Page 50 of Sweet Venom Of Time (Blade of Shadows #6)

Chapter Twenty

AMIR

T he cold stone of the dungeon walls was nothing compared to the heat that surged within me.

It was the night of the masquerade—the night everything would change.

As I paced like a caged beast in the dimly lit cell, I could feel the power thrumming through my veins—a gift from Elizabeth—her alchemy, her sacrifice.

She had given me what I needed—the bodies, the strength, the will to rise again.

I halted mid-stride, every sense going taut as Elizabeth’s silhouette appeared in the archway.

The flickering light from the corridor beyond framed her, casting a golden glow over her pale skin and wheat-blond hair.

In the dimness, her blue eyes gleamed—not with hesitation but with shared understanding.

I crossed the space between us in an instant.

My hands found her face, firm and grounding. Our eyes locked briefly before our lips met in a kiss with urgency and unspoken promises. It was not a kiss of hesitation or doubt—a seal upon the night ahead, a confirmation of the storm we would unleash.

When we pulled apart, my fingers lingered against her cheek, tracing the delicate contours of her face—the face of a woman who had not only stood by my side in whispers and shadows but in blood and fire.

I let my forehead rest against hers. “Elizabeth,” I murmured, my voice low and full of promise. “Once this night ends, once we have torn down the tyranny that shackles us, I long to see a world where we are finally free.”

It was not just a wish. It was a vow.

She exhaled softly, a whisper of fabric against stone, as she stepped back into the shadows, her presence receding but never gone. She was in me now—in my pulse, in my breath, in every fiber of my being.

Tonight, we would bring ruin upon those who had kept us in chains.

And nothing—not power, fate, or death—would stand in our way.

The stillness of the dungeon shattered with a whisper.

“Amir, the men are ready.”

Elizabeth’s voice sliced through the darkness, quiet but firm. The weight of what lay ahead clung to every syllable, yet fear did not linger in her tone. As the faintest quiver ran through her hands, her gaze scorched with insolence, unwavering in purpose.

“The poison is made,” she continued, locking eyes with me. “And it is perfect.”

Something clenched deep in my chest at the sight of her standing before me, caught between fear and unshakable determination. She had never done this before. But she would not break. She was too strong to shatter.

“I know you’re nervous,” I murmured, stepping closer, our breath mingling in the cold, damp air. “But you have the strength of the fiercest warrior and the heart of the purest soul. You will not fail.”

She drew in a breath, a quiet nod her only response, but I saw it then—the shift, the straightening of her spine, the tightening of her grip.

“We will succeed,” she whispered, as if speaking it aloud solidified it into existence. “The poison is ready. It will be in their food and drink. Everything is falling into place.”

“As it should,” I said, voice low, firm.

I reached out, fingers brushing against her cheek in a fleeting moment of solace. A touch meant to ground her, to remind her she was not alone in this.

Her eyes met mine one final time, and then our lips collided in a fierce, fleeting kiss that carried no softness, only purpose.

A vow. A promise sealed in the dark.

Then, without another word, she was gone.

But her warmth lingered, a ghost of a promise hanging in the cold air.

I slipped my hands into the waiting shackles, the cold bite of metal closing around my wrists. My body sagged, my head bowed, every inch of me transforming into the image of a man beaten, broken.

But beneath it all, my blood thrummed with fire and vengeance.

“Play your part,” I whispered to myself, letting the illusion take hold, sinking into the guise of frailty.

The shadows would be my ally.

They would not see the warrior within.

Not until it was far too late.

The dank air of the dungeon clung to every surface, a miasma of decay and rot so thick it felt alive. I had grown accustomed to it—the way it curled into the lungs, settled into the skin—until it became as much a part of me as the iron bite of my shackles.

But their faces twisted in disgust when Lords Winston and Alexander descended into my fetid prison.

“Good lord, what a smell!” Lord Winston’s voice cut through the gloom, his delicate sensibilities affronted by the filth they had left me in. He was a specter of rot himself, yet the irony of his repulsion was utterly lost on him.

“It is fitting for the likes of him,” Lord Alexander sneered, his cold disdain ricocheting off the stone walls. Both men pressed perfumed handkerchiefs to their noses as if such a feeble barrier could protect them from the reality of their sins.

Their laughter—a hollow, chilling sound—filled the chamber. It was the kind of laughter that mocked the dead who could no longer take offense.

I remained motionless—a broken thing in their eyes.

But inside, the fires of retribution seared hotter than any torch they could bring against me.

Lord Alexander remained out of reach.

“Did you know you were planning your death?” His voice slithered like a serpent, full of venom and dark amusement. “When you came to us all those weeks ago, speaking of this grand masquerade... who knew? You were designing your execution.”

He stepped closer, relishing the moment, eyes gleaming like a wolf scenting blood.

“We’re going to break you, Amir. Slowly. Every last one of us will take a piece of you. We will carve your disobedience from your bones, burn you, make you beg for death.”

His lips curled into a wicked grin, feeding off his cruelty. “And then, my dear Elizabeth will add the finishing touches—with her poison.”

My stomach coiled at the mention of her name, but I did not move. Did not speak.

He thought he had won. He thought I had lost.

A rumbling laugh escaped him, deep and cruel, before he turned and bellowed into the shadows?—

“Guards! Bring me the gilded cage!”

The command reverberated off the stone walls, a cruel decree meant to herald the spectacle they intended to make of me. Yet beneath the weight of their arrogance, a secret thrill coiled in my veins.

For this masquerade was mine.

And the final act had yet to play.

The dungeon’s air thickened with the sound of approaching boots, the cadence menacing—a funeral march for men who did not yet know they were dead. Shadows stretched long and distorted against the damp walls, crawling forward like specters ushering in their doom.

Then, with a grating echo of metal against stone, the gilded cage was dragged into my cell.

It was a grotesque display of opulence, its golden bars gleaming in the dim light. It was a mockery of imprisonment meant to parade me through the streets like a captured beast. But the fools had yet to realize that this prison was not my tomb.

It was their pyre.

Six men struggled beneath its weight, their breaths ragged, their muscles straining. The putrid stench of death curled through the air, clinging to them, thick enough to choke. One of them—a broad-shouldered brute—stumbled mid-step. His face twisted in revulsion, his body convulsing.

Then, with a violent gag, he doubled over and retched.

A flicker of satisfaction curled at the edges of my lips. Good. Let them taste the rot they had cultivated.

“Good gods,” Lord Winston wheezed, his voice taut with disgust. He pressed a silk handkerchief to his lips, his aristocratic repulsion writ across his pale features. His gaze flickered to mine, meeting my eyes for a fleeting second—before he turned away.

Coward.

“Alexander, let us leave at once,” he muttered, swallowing against the bile rising in his throat. “These men will do their job and transport him to Kew Palace.”

Lord Alexander did not move immediately. His icy gaze lingered on me, as cold as a dagger’s edge, a silent promise of suffering yet to come.

I did not look away. Let him watch. Let him believe.

But whatever taunt he had prepared died before it could leave his lips. The stench overpowered his sadistic amusement, and with a final glance, he turned on his heel.

They retreated as hastily as dignity would allow, their silks and arrogance wilting under the weight of the decay that clung to this place.

They thought I was caged.

They thought I was defeated.

But soon, very soon, they would learn?—

A gilded cage did not make a man tame.

It made him patient.

And patience was the deadliest weapon of all.

The front of the cage swung open with a creak, a sound that might have signaled captivity—but to me, it was the sound of inevitability.

I let my body slump forward, every movement slow, designed to deceive. To sell the illusion. A man beaten, broken, stripped of the fight that once made him dangerous.

They wanted to believe it.

And so, I let them.

The guards sneered as they shoved me forward, their laughter grating against the dungeon walls, thick with cruelty and arrogance.

“Get in there, you sorry excuse for a rebel,” one barked, shoving me into the metallic enclosure with a force that might have meant something had I truly been as weak as they thought.

I offered no struggle.

No protest.

My limbs buckled on command, my body crumbling onto the cage’s cold floor like a hollow shell of the man I once was.

They jeered at my pathetic collapse, watching with smug satisfaction as I curled into myself, nothing more than a shattered relic of defiance.

Fools.

They saw a prisoner.

They did not see the embers smoldering beneath the ash.

With a grunt, the guards hoisted the prison onto their shoulders, removing me from the dungeon’s suffocating depths into the crisp night air. The cold bit into my skin, starkly contrasting to the heat thrumming beneath my ribs—the fire of what was coming.