Page 21 of Nights of Blood and Magic

Tears burned her eyes, and she let them brim over her cheeks. She slumped down onto the old straw, not caring what filth she sat in. Without Current, she was nothing but flesh.

She dipped her hand into her blouse and dug out the bee Safira gifted her, turning it around in her hands. The pirates probably hadn’t left yet, but she also doubted they’d risk their lives for a jailbreak attempt.

She sighed and tucked the bee safely out of sight, right near the tightly folded relic parchment.

Down here, Lance wouldn’t risk flying, not when he would need to get past the Templars first.

She closed her eyes against the stone.

Chapter 8

The walls pressed in. Idonea had lost count of the hours; her limbs ached, and her fingers trembled from the chill.

Eventually, she broke the silence. “You alive over there?”

A grunt answered. Male, rough, uninterested.

If they used these cells to prevent usage of Current, he could’ve been a warlock. Though being nearly extinct, it was possible. Maybe he’d seen her bloodied state and wanted nothing to do with her.

“Fine,” she muttered, “be that way.”

She shifted, and a sharp discomfort flared in her hips. The ground was unforgiving. Her stomach growled while exhaustion dragged at her, heavy and warm. But sleep was dangerous, especially when the Templars could return at any moment.

Footsteps, deliberately slow, echoed off the spiral stone stairwell.

Idonea scrambled up from the ground and brushed off loose bits of straw that stuck to the lace, and adjusted her glasses. She didn't look away, and the fine hairs on her neck rose as a shadow spilled down the corridor.

A man stepped into the gaslamp light. A Templar, but not like the others. His posture remained too relaxed for a dungeon. That unsettled her first. The sword at his hip sat worn low and easy, like he expected to use it quickly. Only afterwards did she notice he was unfairly beautiful.

His face was all chiselled lines and noble angles. His goatee neatly trimmed, his skin an olive-tone, cool under the light. One eye, a stormy grey-blue, locked onto her. The other was hidden beneath a pentocular, humming faintly. His tabard was absent from his chest, while his long coat was blacker than pitch, trimmed in silver. Chains hung loosely from his gauntlets, each one tipped with a tiny silver sunburst.

Her throat tightened. The uniform must’ve marked him as high-ranking. Lean, muscled, and only a few winters older than she. Annoying. She was exhausted, trapped, and close to death. This wasn't the time for her body to become stupid.

Then the reminder of her chained and broken brethren flashed to the front of her mind. Idonea swallowed. Templars should disgust her. The rest of her body had apparently missed that instruction.

He stopped a hand’s length from the cell, posture relaxed. A copper sun ring gleamed on his right hand. He smelled of pine and nutmeg, reminding her of home, and beneath it, a dry and bitter scent she couldn't place. It was gone before she registered it.

“Your name is Idonea?” His voice was quiet, and controlled. Dangerously controlled.