Page 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

T he blindfold was removed with a sharp tug as Jessamin was pushed into a huge, opulent chamber.

She staggered, her legs tired and shaky after what felt like endless days and nights of riding.

They’d never stopped for more than an hour or so, Khorrek driving them on relentlessly.

It was just as well he’d tied her to her horse because she’d fallen asleep in the saddle several times despite the breakneck pace.

Khorrek was one of Lasseran’s Beast warriors, a product of Lasseran’s twisted scheme to create an army of orcs he could control.

From what Ulric had told her, obedience and loyalty were beaten into them from the time they were born.

But she thought she’d seen cracks in that loyalty.

When he’d blindfolded her to bring her into the palace, he’d looked almost…

regretful. But his regret hadn’t stopped him from leaving her in this lavish prison.

She blinked, still shocked by the sudden stillness, and tried to take in her surroundings.

The room stretched before her, vast and elegant, with soaring ceilings adorned with intricate frescoes.

Massive windows framed by heavy velvet curtains looked out over the Southern Sea, the water glittering like crushed sapphires in the morning light.

The furniture was exquisite—carved rosewood inlaid with mother-of-pearl, cushions of the finest silk, delicate crystal decanters filled with amber liquid.

Yet for all its splendor, the room felt like a tomb.

The air hung heavy and still, untouched by any natural breeze.

The windows were sealed shut, and when she looked more closely, the frescoes depicted battle scenes with people dying in a variety of gruesome ways.

In the middle of the ceiling, an enormous black dragon sprawled atop a mountain of corpses.

The apparent luxury was a cage, the silken hangings were chains.

She shuddered, feeling the oppressive weight of the room pressing in on her. A sense of dark, suffocating power seemed to emanate from the very walls. This must be the Obsidian Keep—Lasseran’s palace in the heart of Kel’Vara.

“Do make yourself comfortable, niece,” a silken voice said from the doorway. “The journey must have been… trying.”

Lasseran entered with the unhurried grace of a predator.

He was not the monster her imagination had conjured.

No twisted features or malevolent hunch.

Instead, he was disturbingly handsome—tall and slender, with aristocratic features and silver-white hair that fell to his shoulders in a perfect cascade.

His eyes, though, were empty pools of pale blue, devoid of warmth or humanity.

He circled her, his movements liquid and precise. “At last,” he said, his voice cultured and melodious. “The missing piece of my legacy.”

Jessamin kept her spine straight, her chin high. “I am not your legacy, Uncle.”

His lips curved in a smile that never reached his eyes.

“Such spirit. Your mother had it too, before she so inconveniently died bringing you into the world.” He poured himself a glass of wine, not offering her any.

“But blood will tell, won’t it? And yours is exceptional—the culmination of centuries of careful breeding. ”

“Is that how you see people? As breeding stock?”

“Some of them.” He circled her again, running an icy finger down her cheek. She clenched her fists at her side, willing herself not to flinch away. His scent surrounded her, a heavy floral scent with something rotten underneath. “Such a pretty little thing. You had such potential.”

“Had?”

“Yes,” he agreed, his finger tracing her jawline. “I had planned to breed you myself, to create a suitable heir.”

She couldn’t stop herself from shuddering and his smile grew.

“Unfortunately, I cannot risk the possibility that the wild orc’s filthy seed has quickened in your womb.” The finger slid down her throat to the swell of her breast and she shuddered again. “So, instead of giving life, your blood will fuel a different legacy.”

“You mean the blood ritual,” she whispered, and he nodded.

“Indeed. The orcs are such magnificent physical specimens, but so crude, so limited. Imagine what could be accomplished if their strength could be harnessed, controlled by superior minds.”

“You mean enslaved.”

“I mean perfected.” His voice hardened slightly. “And you, my dear, will be the key. The missing element in the ritual that will bind all of those with the Beast Curse to my will.”

The clinical way he spoke made her stomach turn. There was no hatred in his voice, only the detached interest of a man discussing the breeding of horses.

“And what makes you think I would ever help you?”

“Help?” He laughed, a sound like crystal shattering.

“Your participation requires nothing more than your presence and your blood. Though I had hoped you might see the wisdom in a more… willing alliance.” He hooked his finger in the neckline of her dress, tugging thoughtfully.

“With the proper training, you could be an asset beyond the ritual, assuming you survive, of course. I would even allow you to bear my child, once I am sure that the orc’s seed did not take root. ”

She jerked away from his touch, nausea roiling in her stomach. “I’d rather die.”

The mask of civility cracked for a moment, revealing a flash of icy fury before smoothing over again.

“You’re so very sure of yourself, aren’t you? I don’t think you realize how truly alone you are.” He stepped closer, his scent overwhelming. “No one is coming for you, niece. Not Ulric. Not the Priest King. Not the gods themselves. You belong to me now.”

He studied her face, his eyes flickering with cold amusement. “You’re afraid. I can see it. Smell it. But there’s also… defiance. Did you really think that crude savage could protect you?”

“He will come for me,” she said fiercely. “And he will tear your black heart out.”

Her uncle chuckled, as if she’d said something amusing. He drained his wine, then leaned forward, his breath warm on her neck. “When the time is right, I’ll have Khorrek bring you to the temple. Until then, enjoy my hospitality.”

He paused at the door. “I’ll leave you to reflect on the wisdom of compliance.”

The door closed with a heavy finality, the lock engaging with a soft click.

She watched him leave, her heart pounding in her chest. As soon as the door closed behind him, her legs gave out and she sank onto the floor. Fear clawed at her throat, but she forced it down. Fear would not save her. Fear would not save Ulric or Norhaven.

She would not weep. She would not break.

Forcing herself off the floor, she began a methodical exploration of her prison. The windows, as expected, were sealed and even the glass was reinforced with a fine metal mesh that would not break. The door was solid oak, its lock complex and new.

She moved to the adjoining bathing chamber, noting the fine marble and silver fixtures. No weapons, but perhaps tools. She tucked a silver hairpin into her sleeve.

Returning to the main chamber, she pressed her ear to the door, listening to the rhythm of the guards’ footsteps and counting silently. Two men, alternating patrols, passing her door every seven minutes.

She examined the massive fireplace, running her fingers along the ornate stonework. Near the back, her fingers caught on a slight irregularity. A loose stone, its mortar crumbling with age. Working carefully, she wiggled it free.

Behind it was a small, hollow space. Something metal glinted in the darkness.

Her heart leapt as her fingers closed around it—a dagger, small and rusty, its blade dulled by time.

It had likely been hidden by some previous prisoner, perhaps another “guest” who had not survived Lasseran’s hospitality.

The blade was no longer sharp enough to kill, but it might serve as a tool. It was something. A sliver of hope in a hopeless place.

She tucked the small blade in the hidden pocket of her skirt, then moved to the window, looking out over Kel’Vara.

The city was built on the steep cliffs of a rocky promontory extending out into the Southern Sea with a massive city wall separating it from the mainland.

Grand palazzos and arched bridges glittered in the sunlight, more beautiful than she had imagined, but even from here she could see hints of the darkness beneath.

Between the elegant buildings, the dark towers of the Dusk Guards seemed to absorb the sunlight, and shadowy figures crept through the narrow alleys leading away from the main avenues.

In the distance she could see the black dome of the Veilborn Temple, the silver symbols etched into its surface catching the sunlight.

Legend had it that the Veilborn were descendants of the wizard priests originally responsible for the Beast Curse.

She’d asked her father about them once, and he’d given her a troubled look.

“They worship the Old Gods. They claim they seek balance but their magic is dark. Even the gods do not trust them.”

“But why do the gods allow them to continue?” she’d asked.

“Their magic is strong. Perhaps the gods are… wary.”

Was Lasseran planning to harness the power of the Veilborn in his ritual? She sighed and moved away from the window. In the end, the source of his power didn’t really matter. She couldn’t let him succeed.

Ulric would come for her. She knew this with bone-deep certainty. But she would not wait passively for rescue like some storybook princess. She was a queen—his queen—and she would fight with every weapon at her disposal.

The rusty dagger pressed against her thigh, its weight a promise. She was not helpless. And Lasseran had made a grave mistake in bringing her here.

He thought her merely a vessel for his ambitions, a passive ingredient in his twisted ritual. But she was so much more. She was Jessamin, Queen of Norhaven. And she would show him exactly what that meant.