Page 3 of Liar Witch

I can hear the guards scrambling above. Shouting orders as the first few start to rappel down into the Claw on ropes.

If I follow the wraiths, I’ll probably die.

I watched as they ripped Felicity to shreds. I know how horrific that death will be.

Somehow it still seems better than whatever the inmates and guards will do to me.

My gut makes the decision before my mind has caught up. I turn on my heel and sprint after the ghostly figures, clutching the dagger so hard that it hurts.

It’s not easy to run with my arms cuffed in front of me, but I make it work, fleeing the yelling behind me with a single-minded determination. Adrenaline makes it easier for me to ignore the pain of my battered body, but that won’t last forever.

Behind me, the yelling stops, replaced by the ring of steel on steel as the guards and inmates clash. I push myself harder, chasing the disappearing mist down tunnel after tunnel, turn after turn. If the guards are distracted, that can only buy me more time.

The tunnels all look the same, leading deep into the earth. As I follow the wraiths, I notice transmutation-circle-etched panels opening in the ceiling above me. Each one drops a huge pile of salt over the tunnel like snow. The stuff gets everywhere. In my hair. In my eyes. In every cut and wound that still bleeds.

Shit, thatstings.

How many mages does it take to implement such a system? Why do they support the Eagle of Galmere in the first place?

It’s effective. The wraiths shriek and move faster, forcing me to double my pace to keep up.

We leave the carefully carved tunnels of the mine behind. The walls turn wet and bumpy, and the floor becomes uneven. These tunnels are natural, but they’re also smaller, making it harder to move and almost impossible to keep up.

A stitch starts to form in my side, the stabbing pain a dull addition to the millions of other aches from the beatings and torture from the days before. I have no idea how long it’s been since I tried—and failed—to kill the Queen.

With my magic suppressed by the cuffs, there isn’t much I can do to fix it. The sigils inked on my skin that might have helped me are useless.

I’m as weak as a human.

My toe catches in a crevice in the floor, making me stumble. I barely right myself in time to see the mist disappear down a tunnel to my left. I’ve lost all sense of direction in this gloomy, claustrophobic place. All I can tell is that we’re headed down. Deep into the darkness.

It only gets darker.

All I can see is the vague, pearly shine of the mist in the distance. Lunars have great night vision, but my eyes are failing me now. The salt has stopped falling; the mages’ system clearly doesn’t extend this far down.

Yet the mist isn’t slowing. It’s only getting farther away.

I slam into a wall and have to rely on my shackled hands to feel for the gap. By the time I’ve found the crevice and squeezed into it, the mist has disappeared beyond.

The darkness and the stone walls start pressing in on me. Without my hands free, I’m forced to take the most awkward shuffle forward. Rock rubs and scrapes against my bare flesh. It smells of damp down here, the moist air and intense warmth making sweat drip down into uncomfortable places.

Being without my sight makes it worse. The only noise is the sound of my ragged breathing and the dragging, metallic scratch of the athame against the rock. The floor is still sloping down, which doesn’t help matters.

It feels like I’m in that crevice for hours. When it opens out, I suck in huge lungfuls of air, rubbing at the scraped skin of my arms. There’s a faint glow coming from the walls, but no sign of the mist.

Just more gloomy darkness.

I take a step forward into empty air.

The ground falls away beneath me, sending me plummeting into blackness.

My last thought as I close my eyes and prepare to die is that my men will never know what happened to me.

Chapter Two

Rysen

Blood.