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“Are you the only one who lives modestly?” I reply, sidestepping his question with my own.

The slicing of leather fills the air. His ax lands directly next to where my finger was about to drum.

I gulp. He hears it.

“How would you like to hack without fingers?”

“You don’t scare me. Nor would an early retirement.” I reply, admiring my fingers.

His wicked chuckle cuts through the cabin’s heavy quiet. He steps forward, his shadow stretching long and lethal. “That much is clear, and intriguing enough to keep you alive, Rylan. The question is: for how long?”

“Maybe death is what I seek,” I admit with a cold smile.

Not my death. But he doesn’t need to know that.

“I deal in death, foolish mouse, so make me an offer.”

“No.” I hold his gaze, refusing to flinch. “You deal in time. After all, that’s what The Rites of Passage grant. Time.”

He arches a brow, a flicker of anger breaching his cold composure.

“Time to slaughter enemies,” I add grimly, “or time to keep breathing. Everyone bows down to you.”

“Yet here you are—not on your knees in my presence.”

My chest tightens, but I force a sharp, mocking smirk across my face. “The floor looked dirty.”

Before I can draw another breath, he tips his head back and laughs, then snaps it forward, muttering fiercely under his breath in a foreign language.

I can’t comprehend a thing, nor the manic state of his eyes.

He paces the length of his cabin like a caged predator, gesturing violently at the air, as if arguing with an inner demon about what my fate should be.

“I don’t like cutting out tongues,” he admits cheerfully, giving a nonchalant wave of his hand. “I like hearing my prey talk. Beg, Rylan. Plead.”

Holding his hands up, he makes a sock-puppet shape with his fingers and opens and closes his hand as if it were talking.

This is clearly a different level of insanity. One that I need to adjust to fast if I wanna make it out of here alive.

My gaze falls to his ax; its leather-wrapped hilt is stained and worn. The blade is etched with ancient Norse runes, blood dripping down onto the chair. I may be reckless enough to come here, but I’m not stupid enough to touch his prized weapon.

“I will make another deal with you,” I state, forcing myself to meet his looming stare.

“You break into my house.” He steps forward. One step has the power to trap my breath in my lungs. “And ask for a bargain?” He tilts his head.

“I didn’t break in. You knew I was coming.”

He strides forward, controlled yet menacing. He grabs the ax and holds it to my throat.

I refuse to flinch as sticky blood seeps into my skin. This past year, my life has been marked by blood—and by the secrets of what The Rites of Passage truly is and how it manipulates the world.

Anders presses the blade into my neck; I can feel my pulse throbbing into it. He drags it down my neck, painting me with the blood of his last kill.

“The only way you can get here is by taking two private seaplanes. I know Damian didn’t fly you here, so who did?”

Damian is another force within The Rites of Passage. He isn’t a king—he lacks the birthright—but he moves with the arrogance of one. I’m digging deeper into this organization, hoarding secrets so precious that no one will dare discard me.

I smirk and raise my chin. Good. He’s curious.