Page 47

CYRUS

Nausea rolls over Cyrus in waves. The rocky passage buffets him as he hurtles down it, but he barely registers the bruises. He doesn’t even notice when the hollows stop nipping at his heels, leaving him alone in the dark.

Every molecule screams at him to turn back. He doesn’t.

He thought was done with pain, but this hurts worse than any whipping could. He clutches Mezor’s bow and quiver to his chest. Mezor knew his fate and hid it from him.

But Cyrus knew his own fate, too. He kept the truth from Mezor. Deep down, he knew the Hellspring was too poisoned to help him a long time ago. Maybe even since the first day he learned what Mezor was doing.

We were both fools.

Even their bond isn’t sacrosanct, a truth Cyrus could never shake, no matter what passages from books are stored in his head, no matter how many instances of Mezor’s touch he hoards away in the secret corners of his heart. One day, the bond would break. He’d accepted it. And somewhere along the way, he’d stopped believing it.

He’d kept the truth from Mezor because he wanted to pretend there was a way out.

A world where he stayed a vergis, and Mezor stayed by his side.

He can’t ask Mezor for that.

He stops at the tunnel’s exit, the still darkness holding him in place. His heart hovers in his throat. One more step.

Claudius finds Cyrus in the library, sitting across from Sabinus’s body and the ruins of his nest. Lost in thought, Cyrus hadn’t even noticed him enter.

“Someone told me you were here.”

He’s too exhausted to be surprised. Claudius comes to stand beside him.

“It’s a troubled world, isn’t it?”

“You tell me.” Cyrus stares at the stained marble. “We twist ourselves in knots for the Court willingly, don’t we? Because the only way out is to climb over each other. And we all want out. Out of the pit. Out of the barracks. Out of the ranks.”

Claudius sighs. “When I was human, I lived a long life. A good life, some would say. But ugliness is a universal truth, not confined to places like this, and I saw plenty of it. Still, the other side of that is how many things can be beautiful, too. Like poor Sabinus. He’s dead twice over now—but his soul is finally at peace.”

Cyrus grimaces. The scene in front of him holds no beauty.

“You want it to be one or the other.” Claudius shrugs. “It ain’t like that.”

“Maybe someday I’ll see it.” He gets to his feet.

“I think someday you’ll realize you already see it.” Claudius puts his hand out. “My name is really Claudius, by the way. I guess my overseer figured it was good enough, my first day out of the tournament of souls. Never had a Marcus or Flavius phase.”

Cyrus clasps his hand. “Cyrus.”

“Let’s get out of this place, Cyrus.”

Magnus’s head stares at Cyrus from the pike. His eyes are mean even in death. Cyrus should feel victorious; instead he’s empty. He turns away.

“Give it to someone else,” he says to Claudius, who shrugs and hands the pike to another demon. A parade of heads surrounds them—casualties of the latest conflict. Only two generals remain. They’ve given up their titles and become prisoners who bow their heads when minor demons walk past. Cyrus can’t say he’s sad to see it.

He can’t say he’s happy, either.

He’s just blank.

The Grey Company’s numbers have swollen since he left the Court, so much that they’ve split into five companies. The first and second companies left Mount Hythe shortly after Leuther’s death, after Claudius and the others broke open the dam at the forge and flooded the tunnels. Claudius is a member of the third company, which leaves today. The last two will follow in a few days.

Some demons have chosen to remain behind. Cyrus doesn’t meet them, so he can’t ask their reasoning. His heart remains in conflict.

Those who want to leave eagerly pile supplies into packs—food, weapons, clothing. What waits for them is a long, dangerous walk out of Hell, across the bridge and into Earth’s wastes. Beyond that, vast uncertainty. Soldiers who’ve been to the battlefield two, three, ten times walk with a swagger, banding together in clumps. Those who’ve never left the Court trickle after them with less confidence. There’s sure to be further splintering of the companies on the road. What had Sabinus said? Spread across the human lands and steal their cities .

Somehow, watching the hall buzz with frenetic energy, Cyrus doubts his prophecy.

The company sets off once dawn breaks. Cyrus is antsy, unable to sleep. He shoulders his own pack and tries to attach himself to the tail of the group, but Claudius drags him to the middle.

“Front’s where you get swallowed by chimeras. Back, you get left behind in a sandstorm. Middle’s where to be.”

“How do you know? You’re a blacksmith,” Cyrus mutters, but he follows Claudius anyway, swinging the bow over his chest and falling into step.

Claudius gives the bow and quiver an odd look, but says nothing. Just like he’s said nothing about Cyrus’s obvious scent, so different from the others, or the fact that he’s no longer accompanied by either a rok or a shepherd god.

Cyrus spares a moment to be thankful.

The rest of the time he’s deeply focused on the tiny thread of the bond that still floats in the sea of his soul.

As long as the bond still exists, Mezor is alive.

Soon, maybe even any moment, the bond will flicker out and his mate will be gone. The thought makes him want to claw out his own insides. Maybe it’s better the bond is faint. He’ll survive when it breaks. But a not-so-small part of him doesn’t want to survive this.

The only thing keeping him going is knowing Mezor would be furious if he gave up.

The company winds through the mid-levels of the Court, then up the processional hallways. It’s the third time Cyrus has made the journey to the peak. Once as a victor of the tournament, a naive soul with no idea what the future held for him. Once as a prisoner. Now he’s free, though that freedom feels hollow. The wide, open halls lined with statues hold no beauty for him.

As they leave the upper levels behind, the hallway begins to spiral upward. Windows wink into existence on the outer wall, tall and narrow. Light from Earth’s dawn sparks against the dust hanging in the air. A hush falls over the demons. They fall into step. Light and shadows play over the company, leaving them in a limbo—an in-between realm. Not Hell, not Earth.

Cyrus reaches deep down, searching for proof of Mezor’s tenuous connection to life. It seems to grow fractionally stronger.

One foot in front of the other .

At the top of the processional walk, the path splits in two. One path leads back into the mountain—to the Hellspring. The other will take them to the bridge that spans the gap between the peak of Mount Hythe and the wastes of Earth.

The path to the Hellspring is dark. Cyrus pauses. Something niggles at him.

Claudius stops with him. “Still thinking about it? Leuther’s probably nothing but bones at the bottom of the lake.”

“Do you feel it?” Cyrus wonders, peering into the dark. Cold drifts out of the hall. A deep, bone-chilling cold.

“Feel what?”

He shakes himself. “Never mind.”

It’s not until they’re at the bridge, staring out over the grey nothingness, that it comes to him.

Hollows.

It takes all his will not to sprint back down the long path. If the hollows are there, the King is there. Mezor is there .

This changes nothing , he tells himself, but his every muscle pulls taut as a bowstring. His heart bursts into waking. Mezor is still alive, and he’s here, where Cyrus is. Surely it’s more than just coincidence. Surely fate has something to do with it.

Crossing the bridge will take three days. Fog gathers at the close end, obscuring much of the bridge from view. Amid the company there are murmurs that violent storms swirl around the middle and beasts lay in wait to hunt them while they cross. The bridge itself is made of glass that glitters with an inner light—“Seraphim glass,” says Claudius, nodding knowingly.

Cyrus is skeptical. “Angels made it?”

“They used it to escape Hell after the cataclysm. I’d recognize this stuff anywhere. Not much of it left in Mount Hythe—but I came across a few pieces as a blacksmith. It’s harder than steel and sings when you hit it. Some demons think it’s good luck. Others think it’s poison.”

“Which do you believe?” Cyrus asks, stepping onto the bridge. It hums faintly under his feet.

“Anything made by a creature with a soul can be luck or poison. Just depends who you ask.” Claudius shrugs.

It seems to be his answer to everything— it depends . Cyrus soon grows impatient with this style of conversation and he lets the quiet chatter of the company filter in distracting him. In the background his mind still churns.

His abandonment of Mezor could be selfish or selfless. Mezor’s deception could be cruel or loving. So how can he know what’s right?

Soon it will be too late. The bond will pull tight and snap like a spiderweb. But no matter how many times he turns it over in his head, no answer comes to him.

By the time they break free of the fog on the bridge, the day is beginning to wane. As the air below them clears, the sight that stretches under their feet takes Cyrus’s breath away. They’re right over the pit, hanging in mid-air. Deep, ragged cracks around the base of Mount Hythe show where the mountain slammed into place so many centuries ago, and broken shale lies in a pattern like waves leading outward. Beyond it, the wilds are a dark smear. Cyrus grips the rail and stares down at the distant ground, though it makes him dizzy.

Flickers of gold criss-cross the land everywhere. Far away, smudges of light float atop the wilds like ghostly lanterns—the world trees.

He’s so entranced he doesn’t notice the dark specks floating on the updraft at first, until the soldiers shout in alarm. Someone grabs his arm and pulls him away from the rail. The specks grow larger, circling in a familiar pattern.

“Roks!” someone cries, and pikes rise. “They’ve spotted us.”

Cyrus’s heart leaps. He breaks away and rushes to the rail as the massive birds of prey approach.

“Are you crazy?” one of the soldiers barks, grabbing his shoulder.

Cyrus shakes him off and leans over the edge, drinking in the sight of the roks hungrily. They’re rapidly drawing nearer, so close he can make out the bars on their feathers. He holds his breath. At first he doesn’t spot Ekko in their number. One by one, they soar past him. Five all told, each with the same tawny coloring, their crests of various sizes, their feet and claws black, yellow, white. He squeezes the rail in desperation. Please.

With a cry, the last—biggest—rok hurtles over the railing. The demons around him yell, only a few of them gathering the courage to raise their pikes. Cyrus has already spotted the familiar dual-toned gaze.

“Stop!” He spins, raising his arms to ward off their weapons. Claws scratch the stone rail behind him. The rush of wind from Ekko’s wings grabs his hair and clothes.

“Stand down,” Claudius barks, stepping forward.

Slowly the soldiers lower their pikes, puzzled. Ekko butts Cyrus’s shoulder from behind. Far above, the rest of the flock let loose mournful cries, rising in a spiral into the grey sky. Cyrus digs his fingers into Ekko’s crest and presses his forehead to the rok’s beak.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he murmurs.

Ekko shakes his crest, dislodging Cyrus’s hand. He hops back, puffing up his chest, and with an echoing call he takes flight once more. Cyrus’s heart feels like it’s soaring with him and sinking at the same time.

He can’t leave Ekko.

He can’t abandon his mate.

It isn’t over. There has to be another way.

He knows one person who might have the answer.

Climbing onto the stone rail is easy as breathing. He blocks out the shouting behind him, Claudius’s cry of warning. He shuts his eyes and stops thinking about the future he might be leaving behind, the freedom and new beginnings—a life that not a single atom of him cares about—and he looks inward instead, grabbing the last of his courage.

He leaps.

Ekko’s cry follows him down. Then he’s soaring, rising with the wind. He grabs the feathers on Ekko’s neck and gasps for breath, his legs liquid.

Ekko wobbles, clearly unused to carrying cargo. Cyrus hugs his back tightly, heart pummeling his ribs as he gulps for oxygen in the rushing wind.

“Let’s not do it this way next time,” he chokes out.

He casts one last look over his shoulder. The bridge is a shining ribbon fading into the Earth’s grey sky, the company just a blur. Lightness fills his soul.

Beneath him, Ekko turns a questioning golden eye upward as Cyrus laughs.

Mezor, I’m coming .