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CHAPTER TWELVE

A ll the blood had surely drained from Ronin’s body, his head woolly and his vision blurred, as he watched Mireille—fucking Mireille Valette in the flesh—lead Cassandra back to the dais.

The she-wolf didn’t spare him a single glance, and he was grateful for her inattention.

It allowed him the privacy to study her.

The stunning face that had haunted so many of his dreams—and nightmares—looked mostly unchanged since he’d last seen her. The icy indifference remained, though it held an even sharper edge.

A long, leather cloak hid her body from view—a blessing, he supposed—and as she brushed past, her scent washed over him. That unmistakable musk sweetened by ripe flowers. The same scent he’d caught on the vial of veiling potion in the intake yard. His wolf released a mournful howl before Ronin snarled back, silencing the beast.

Cassandra and Mireille paused before the Koenig, and Mireille whispered something into Cassandra’s ear. Cassandra pushed her shoulders back, flaring her glimmering wings, and declared, “I request an executioner’s appeal.”

Wormwood grimaced, looking toward the throne for affirmation. The Koenig gave him another nod, stroking the handle of his warhammer.

“Very well,” Wormwood said, narrowing his eyes at Mireille. “Such is your right. Step up here so we can seal it with a blood vow.”

Cassandra darted a nervous glance to Mireille. Did Cassandra not know what a blood vow was? Mireille whispered into Cassandra’s ear again, and Cass’s steps faltered as she climbed the dais.

Wormwood snatched Cassandra’s hand, then lifted it toward the Koenig. She hissed between clenched teeth as the Koenig dragged the edge of a knife over her palm. He sliced across his own, then clasped their hands together.

“You may select the weapons you’ll be fighting with, or the date of your appeal,” Wormwood said.

Come on, Cass , Ronin thought. Choose wisely .

“The date,” she answered.

Good.

“As you wish,” Wormwood said. “The latest you may choose is twenty-eight days from now, on the night of Vestan’s crescent moon.”

“Why?”

“Because that is as long as his mercy extends.”

The Koenig’s hand tightened on Cassandra’s, spilling a fresh wave of blood from the wound. She didn’t even wince.

Very good.

“Fine,” she said. “Twenty-eight days.”

Wormwood looked to the Koenig, who gave a dark smile. “Then you’ll be fighting with broadswords. It’s what he always chooses. He’s nothing if not a traditionalist.”

Now it was Ronin’s turn to fight off a wince.

Broadswords, Creator help them.

Unless Cass had already been trained to use one—and he thought that extremely unlikely—twenty-eight days was not nearly enough time to gain the necessary skill to defeat a male who, by the looks of him, had been honing his craft for centuries. Even Ronin himself, a battle-tested warrior of five plus centuries, wasn’t confident he could defeat the Koenig.

Cassandra had a virtually impossible task ahead of her.

Wormwood grabbed the hammer and thrust it between Cassandra and the Koenig, directly beneath their clasped hands. “Do you promise not to harm one another, nor to solicit any harm against one another, until the day of your appeal? At which time, one of you must die for the other to be declared victor?” Both Cassandra and the Koenig nodded. “Then feed the blood of your pact to the hammer, and the vow will be complete.”

Four drops plinked onto the stone, the hall so silent that Ronin heard each one.

Once the fourth had fallen, tendrils of red light burst from the polemite heart and seeped into Cassandra and the Koenig.

“No Fae within Tartarus will be able to harm you until the appeal,” Wormwood pronounced. “When you will battle the Koenig and two fighters of his choosing using broadswords on the night of Vestan’s crescent moon. You may also select two individuals to fight alongside you. Your first choice?”

“Mireille Valette,” Cassandra declared and Mireille bowed with a satisfied grin.

“The apothecarist?” Wormwood’s eyebrows rose. “An interesting choice, but it is yours to make. Who will be your second choice?”

Cassandra surveyed the crowd. The Brethren avoided her stare, looking at their feet or toward the ceiling.

Cassandra’s eyes landed on Ronin, and he knew what she was going to say before she opened her mouth.

Was this the role he was destined to play? The role that chronomancer in Kheimos had spoken of all those centuries ago? Through all his work with the Teles Chrysos, all the spying and the mind games, he hadn’t felt as strong a tug in his chest as he felt now. As if something—or someone—was urging him toward this path.

“Well?” Wormwood said, exasperated. “Get on with it. Who is your second selection?”

Cassandra’s fierce blue-gray eyes found his face, and his wolf yipped and pranced within him.

He’d barely finished nodding his acceptance before Cassandra sang out, “Ronin Matakos.”

His name echoed through the hall, through his bones, through his soul.

“Ronin Matakos will be my second fighter.”

At that, Mireille finally looked at him.

And smiled.

Mireille let Ronin and Cassandra into the small apartment above her apothecary shop.

“Cozy,” Cassandra said around an exhausted laugh that matched Ronin’s spirit.

Mireille hadn’t said two words to Ronin since the trio had left the castle, directing all her questions toward Cassandra instead. Mireille had asked how Cassandra knew who she was, and the little traitor didn’t even glance back for permission before she outed him. Told Mireille that Ronin had spilled their entire history at the intake tower.

Mireille tossed an annoyed look over her shoulder, but he didn’t fucking care. It was his story to tell, too. He tried not to be insulted that Cassandra didn’t even scold Mireille for taking his eye.

At one point, Cassandra stopped Mireille in the middle of the street and gathered her into a tight embrace. Tears lined her eyes as she thanked Mireille for saving her life.

Ronin had stood awkwardly behind them, scratching at the back of his neck, uncomfortable with the display of emotion.

Mireille had stiffened in the embrace. But as she wrapped her arms around Cassandra, carefully avoiding the wings, her gaze rose to Ronin.

And he swore he saw something like gratitude shining there.

For what, he didn’t know. For protecting Cass during her sentencing? For helping her through the mists? For agreeing to this half-mad scenario where Mireille and Ronin would fight alongside Cass in a battle with a centuries-old, mutilated Windrider who controlled an entire city of the Empire’s prisoners?

This was all so fucked.

But he didn’t turn away from Mireille as she squeezed Cass tighter. Merely dipped his head in silent recognition.

He had a bad feeling it was about to be two against one.

Creator fucking spare him.

He shook off those thoughts as he surveyed the small, open living space. A scuffed leather couch and armchair were arranged before a stone fireplace. Beyond the sitting area was a wooden dining table with three chairs and a primitive kitchen. No stove, no refrigerator, none of the magical appliances he was used to on the continent. Though he did spy a faucet above the large porcelain sink, thank the Goddess. It had been centuries since he’d lived without the convenience of running water—not since he was a young pup in Denevrae—and he’d gotten quite used to the luxury. Hopefully that meant there was a shower as well.

Mireille piped up, “It’s not much, but you’ll be safe here. Not to mention you’ve got the protection of that blood vow upon you, Cassandra.”

“You can call me Cass.” She offered Mireille a warm, weary smile. “All my friends do.”

That gorgeous blush that Ronin remembered well— too well—stole across Mireille’s cheeks. She’d barely had any friends back in Kheimos and the clean, utilitarian space he now found himself in suggested that hadn’t changed during her imprisonment.

Guilt and regret tightened his chest at the thought of what she must have endured here, trapped beyond the mists with these other prisoners for so long. It was almost enough to dampen the mistrust and anger he was still clinging to.

Almost, but not quite.

Mireille gestured down a short hallway. “The bathroom and two of the bedrooms are this way. One is mine. Then there’s another one on the other side of the living room. You two can?—”

“I’ll take the one on the other side of the living room,” Ronin grumbled.

“Right,” Mireille said, lips tight, then turned to Cassandra. “Why don’t you go get some rest? I’m sure you’re exhausted after everything you’ve been through today. Borrow whatever you need from my closet. Tomorrow, we’ll get you some training attire and more clothes.”

“I don’t have any… How do people buy things here?” Cassandra asked. “And where does it all come from?”

“From the Koenig,” Mireille answered. “Gifted by the polemite in that warhammer. Some believe it’s provided by Vestan the Warrior God himself.”

Ronin’s brows rose. He’d suspected for a long time that the Gods—both the Fae’s High and the human’s lesser—were not real. Just myths crafted by the Empire in an attempt to lure Ethyrios away from worship of Adelphinae, the true Creator. But the magic had to have originated somewhere.

Mireille continued, “It’s why everything here appears from another era. Other than a few modern conveniences, the Koenig can only offer what he remembers from the time when he was free.”

“Who is he?” Ronin asked, silently thanking whichever prisoner had convinced the male to upgrade to running water.

Mireille shook her head. “No one knows for sure. He’s the oldest prisoner in here by centuries. And as you can imagine, he’s not too keen on sharing his history. Adds to the air of mystery and power he’s woven. There’s no monetary system here. Nothing like drachas . The Koenig provides goods to each prisoner on a monthly basis, which can be used or bartered. If we desire something specific, we can make a special request of him or his Brethren. Sometimes they honor it, sometimes they don’t. Depends on how generous they’re feeling.”

Cassandra’s feathers rattled, as if she were bobbing her leg beneath the table.

Mireille sighed, then waved a hand and said, “Go on and get it over with. Ask me all the questions you have about this place. After tonight, your only focus is training.”

Cassandra sucked in a long breath, then began her barrage. “Why is there a city here?”

“Fuck if I know,” Mireille answered. “But mumblings around town claim it used to be home to a powerful magic wielder and their followers. The wards were allegedly created upon their death.”

“For what purpose?”

Mireille shrugged, non-plussed.

“How long has the Koenig ruled?” Cassandra asked.

“Again, don’t know, don’t care.”

“Why are there no children?”

“New life cannot be created within the wards. Just as elemental magic cannot be accessed.”

“You mean wind magic?”

“I mean all elemental magics,” Mireille said pointedly, flicking her eyes toward Ronin.

Cassandra didn’t seem to notice. “If the Koenig and his Brethren are so terrible, why don’t the other prisoners just rise up and kill them?”

Mireille snorted. “What makes you think they haven’t tried?” Her cool facade returned. The one she’d always used to hide the feelings that made her uncomfortable: pain, shame, regret.

His blood boiled.

His worst nightmares over the centuries had been vivid speculations about what Mireille was enduring here in Tartarus. But seeing it now, seeing the results in person… He couldn’t breathe.

“Anyway,” Mireille said to Cassandra, “as challenger, you’ll be given whatever you need leading up to your appeal.”

“That’s…oddly kind.”

“Not really. They assume you’ll be dead in a month, so what does it matter?”

Cassandra’s face paled and her wings drooped.

Clearly, Mireille’s small talk hadn’t improved.

“Well,” Cassandra huffed out, “on that cheery note, I’m going to try to get some sleep. I’ll leave you two to…” Her gaze bobbed between Ronin and Mireille, who were both pointedly ignoring each other. “I’ll leave you two. Good night.”

Mireille nodded, tucking an escaped strand of copper hair behind her ear. “We’re in this together now. For better or for worse.”

“No pressure,” Cassandra mumbled as she slid down the hallway, throwing a final wave over her shoulder and shutting herself in her bedroom.

Mireille’s gaze remained glued to the table.

He couldn’t believe he was actually standing here in front of her. Occupying the same space. Breathing the same air. This phantom that had stalked him for centuries, taunting him with visions of the life they could have shared. Snatched away with a single flick of her fiery sword.

He had so many questions. So many things he wanted to say to her. To scream at her. But he bit them back as she lifted her head, that familiar imperviousness shielding her quicksilver eyes.

“I…” she started, then blew out a long breath.

He crossed his arms over his chest, a protective measure, then planted his feet. He was here, in a physical place. He existed. He was not living some crazy nightmare crafted from his most bittersweet memories.

Mireille peered at him, her face unreadable, as she uttered a single word.

“Hi.”