struck by lightning. Violet flooded her eyes. Wind spiraled around her, snapping hard enough to sting ears, ripping through her hair and rattling the shelves. The door slammed with a thunderous crack.

Damlor’s scar bent. “Better than before. How long does it last?”

“Up to an hour,” Kalaetzu answered quietly, his eyes never leaving the girl. His tone was even, but Njall heard the strain beneath it.

“It was minutes two years ago,” Damlor reflected, looking rarely pleased.

Haskir pulled on gloves, then locked a pair of iron manacles around the girl’s wrists. Violet vanished instantly. She sagged, power extinguished like a wick drowned in rain.

“What happens after the hour?” Njall asked.

Kalaetzu looked at him directly. “Without another dose, the subject enters violent withdrawal. Most do not survive.” He paused, resistance hidden in plain sight. “The balance between strength and addiction remains elusive.”

The girl’s eyes widened with horror as she was led away.

Njall locked his hands to his sides as the urge to tear the cuffs apart, pull her free, and drive Haskir into the wall by the throat surged through him.

Next, they brought in a young man, broad-shouldered and strong. His skin held the warm tone of caramel, his long hair much the same, his eyes dark and speckled with gold. It was a look so singular that even among a thousand faces, Njall knew he would have recognized him again.