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‘I’ve always revelled in going against the grain,’ Thea told him, palming Malik’s dagger with a twirl of her scarred wrist.

‘That from the Rite?’ Talemir asked, nodding to the marred flesh there.

‘Yes.’ Her response didn’t welcome further questions.

Instead, Talemir handed her something round and compact, covered in a scrap of cloth. ‘Don’t let this touch me,’ he said. ‘But it might come in handy once you’re inside.’

Thea turned it over, struggling to see any discernible markers in the dim light. ‘What is it?’

‘An explosive of sorts… Made with the substance we’re protecting in Naarva.’

‘Oh?’

‘It will only affect those with darkness in their veins, so you and Wilder won’t feel anything, but anyone touched by a reaper or its curse… They’ll be disarmed at the very least. Better still if they disintegrate upon impact.’

‘But what is it?’ Thea insisted. If she was going to be throwing around something that did that kind of damage, she needed to know.

‘It’s made of sun orchid essence,’ he explained. ‘It’s the natural repellent to the reapers’ darkness. My wife, Drue, discovered it years ago. We’ll tell you everything else you need to know when we’re back on Naarvian soil.’

Thea nodded. That would have to do. And she’d take anything that gave her an edge against the wretched monsters ahead. ‘Thanks.’

‘Just don’t fling it at me,’ the Shadow Prince quipped.

‘Noted.’

Thea let her gaze fall back to the tower of horrors before them, and the swarm of creatures around it. Wilder was somewhere in there. Her heart ached at the thought.

Talemir nudged her. ‘He’s going to be alright, you know,’ he said. ‘He’s got the strength and courage of a thousand men.’

Thea didn’t need Talemir to tell her that. She knew exactly the kind of man Wilder Hawthorne was. She let her increased strength surge through her, awakening her storm magic. ‘You know what else he’s got?’

Talemir waited.

‘Me.’ Thea didn’t tear her eyes from the lone tower. ‘We’re coming for you, Wilder.’

CHAPTER THREE

WILDER

Whoever’s voice he’d heard in the dark, it didn’t matter, because suddenly all the cell gates opened, and barbaric pandemonium ensued.

In the centre of all the cells was a pit, designed for one thing and one thing only: carnage. Wilder found himself thrust into a violent free-for-all, mostly naked bodies clawing and punching at one another, teeth sinking into flesh, screams echoing up what seemed to be a miniature amphitheatre where gore spilt across stone like waves breaking upon sand.

And Wilder lost himself in it. Fists swinging, he broke jaws and ribs and arms, blood splattering hot and metallic across his bare skin, across the other prisoners. His opponents were barely human now, if they ever had been, and that only made it easier to rain blow after blow down upon them in the haze of madness. He relished every impact, every split of his own knuckles.

Screams for mercy didn’t register. Cries for help fell on deaf ears.

Wilder half expected that when he closed and reopened his eyes, the swarm of bodies would be gone and he’d be alone in his cell once more. Only that didn’t happen. Husks of prisoners poured from dungeons and chambers he couldn’t see, and he kept swinging, tasting blood as he ripped people apart with his bare hands. He devolved, became his baser self, an animal, a killing machine.

The Hand of Death, they had once called him.

And he was here to deliver.

It went on for hours, or so it seemed. He welcomed it, welcomed the kiss of violence, the song of endings. Whether it was real or not, he didn’t know, only that he was at the heart of the bloodshed, and that was where he belonged. Countless bodies, man and monster alike, were piled up around him, their blood slippery underfoot. By the end he was bathed in it, his skin slick with black and red warpaint.

Panting, he realised that the amphitheatre had grown quiet.

There was not a sound in the whole Scarlet Tower but for the blood dripping onto the stone from his clenched fists.