Page 37

CYRUS

The stench of the dead fills his nose. All the cages are full—another time, when the Court wasn’t on the verge of collapse, Magnus might lock new prisoners in with the old bodies.

Magnus points to the lip of the hole. “Get them down there. They can wait at the bottom to be executed or waste away, it doesn’t matter to me.”

His eyes land on Cyrus, and for a terrifying moment Cyrus thinks he’s going to be singled out. But Magnus turns away in dismissal. He has bigger things to worry about. Like the fact that he needs to find a new general’s boots to lick before someone decides he’s more hot air than he’s worth.

The soldiers usher them to the crack in the wall where Cyrus would scale the cliff to reach Ekko’s cage. They send a chain clattering into the dark. The prisoners balk.

“The serpents,” hisses the demon at the front of the line, grabbing the nearest solder by the lapels. “I’d rather be killed outright!”

Cyrus jolts.

“They’re gone,” he says, but his voice comes out a bare rasp. He tries again. “The serpents are gone.”

“That’s right,” the soldier snaps, looking to him briefly in surprise. “Trust the spy to know. Nothing down there but bones and filth. You could sit there twenty years in peace.”

“We weren’t ever enemies.” The demon’s tone turns pleading. He hangs on as the soldier tries to shake him off. “Come on. You got no general to be loyal to now!”

“Neither do you! Talos is long gone to the aether. You all could’ve toed the line and thrown your lot in with the rest of us.” The soldier finally dislodges him with a snarl. He wields the blade of his pike to keep him at bay. “We’re gonna make our own kingdom down here. What’s up there? Rot? Humans? Angels ?” He spits.

“Go on.” A second soldier jabs the dissenter. “Climb down.”

Still chained, his arms cuffed, it’s a slow and excruciating climb. Cyrus clings to the chain and wonders more than once if he should simply let go.

Inch by inch they rappel toward the bottom, sinking into the black. The stench grows worse. Finally, the chain that holds them together jerks and there’s a splash.

“There’s water!” someone curses.

“Damn Claudius.”

“They could’ve waited?—”

“—Had to hit the tunnels?—”

The chatter washes over Cyrus. Exhaustion drags him down like stone weights. When he finally reaches the bottom of the hole there’s nothing left but numbness. He keeps moving blindly until the chain stops pulling. There, he slumps sideways into the rock and shuts his eyes.

In his heart, he knows the grotto is gone, and with it the only real peace he’s ever had in Hell.

Mezor could still find him. But…why should he? They aren’t mated. They aren’t truly vergis and primus, even if Cyrus is now stuck in this vergis body forever. It’s his fault the grotto was destroyed—he led Leuther right to it. They were looking for the King. Claudius told him so.

Follow the little spy to find his master.

Mezor should leave him to rot with the rest of the Court.

MEZOR

General Leuther’s soldiers fall to Mezor’s claws like toys. His home is flattened, the creatures of his world tortured and turned against him, his vergis’s nest destroyed and his life threatened—Mezor is furious, and they’re no match for his fury. He tears through them without even exerting himself, staining his claws with their ichor.

When he’s done, he gathers their bodies and lays them in a line across the shale.

His rage drains away in the aftermath of the fight. He wipes his own blood off skin that’s crimson with exertion. If they set a trap for him at this end of the gate, Cyrus is equally in danger. He must find a way back to the Court. Yet another trip into the flooded grotto could break the gate, and he still has one final seed to plant.

Atop the cairn where he’ll plant the world seed he finds an unfinished tower, building materials scattered at the base of the hill. Its purpose is clear: a watchtower that will overlook both the pit and the wilds, giving Leuther surveillance over enemies coming from both sides. He can’t plant the seed here—it’ll never grow.

Leuther can’t know the significance of the spot, but he must have sensed it was important. Mezor has no intention of letting him stake his claim here, but it will have to wait.

A well-trod path leads from the cairn into the wild lands. He follows it until he comes upon an open space that’s been cleared and leveled. A shallow pit is laid with tracks leading into a yawning hole in the earth. It’s wide enough for three demons abreast, but not tall enough for Mezor to enter without stooping. No guards are posted. No torches illuminate the black.

It’s Leuther’s tunnel. It looks abandoned—but why?

Inside, it’s silent. The ground slopes quickly, taking him below the pit. It’s completely dark, and he finds his way by touch. After a while the slope eases up, and he encounters the reason for the tunnel’s emptiness: water.

It must be the same flood that swept through the grotto.

The water level rises quickly as the tunnel angles downward. The noise of his passage echoes back at him, ripples slapping the tunnel walls. Then, abruptly, the ground gives way under his feet and he slides into water up to his chest.

Cursing, he drags himself back up the muddy slope to higher ground. If the flood has eroded the tunnel’s integrity he has no choice—he’ll have to use the gate.

He turns back.

Outside, the half-finished tower looms large. Leuther will build one, then another, then a wall between them that can be patrolled by watchers. Soon the wall will encircle an entire piece of the wilds, claiming it for Leuther’s own. A symbol of a new order.

What does it really matter? The wilds of Hell are a home that once was. They don’t belong to the shepherd gods anymore—and they certainly don’t belong to Mezor, who hides in his cave while corruption ravages the land.

But the Court is poison, grown from a twisted seed, and he hates seeing its taint spread. Though the King no longer sits on the throne, his influence still infects his once-followers from afar.

All except Cyrus.

He searches the bond, but he can feel nothing from Cyrus from so far away. His primus scratches at the walls of his mind, anxious to find his mate and make sure he’s safe.

Not my mate , he tells it, but the beast won’t be soothed. Somehow Mezor failed to guard himself—or rather, he foolishly believed he could , that he wouldn’t be laid bare by Cyrus, with his sweetness and sharp edges and his need. Cyrus welcomed him in—to his nest, to his body. To his very soul. Now Mezor will pay for his arrogance with his heart.

When he finds Cyrus, he’ll take him to the King. Their charade will end. Cyrus will be alone once more.

Alone, but safe.

Mount Hythe looms in the distance as he makes his return. An unusual flicker of light catches his eye. Up the mountain’s flanks run bright threads, pulsing occasionally then going dark. Powerful enough to be seen across the pit, the sight raises goosebumps. Could they be the roots of the world trees, already transforming the corruption of his world into new energy?

As he watches, the lights flare—so bright that for a moment it looks like the mountain is on fire. Then, deep down, an answering flicker comes from the bond. Muted but there.

Whatever’s happening inside the mountain, Cyrus bears witness.