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Torj looked from him to Wilder. ‘So you’re saying that I’m the only one out of all of us who actually got to choose my apprentice.’

Vernich saluted him with the bottle. ‘Congratu-fucking-lations. You lucky bastard.’

‘Turned out alright for me in the end,’ Wilder said with a grin.

Commotion sounded from above, and moments later, a beam of light shone down as the trapdoor opened. The stairs groaned as the usual suspects descended: Talemir, Drue, Adrienne, Cal, Kipp, Farissa, Wren, Anya and lastly, Thea, who closed the door above them and seated herself on the steps.

‘What’s the verdict?’ Torj asked, his gaze finding Wren instantly.

The alchemist strode forward and crouched before the unconscious prisoner.

‘What’d you do to him?’ Anya demanded.

Vernich merely shrugged. ‘Nothing permanent.’

‘He was making a racket, to be fair,’ Torj added.

Wren was shaking her head. ‘I figured this would be the state we’d find him in,’ she said, digging through her pockets and producing a small jar of smelling salts, holding them under Artos’ nose. She wafted the chemical compound back and forth beneath his nostrils for a moment, before a loud gasp echoed through the cellar.

The former king looked around the room, his chin trembling, once again on the brink of an emotional breakdown.

Wren moved swiftly. She uncorked a tiny vial of something and yanked Artos’ head back by his hair, pouring the concoction directly into his mouth. Bound in chains, he could do nothing but twist his head, but apparently, Wren’s grip was vice-like and she held him in place until he swallowed the tonic.

‘It shouldn’t take more than a few minutes,’ she told them, at last releasing the prisoner and placing the cork back in the vial.

‘So it was as you thought?’ Wilder asked, watching Artos blink slowly as he took in his chains and then the faces around him.

‘He should be able to tell us himself soon,’ Wren replied.

Sure enough, Artos’ green eyes cleared, and he took a trembling breath. He shifted, as though despite the chains, a weight had been cast off his shoulders.

‘Welcome back,’ Anya taunted as she stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with vows of violence as her hand curled around the grip of her scythe. ‘Overwhelmed yourself with your own magic, did you?’

Artos’ lips moved, but no sound came out before he closed them again.

‘You’re going to have to do a lot better than that,’ Anya chastised him, as though he were no more than a child who’d misbehaved, but there was no mistaking the threat lacing her words. She placed the point of her scythe just above his eye, applying enough pressure that a bead of blood soon appeared beneath the steel. ‘I thought I might give you one to match mine… How does that sound, Your Majesty?’

‘I – I…’ he stammered.

‘I didn’t quite catch that,’ Anya taunted.

The tension in the room was palpable. Wilder wasn’t sure what would happen once Anya started carving into his flesh, if anyone would stop her —

‘My daughter,’ Artos croaked.

‘She’s safe,’ Anya told him without hesitation, despite the fact that none of them knew where the princess was. ‘But it’s unlikely you’ll ever see her again.’

‘Please,’ he rasped. ‘I’ll tell you anything.’

Anya clicked her tongue in frustration. ‘Just like that? I thought we were going to have a little fun first, Majesty.’ She dragged her blade ever so lightly down his face, not quite breaking the skin, but enough to leave a raised red mark in its wake. ‘You like this sort of fun, from what I’ve heard.’

‘No, no!’ he begged. ‘I’ll tell you whatever you want to know.’

Anger flashed in Anya’s gaze. It was clear she hadn’t wanted this to be easy, that she wanted a reason to work him over, to spill his blood.

‘Where are the rheguld reaper lairs?’ she demanded. ‘I want to know every location where they congregate, where their legions of wraiths are camped. And I want to know the main hub, the one where the king reaper resides.’

Artos recoiled from the tip of her blade as much as the chains would allow. ‘They will have a new lair by now…’