Page 10 of Lord of Ruin (The Age of Blood #2)

Chapter Six

Isaac

I t wasn’t the unknown heartbeat that got Isaac’s attention, but the sudden snuffing of one, extinguished as quickly as a candle being blown out.

The sudden lack is what pulled Isaac’s attention, his awareness reaching out and snagging on the intruder as their heart didn’t even stutter at the quick and casual violence, moving onward to the next Guard.

Isaac could track the very path the assailant took, weaving through the floor above and leaving a path of dreadful, sudden silence in their wake.

Ironic, that thanks to the gag in his mouth and the chains he wore, he was not even able to warn his own personal Guards of the imminent danger.

Isaac wasn’t sure if he would have bothered with it, if he could have.

The Guards had not been overly cruel to him, and he wasn’t treated any worse than the others who had earned the Eternal King’s wrath.

But they were still part of this broken, shattered system, and he had little sympathy for anyone who was simply following orders.

He couldn’t help the cruel grin that cut across his face, hidden by the muzzle and twisted by the bit between his teeth, as the assailant crept down the stairs on silent feet.

The assailant was tall and thin, dressed in all black, including the mask that covered their face.

Most intriguing, though, was the lack of claws on their hands.

If this was a Blood Worker, they were not using their magic, instead relying on a pair a wicked-looking daggers in their hands.

There was no blood on them—no doubt the assailant had taken the time to clean the knives, if only to stop the telltale drips of blood onto the marble.

From his angle, back to the far wall and facing the bars that kept him in, he had the perfect view of the attack. The assailant moved quickly, closing in before the Guards had even noticed them, driving the blade of their dagger into the throat of the one on the left.

He dropped to his knees, his already arrhythmic heart beating wildly out of control. It wasn’t a quick death, and Isaac would have cursed the assailant if he could, as they were moving towards the second Guard while the first still breathed.

Leaving a Blood Worker alive to heal their wounds, no matter how grievous they seemed, was an amateur mistake.

But as the uninjured Guard and the assailant continued to clash, circling around each other as they dodged their respective attacks, Isaac kept his eyes on the first man.

He ripped the dagger from his own flesh, a geyser of red that splattered onto the floor as he let the dagger fall from his fingers.

But the flesh wouldn’t knit, the wound still gaping even as Isaac felt the man reach for his power…

The scent of the blood itself was tainted, sour, and Isaac breathed the pungent taste of it in through his mouth. Poison.

The assailant was using poison, and Isaac barked a laugh of genuine surprise. There were few poisons that worked well against Blood Workers, and each of them was rare and expensive, but they were dreadfully effective. That Guard was as good as dead.

He turned his attention to the scuffle still happening—while he wasn’t looking, the assailant had managed to slice their way across the Guard’s arms and chest, a series of thin red lines that shouldn’t have bothered the Blood Worker.

But the poison worked too well, the blood flowing freely, spilling down the Guard’s body in seeping waves of crimson.

Isaac could smell the taint on the blood, sour like fruit gone to rot, but he still ached to lap his tongue through the puddles that stained the marble floor.

The assailant drove the Guard against the cell, rattling the bars. Isaac couldn’t see the exact exchange, but with the way the assailant moved their arm and the sudden, jerking motion of the Guard, he had an inkling of what happened.

His suspicions were confirmed a second later, when the Guard’s heartbeat spluttered out of control.

Such a wound, a strike to the heart itself, would have been difficult for a skilled Blood Worker to heal, even without the stress of a battle. But with this poison that caused the blood to bleed free and fast?

The Guard was dead before she even hit the ground.

It was just the two of them, then. The assailant stood over the body, chest heaving, as they stared Isaac down.

Were they there to help him or kill him? It didn’t really matter, in the end. Isaac knew what the King was saving him for, and he was just spiteful enough to let himself be killed in a way that would inconvenience the Eternal Bastard.

He just wished he had the ability and courage to do it himself.

But he’d take whatever—whoever—this was.

Isaac steadied himself by digging his teeth in the leather bit as the stranger fished the keys from the Guard’s corpse.

They moved with quick efficiency, slipping the key in the lock and easing that great door free and stepping closer.

They moved carefully, like they were approaching a rabid dog, and Isaac had to resist the urge to snarl.

Leaning back in his chair as much as he could, Isaac stared down his rescuer, daring them to do something. Anything.

“Now, I know you’re an asshole,” the stranger said, voice eerily familiar. “But please don’t make this difficult.”

He knew that voice all too well, but he couldn’t imagine what he was doing here. Helping him. He had expected the fool to celebrate the day he died and dance on his grave. But the stranger stepped closer, pulling his mask down to rest around his neck and revealing himself.

Antonin LeClaire, throwing that too-casual smirk of his in Isaac’s face, like he hadn’t just slaughtered his way through the dungeons to stand before him. “Surprise!”

Isaac couldn’t do more than grunt around the muzzle, but Anton offered him some small mercies, stepping forward to carefully remove the damned contraption.

Isaac spluttered as the bit pulled free, his mouth aching and dry.

He needed water, he knew this, but the twisting in his stomach craved something darker.

Something he couldn’t bear to face.

So, he focused his attention on his rescuer, falling back into that old familiar pool of spite. They had never gotten along, but here Anton was, looking down at him with something akin to pity, and Isaac wanted to throw that back in his face.

“Well, if it isn’t little Anton,” he said, his voice harsh as steel dragged across stone. “I never thought you had it in you to be a killer.”

Anton huffed, not even bothering to look insulted. “Sometimes you need to get your hands dirty to get the job done. Something I thought that you would understand.”

The words hung heavy on the air, the weight of what he had become a miasma that followed him like a shroud. And the most galling part was that Anton was right—Isaac had learned the necessity of staining his soul in order to affect change.

He just didn’t know if it was worth it yet.

Clearing his throat, he tried in vain to wet his lips. “Does Shan know?”

“What?” Anton’s smile was cold and cruel; there was no trace of that foolish brat who had wormed his way into polite society. This Anton was one he did not know, and Isaac wasn’t sure what to do with that. “That I can kill or that I am saving your worthless skin?”

“Both,” Isaac croaked.

Anton tilted his head to the side, considering. “No,” he said, after a long moment. “She doesn’t. But save the rest of this interrogation for when you’re safe, all right?”

Isaac nodded, admitting for the second time in short succession that Anton was right—an uncomfortable feeling that he would have to deal with later.

Anton was already releasing the cuffs at his wrists and ankles that kept him bound to the chair, and Isaac eased into a standing position, ignoring the tingling feeling of pins and needles as he braced himself against the wall.

“Can you walk?” Anton asked, not unkindly.

Isaac’s pride still felt a little bruised, even though he was well within his rights to ask. The Eternal King wanted him to be able to walk to his own death, and so the Guard kept him exercised as best they could. Though he was weaker than he had ever been, he wasn’t fully atrophied. “I can.”

“Then let’s go.” Anton pulled the mask back up, stepping towards the door and the growing spill of blood.

The unnatural thirst rose again, clawing its way up Isaac’s throat as he eyed the fallen Guards. The metallic smell, copper and salt, filled his nose, and it took everything within him to not cast himself at the corpses and lick the sticky mess dripping from dead flesh.

He dashed across the cell to the table where the water pitcher rested, lifting the whole thing in his hands and drinking straight from the brim.

The water was tepid and sour, nothing like the liquid he craved, but he downed it anyway.

It eased some of the hunger in him, his throat no longer feeling quite so dry, the ache tempered.

He still craved the blood, but he had enough of a grip on himself to be able to walk past it.

Anton watched him from the doorway, brow furrowed in confusion. Isaac just dragged the back of his hand across wet lips. “Now, we go.” He pushed past Anton, crossing past the pool of blood before his resolve snapped, praying that whatever he had unleashed within himself could be controlled.

He was proud of himself when he did not falter.

Anton caught up to him at the foot of the stairs, glancing at Isaac sidelong and pressing a finger to his own lips before taking the stairs two at a time. Isaac hurried after, trying his best to remain silent, even if it was unnecessary.

They turned onto the next floor, the administrative space between the dungeons below and the palace above, but it was as desolate as a graveyard.

There were no bodies to be seen—Anton must have hidden them away behind the many doors, but it didn’t matter.

Isaac could hear the stifling silence, the sounds of life dwindled to the emptiness of death with the aftertaste of blood on the air.

Anton had been methodical and vicious, and Isaac felt his respect for the man growing by the minute.

In silence, he followed Anton through the dungeons, clearly retracing the path he had carved to find him.

After this was over, Isaac would question him on where he got his intelligence, for he moved with the certainty of a man who knew his exact path, leading him not to the entrance that led up to the palace above, but to the side entrance where Guards and servants entered to do their duty.

There was still the matter of the blood ward, a shimmering barrier across the door, barely noticeable to the naked eye but zinging across his skin like little sparks of lightning. Before Isaac could question what came next, Anton was holding out his hand, a bracelet dangling from his fingers.

“You really thought of everything,” Isaac said, as he slipped it around his wrist. He did not know whose blood it carried, exactly, but it must be attuned to the ward to grant them entry.

His suspicion was confirmed as he reached his hand out, the ward splitting around his fingers as the hair on his arm raised.

“Your lack of faith is forever galling,” Anton quipped as he pressed through the ward to ease the door open. It was a heavy thing, creeping forward by inches, as he peered out through the crack.

After a long moment, he slipped through, signaling for Isaac to follow.

Isaac stepped out into the night, tasting fresh air for the first time in months.

It was still Aeravin, the sounds of the city washing over him—the clap of horse hooves on cobblestones, the rattle of the carriages and hackneys as they rolled down the street, the soft sounds of indistinct conversation floating over him.

The relief was so powerful that it felt like a punch to the gut, his grip loosening as the door fell from his fingers, closing behind him with a soft thunk .

Despite the promise that Samuel had whispered to him, all those weeks ago, he never believed that he would taste freedom again. That he even deserved it. Yet as he stood there, face tilted up towards the night sky and the stars above, he swore that he would never be a prisoner again.

Anton clapped him on the shoulder, a firm grip that steadied him. “Celebrate your freedom when we get away from here.”

“Right.” He turned to follow Anton, who eased along the side of the prison before ducking down a side alley. “Where are we going?”

“Someplace safe,” Anton replied, pulling the mask off and tucking it away in one of the folds of his outfit—gone, like his daggers, hidden by a long winter cloak that help him blend in with the rest of the city. “Almost done.”

Isaac followed him to the end of the alleyway, right as a hackney pulled up and came to a stop, blocking the rest of the street.

Isaac only got the briefest look at the driver, a serious Black man dressed in the simple clothes of a driver-for-hire, but Isaac could have sworn he was Shan’s personal secretary.

Before he could even ask, Anton was pulling him into the carriage. The door clicked shut and then they were off, rolling through the capital before Isaac’s ass even hit the bench, leaving the prison and all those months of suffering behind.

Anton grinned, so terribly pleased with himself, as he tossed Isaac a long cloak. “Congratulations, de la Cruz. You’re a free man again.”