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Behind Rigelus’s back, the Hawk folded the fingers of Ruhn’s severed hand until only the middle one remained upright.

Hunt snarled softly. The snarl of the Umbra Mortis.

Yet Rigelus stepped closer to Hunt, immaculate white jacket almost obscenely clean in this place. The golden rings on his fingers glimmered. “It brings me no joy to see you with the halo and slave brand again, Athalar.”

“Halo,” Hunt asked as solidly as he could, “or black crown?”

Rigelus blinked—the only sign of his surprise—but the term clearly landed with the Bright Hand.

“Been talking to shadows, have you?” Rigelus hissed.

“Umbra Mortis and all that,” Hunt said. “Makes sense for the Shadow of Death.”

Baxian chuckled.

Rigelus narrowed his eyes at the Helhound, then turned back to Hunt. “What lengths would the Umbra Mortis go to in order to keep these two pathetic specimens alive, I wonder?”

“What the fuck do you want?” Hunt growled. Pollux flashed him a warning look.

“A small task,” Rigelus said. “A favor. Unrelated to Miss Quinlan entirely.”

“Don’t fucking listen to him,” Baxian muttered, then cried out as a whip cracked, courtesy of the Hawk.

“I’d be willing to offer a … reprieve,” Rigelus said to Hunt, ignoring the Helhound entirely. “If you do something for me.”

That was what this had been about, then. His mystics would find Bryce—he didn’t need the three of them for that. But the torture, the punishment … Hunt willed his foggy head to clear, to listen to every word. To cling to that Umbra Mortis he’d once been, what he’d been so happy to leave behind.

“Your lightning is a gift, Athalar,” Rigelus continued. “A rare one. Use it once, on my behalf, and perhaps we can find you three more comfortable … arrangements.”

Ruhn spat, “To do what?”

“A side project of mine.”

Hunt snapped, “I’m not agreeing to shit.”

Rigelus smiled sadly. “I assumed that would be the case. Though I’m still disappointed to hear it.” He pulled a sliver of pale rock from his pocket—a crystal. Uncut and about the length of his palm. “It’ll be harder to extract it from you without your consent, but not impossible.”

Hunt’s stomach flipped. “Extract what?”

Rigelus stalked closer, crystal in hand. The Asteri halted steps from Hunt, fingers unfurling so he could examine the hunk of quartz in his palm. “A fine natural conduit,” the Bright Hand said thoughtfully. “And an excellent receptacle for power.” Then he lifted his gaze up to Hunt. “I’ll give you a choice: offer me a sliver of your lightning, and you and your friends will be spared the worst of your suffering.”

“No.” The word rose from deep in Hunt’s gut.

Rigelus’s expression remained mild. “Then choose which one of your friends shall die.”

“Go to Hel.” The Umbra Mortis slipped away, too far to reach.

Rigelus sighed, bored and weary. “Choose, Athalar: Shall it be the Helhound or the Fae Prince?”

He couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Pollux was grinning like a fiend, a long knife already in his hand. Whichever of Hunt’s friends was chosen, the Hammer would draw out their deaths excruciatingly.

“Well?” Rigelus asked.

He’d do it—the Bright Hand would do this, make him choose between his friends, or just kill both of them.

And Hunt had never hated himself more, but he reached inward, toward his lightning, suppressed and suffocated by the gorsian shackles, but still there, under the surface.