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A relaxed weight lowers his lashes over golden eyes, his feral urges soothed, the beast within him lulled—and now he takes care to run a cloth over his blade. His slow, wandering steps direct him to the erected cotton sheet in the corner, a bulkiness in its shape to betray that it hides something from plain sight.

Numbness steals Taroh’s face. Holding his bloody hand to his chest, he’s rolled onto his side and just stares at the fingers discarded on the floor. The coarseness of his breaths shudder through the dungeon.

“You best pray we survive the Sacrament,” Daxeel starts and throws a glance over at Dare, “because we are the only folk who know you are down here. And if we die…”

Dare pulls the cotton sheet. It ripples as it falls to the puddled floor. And now, revealed, is a humble pile of jarred food and waterskins.

Dare throws a grin over his shoulder. “Better ration.”

The humour isn’t reflected on Daxeel. He presses his hands into his knees and slowly pushes up from the chair.

Taroh’s gaze flickers. Finally, it draws away from his severed fingers and lifts to the dark one standing over him.

His tears still fall, quiet now. The faint lantern lights shine off them, but he fights them in the way he lifts his proud chin and tightens his angular jaw.

His breath hitches over the wet words, “What do you want from me?”

Daxeel takes a determined step forward. His boot flattens on the smears of Taroh’s fresh, glistening blood.

Shadows thicken around him, the formation of an ominous shield.

“I want you to pray that I win,” Daxeel growls out the words with a snarl of warning. “You will pray that I defeat your people.Because if I do not survive, I will not return here—and no one,no one, will ever find you.” Slowly, he lowers to one knee, then plucks the two severed fingers from the floor. “In these prayers for my victory, you will be a traitor to your people to save yourself.”

Dark vapours unribbon from his shoulders and flick out at Taroh.

The prisoner cringes to the damp floor.

Daxeel bares his teeth. “Thatis what I want.”

22

††††††

Aleana has stayed to her bed for two whole phases now, shadowed by Melantha and Morticia at all times.

It makes for dullness at Hemlock House; halls that seemed so vibrant and full of life, now cold and creaky, like the house itself understands what looms ahead.

I don’t remember the last time I saw Rune or Samick.

Daxeel and I don’t share more than a glance on those occasional moments we pass on the stairs, then he’s gone to speak with the iilra, to strategize with warlords.

Eamon is often gone, too, whether it be with Ridge or to find a way out of the honour duel.

Dare sticks around.

I spend my time with him more than anyone.

He keeps up with our lessons, so after I leave Aleana to her bed rotting early this phase, I head to the roof to meet him.

We climb the lattices for a while before he moves us onto basic dagger handling. I’m better at this now, but I’m no warrior. I have the cuts on my hands to prove it, both healed and fresh.

And forget about swords.

Last time he tried to teach me how to hold it, just hold it, the weight of it toppled me sideways. All the dancing in the worlds,and my muscles aren’t quite enough for the balancing of a sword that’s almost as tall as I stand.

So daggers it is.

I face Dare on the mat, my gaze speared into his hands. I study every twist of his wrist, turn of his forearm, curl of his fingers. I watch the wink of the blade as it flips in the air, then Dare swipes it back into his grip.