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K ANTHE STUDIED THE defeated faces of those who had joined him on this accursed sojourn to Hálendii. Or in Rami’s case, at his backside as he relieved himself into the bucket in the corner of their cell. Then again, Mikaen had been generous enough to supply them with a bucket—but only one, as his compassion had its limits.

Frell sat on a pile of soiled hay that he had swept into a corner. He stared at a roach beset by lice on the floor, likely sympathetic to the plight of the beleaguered bug.

In a neighboring cell, Cassta paced the length of her space—not in fury, but more studied calculation. Their captors had stripped her to a loose shift, taking not only her blades, but also her bells. Someone had clubbed her during that process, as evident from a swollen bloody eye. Still, they could not steal her dignity; even now she strode with determination, showing no fear.

If only the three in this cell could be so resolute.

Kanthe cradled his left arm. Besides yanking off his armor and underleathers, the guards had pulled off his bronze forearm and hand. That loss stung. With Tykhan gone, Kanthe would never see its like again. Still, he imagined worse insults would come.

Rami had suffered the same disrobement, but he did get to keep all his limbs, although for how long remained a question. As the Klashean prince turned from the bucket, his face remained grim and haunted. The reason lay outside their cell, spread across a rack. There, Gheel’s cold body still dripped clotted blood.

Over the past four bells, no one had gotten any rest. With only bars between them and the torture room, they had been forced to listen. Despite Gheel’s attempt at stoicism, it was not long before moans and screams had been ripped from him. Every man’s throat eventually broke. Still, any answers the torturer had sought to dig out of him with hot irons, spiked bars, and pliers had been denied.

Kanthe stared into that dank chamber, avoiding the ruins of Gheel’s body. The dungeon lay deep under the castle, cold and damp. On the back wall, the steel doors of a hearth stood open, ruddy with coals inside—not to warm the space, but to heat iron meant for flesh. Across the walls hung tools for the same end, but each was refined to its own particular means of torture.

The only way out of this windowless corner of the castle was through a set of timbered doors, chained and locked, with guards posted inside and out.

A commotion there drew their attention.

Voices shouted and keys clinked. The door burst open, and a mountainous figure bowed into the low-roofed space. Even without the silver armor and crimson countenance, Kanthe would have recognized Thoryn, captain of the Silvergard. Upon his heels, the king of the realm entered, still in battle gear—even though the fighting had long ended, both inside and outside Highmount’s walls.

Or so the gossip among the guards attested.

Kanthe stood straighter and shifted his stumped arm behind him, feeling exposed and vulnerable. Since his capture, this was the first time Mikaen had made an appearance. His brother had not bothered to watch the torture of the captured imperial prisoner. A surprising absence, given Mikaen’s predilection for blood and misery.

Mikaen strode to the cell. The smile beyond his mask held no warmth. He glanced at the ruins of Gheel, likely left there to intimidate, which it certainly had. When Mikaen turned back, his eyes squinted with irritation, plainly disappointed to miss out. Or maybe he had heard that nothing had been gained from the prisoner but screams, blood, and bile.

Mikaen collected himself, drawing straighter.

“I’m sorry I’ve not greeted you properly,” he said. “You’ve all caused much strife, but nothing that can’t be rectified over time. And this attack will serve me well in quashing dissent and discord. Plus, the attack on the coast has kept me preoccupied, but that has blown itself out. Klashean forces have retreated back to their shores, bloodied and broken.”

Rami spoke from behind. “I’m sure whatever damage was wrought was but a fraction of what was inflicted upon your fleets.”

Kanthe wanted to glare at Rami. Nothing would be gained by aggravating their temperamental host.

“Believe what you wish,” Mikaen responded, “but it was our forces that captured an imperial prince, brother to an empress. I’ll be displaying our success in a few days, during a festival, where you’ll be the guest of honor. A public execution also helps solidify sentiment. The bloodier, the better.”

Kanthe tried his best to intervene. “Rami would serve better as a hostage, to gain some advantage in exchange or in coin down the line.”

“Perhaps if I was feeling so charitable.” Mikaen’s gaze hardened on Kanthe. “But not after you all tried to steal my treasure, one whose bronze is worth far more than its weight in gold.”

Kanthe scowled.

Eligor…

“We did not come to steal it,” Kanthe said hotly. “But to destroy it.”

“In that you failed, too. While it was damaged, the Iflelen have assured me they have discovered a new means to accelerate any repair. To restore it fully.”

Frell stepped closer. “How do they plan to accomplish that?”

Mikaen’s gaze flicked to the alchymist. “Perhaps you may discover that on your own. The Iflelen have asked me to deliver you to them. It seems they have much need for warm bodies—though, such participants seem to grow cold fairly quickly.”

Frell’s face pinched with worry, but more likely at the rehabilitation of Eligor than his own fate.

As Mikaen turned to Cassta, Kanthe took a protective step in her direction. “I owe the Brotherhood of Asgia a considerable sum for services rendered of late. But upon discussion, they have offered a generous discount—if my payment comes packaged with one from the Rhysian sisterhood. I understand there is little love lost between these two assassin groups.”

Kanthe glanced to Cassta, who for the first time looked genuinely scared. Her expression dismayed Kanthe more than any threat of torture.

Mikaen took a deep breath, folding his hands behind his back. “Of course, I could not celebrate the return of my twin brother without a proper gift.” Mikaen reached back around and touched his mask. “I feel, as twins, we should look the part. So, I discovered a fine remedy.”

He waved to Thoryn, who brought around a half-mask, one much like the king’s. Only this one was meant to adorn the opposite side of a face, a mirror to Mikaen’s. Also, this guise was sculpted not of silver but of black iron.

Kanthe wondered how long ago Mikaen had crafted this gift. He clearly savored delivering it in person.

Mikaen plucked the mask from Thoryn. “I thought iron would better match your dark features.” He swung around and strode away. “But that does not mean we don’t want you to show remorse for your betrayal.”

Upon reaching the open hearth, Mikaen placed the mask atop the hot coals, then turned back to Kanthe.

“Once it’s glowing a deep red, a blush to match your shame, I shall personally set it upon your face.” Mikaen glanced back. “To heat it properly should take no more than a few bells, then I’ll be back. Your guests, of course, will have the honor of witnessing this gift bestowed from king to beloved brother.”

With that pronouncement, Mikaen departed with a flourish of his armor, drawing Thoryn with him. Once the door was slammed, locked, and guarded, Kanthe crossed to the cell bars. He stared across at the mask, knowing Mikaen had left it in view so Kanthe could watch it slowly heat up.

Rami drew next to him. “I thought Mareesh was a bastard of a brother.”

Kanthe shrugged. “I don’t know. Mikaen did bring a gift—one he clearly put a lot of thought into.”

Frell crossed over, raising a concern larger than the four of them. “If they can truly restore Eligor, the world is doomed. Especially if he can reach the key to the turubya. With our failure to even learn its location, there is no hope.”

“Maybe one,” Kanthe mumbled.

“What’s that?” Rami asked.

“We better hope Nyx fails as badly as we did. If her group ever gets that second turubya running, then we’ll be handing the world to Eligor.”

“I don’t think we can hope for that,” Rami said. “It’s not reasonable.”

Kanthe turned to him. “Why?”

Rami sighed. “Because no one can fail as miserably as we did.”