Page 86

“Damn it.”

“Hmm.” Lunara nodded. “I had much the same thought.”

Another. Fucking. Cavern. More lanterns. All dragonshite.

Fern groaned behind him. “It’s never going to end, is it?”

“Weeping arseholes.” Mag sidled up and scrubbed a hand down his bearded face. “There must be dozens of them.”

An understatement. There were too many tunnels to count, many so high up in the walls they’d be impossible to reach.

The reminder of his impotence had spots dancing in his vision. They’d be fine if he had control of his power. If he wasn’t such a useless piece of shite.

No. Calm. Control.

A breath to restore his sight. Another to bury the looming episode.

Neutral.

Brand feigned confidence, summoning the seasoned commander within him. “Fern, find our way out. The rest of us will split up and look for anything useful.”

Exactly when he started trusting the Fae’s abilities, Brand wasn’t sure. He only hoped they didn’t have to climb to make their way forward.

Brand didn’t think he could live with the shame.

Lunara stared at the yellowed stone above her, trying to find her voice.

It was buried somewhere beneath such crushing heartbreak that her knees were threatening to give out.

There’s still hope. It doesn’t mean anything.

It didn’t take them long to discover this cavern was once a place of horrors. Abandoned implements were strewn in the dirt, their edges dulled by things she didn’t want to think about. Shackles were embedded in the walls and hung from outcroppings. Piles of chain littered the ground around worn boulders. Cages hid in corners of shadow. Blood stained everything.

Some of the spots were old, as black and ancient as the spells impeding their way here. The clotted trails she stared at now, tucked up in a shallow alcove, were anything but that.

“Here,” she croaked, then louder, “I’ve f-found something.”

“Funny,” Fern chirped. “I was just about to say…the…same…”

Three pairs of steps slowed and stuttered behind her when they arrived, the others no doubt experiencing the same aftershocks as their minds caught up with their eyes. As they counted the severed fingers, fastened to the wall with…with…

“Nyri’s hairpins,” Magnus rasped. “Same as the ones I found.”

Lunara swallowed a rise of stinging bile. “Yes.”

The fingers were arranged so their tips pointed upwards—better to hold a folded piece of parchment beneath them. Blood had dripped from their cleaved ends, already browned by the air in various stages, the progression ranging from bloated, greying rot to the unfaded flush of recent life.

“It…can’t have been more than a week since the last one was placed,” she said.

Brand stood so, so still beside her, tension radiating from him in waves. In that moment, she almost thought it was the mate bond flaring between them, his shock and outrage eking out to travel its broken threads and make a home in her chest.

“Can you fetch that note down for us, witchling?” Magnus asked. “I’m not sure we should touch it.”

Lunara would’ve been happy to ignore her power and leave it there a little longer—out of reach, too terrified of what she might find within—but Magnus was right.

A pit opened in her stomach when she seized the note’s particles and called them to herself. She’d have to find a way to stand beneath the twin moons soon—preferably before she passed out from sheer exhaustion. The amount of magic she’d been pouring out was too much even for Illamiata to handle without some form of nourishment. It was a blessing from the Sisters themselves that she’d avoided having to heal anyone. The rest of Fern’s blood gift would help but⁠—

Stop stalling. Open the damned letter and get it over with.