Page 199 of Lady of the Drowned Empire

The two akadim with Meera and Morgana hoisted them up to a seat, lifting their arms and tying ropes around their wrists. Their wrists secured, the akadim pulled on the ropes, forcing Meera and Morgana—still unconscious—to their toes, their heads lolling to the side.

“Teka!” yelled the mage. “He comes.”

Shivers ran through my body. Moriel. Moriel was coming.

The akadim fell to their knees. The two who still gripped my arms forced me onto the ground. My knees hit the stone at the same time, and I cried out. And yet, somehow I still held the shard of the Valalumir. Still held possession of my stave—tucked into my belt.

Even the mage fell to her knees. She lifted one eyebrow at Rhyan as if to say, Well?

He only glared, tilting his head apologetically with a sneer. “Sorry. Tied up.”

“Maraak Moriel,” said the akadim. “Maraak Moriel.” It was a chant. To my horror, more fires blazed to life in the cavern, popping and crackling with smoke. The light revealed row upon row of akadim. My entire body stilled. My heart threatening to hammer through my chest. One akadim terrified me. Dozens…there were dozens in this room. Even if I called on kashonim, even with my magic power…we stood no chance. Not with Rhyan bound.

Dozens of the monsters all fell to their knees, their growls echoing, their red eyes all focusing on one thing.

A throne made of black obsidian.

We were in a Seating Room. A Seating Room full of monsters. Monsters who would not hesitate to murder us, tear us apart, or worse, turn us forsaken. Turn us into akadim.

My heart was pounding, and my stomach turned, the sound of the beasts unbearable.

“Maraak Moriel,” said the akadim, chanting louder, faster, their fists banging on the ground like death drums. I felt like I was going to faint.

Footsteps echoed, the sound coming closer and closer. The chants stopped abruptly. Silence fell upon the room, and then dark shadows slid along the walls, and an aura filled with darkness, anger, and thunder roared into the Seating Room.

My stomach tightened like a vice—to the point where I felt sick. I swore I knew that aura. I swore I’d felt it a thousand times before. Powerful. Strong. Deadly. The aura of a God of Death.

Moriel entered the Seating Room. His red arkturion cloak flowing behind him. His golden Bamarian armor shined to perfection.

And I looked up into the furious eyes of the Ready.

Moriel was Aemon.

CHAPTER FORTY

No. No. No.

I was going to be sick. Aemon! Aemon who had been like an uncle to me. Aemon who had vouched for me to the Imperator, secured me a place in the Soturion Academy when I was powerless. Aemon who had helped me to avoid exile. Who’d quelled the rebellion and placed my father on the Seat. Who’d overseen my protection and safety for years.

Tears welled in my eyes. My heart shattering all over again. And something cold and hard settled over my heart.

He was also Aemon who had whipped me. Who had rushed forth when the Imperator demanded a lashing. Rushed forth when he had never done so before, when it wasn’t his job as arkturion to dole out punishments to novices. When he’d said, “I’ll do it.”

I’d thought he was saving me at the time.

Gods! I’d thought he was saving me, by hurting me. Because someone else would have hurt me worse.

Rhyan had never forgiven him for that. Too late I realized, Rhyan had been right.

Fuck!

I tried to breathe as Aemon moved into the cavernous Seating Room, his aura—heavy and full of shadows—always angry, always full of power and rage. It swept over me, tiny shivers erupting across my body, my heart hammering, my stomach turning over and over. His dark eyes fixed on me, even as he passed by where I’d been forced to kneel, even as he made his way to his Seat. He didn’t look anywhere else. Not at the mage who’d brought us here. Not at my sisters, or Rhyan. Or the dozens and dozens of akadim that filled the room.

There was something openly hungry, and greedy in his gaze. Something possessive.

The Valalumir in my arms began to glow, a faint, dark light. Almost like it was answering his call.

He wasn’t looking at me. He was looking at the shard. At his prize.