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“Why?” Azriel asked with that lethal softness.

Bryce stared at the eight-pointed star for a moment before she said, “To find the truth.”

“Bryce,” Nesta cautioned, as if reading her thoughts.

Bryce didn’t so much as look back as she stepped onto the star.

18

Hunt coughed, seeing stars with every heave as he sprayed blood.

“Fuck, Athalar,” Baxian grunted from where he hung on the other side of Danaan, though he wasn’t much better.

They’d had all of a few hours on the floor before Pollux had returned and hauled them back up. Hunt hadn’t been able to stop screaming as his shoulders dislocated again.

But Pollux had been called away somewhere, and apparently there was no one else in the palace suitably fucked up to torture them, so they’d been left here.

Bryce. Her name came and went with his wet, rasping breaths. He’d wanted so many things with her. A normal, happy life. Children.

Gods, how many times had he thought about her beautiful face as it would look when she held their little winged children? They’d have their mother’s hair and temper, and his gray wings, and occasionally, he’d catch a glimpse of his own mother’s smile on their cherubic faces.

The last time he’d been in these dungeons, he’d had no visions of the future to cling to. Shahar had been dead, most of the Fallen with her, and all his dreams with them. But maybe this was worse. To have come so close to those dreams, to be able to see them so vividly, to know Bryce was out there … and he was not.

Hunt shoved aside the thoughts, the pain that ached worse than his shoulders, his breaking body, and grunted, “Danaan. You’re up.”

The Hammer’s early departure today had left an opening. Everything else, what Apollion and Aidas had implied, that shit about his father and the black crown—the halo—on him … it was all secondary.

All his failures on Mount Hermon, the Fallen who’d died, losing Shahar, being enslaved … Secondary.

All the repeated failures these past few months, leading them toward disaster, toward this … Secondary.

If this was their one shot, he’d put it all behind him. He had been alone the last time. Seven years down here, alone. Only the screams of his fellow tortured Fallen in other chambers to keep him company, to remind him hourly of his failures. Then the two years in Ramuel’s dungeons. Nine years alone.

He wouldn’t let the two friends beside him endure it.

“Do it now, Danaan,” Hunt urged Ruhn.

“Give me … a moment,” Ruhn panted.

Fuck, the prince had to be in bad shape to have even asked that. Proud bastard.

“Take a few,” Hunt said, gentle but firm, even as guilt twisted his gut. To his credit, Ruhn took only a minute, then the creaking of his chains began again.

“Keep it quiet,” Baxian warned as Ruhn swayed his body back and forth, swinging his weight. Aiming for the rack of weapons and devices just beyond the reach of his feet.

“Too … far,” Ruhn said, legs straining toward the rack. Trying to grab the iron poker that, if the prince’s abs held out, he could curl upward and position with his feet, nestling it inside the chain links—and twist it until they hopefully snapped free.

It was a long shot—but any shot was worth a try.

“Here,” Hunt said, and lifted himself up on his screaming shoulders, feet out. Blocking out the agony, breathing through it, Hunt kicked as Ruhn collided with him. The prince muffled a cry of pain, but arced farther this time, closer to the rack.

“You got this,” Baxian murmured.

Ruhn swung back, and Hunt kicked him again, eyes watering at what the movement did to every part of his body.

The rack was still too far. Another few inches and Ruhn’s feet could grab the handle of the iron poker, but those inches were insurmountable.

“Stop,” Hunt ordered, breathing hard. “We need a new plan.”