Page 49 of The Second Death of Locke

A soldier walked into the room, dressed in armor. Not just anyone, Grey realized, taking in the embroidered sash he wore across his chest, over his breastplate and surcoat: a master at least, possibly a commander. She couldn’t remember how many Luthar had, nor why they would take them prisoner.

No. Not Luthar. Grey squinted. Though the commander’s crest was Eprainish, the guards that accompanied him wore a mix of Eprainish and Luthrite crests on their surcoats.

Eprain and Luthar were working together. She could not even begin to grasp the implications of that: if both turned on Scaela, using their combined forces…

She was not sure if an alliance with Cleoc Strata was enough to save them from that.

The commander paused, taking them in. Grey felt her muscles tense without being told, a shakiness in her thighs, a catch in her breath. Kier glanced over, and she felt the useless pull of him, trying to tether to her power, unable to.

“And this,” the man said, his eyes scanning over them, “is the retinue that led the false Maryse of Locke across the country.”

They said nothing—they could say nothing, gagged as they were. But Grey took in Eron and Ola and Brit and Kier; perhaps they were fools for letting their guard down, for getting captured, but they were still broken and fierce and hers . She would die for every single one of them.

“Who is in charge of this operation?” the commander asked.

“The tall one, with the dark hair,” one of the soldiers said.

Grey’s head snapped in his direction, immediately sending her headache flaring, but she recognized the man who’d spoken.

Though he now wore Luthrite garb, she was almost certain he’d been at the ball the night before.

Judging by the way the blood drained from Eron’s face, he must’ve recognized him, too.

She remembered how drunk Eron was when she and Kier had left the night before—if the other man was a spy, searching for information, she had no idea what Eron had given up.

She could only trust that, even incoherent, he knew to keep his knowledge close to his chest.

Beside her, Kier stood straight and tall—a remarkable thing, to look so leaderly when he was dressed only in trousers, dried blood brown on his skin—and raised his chin at a defiant angle.

The commander nodded to one of his soldiers, who stepped forward with a blade.

Grey made a noise despite herself, struggling to move toward him—but they only cut his gag.

It came away wet, and Kier spat a knot of thick blood out when they removed it.

He had to have some other injury, something else that Grey couldn’t see.

“And you are?” the commander asked.

But Kier only stared defiantly, insouciant to the last. Grey loved him with a fierce, unholy desperation—she wished, more than anything, that he could pull from her and decimate every person in this room.

After too long of Kier’s silence, the soldier from the party spoke up. “That’s Captain Kier Seward, sir.”

“Seward.” The commander crossed his arms over his chest and stepped forward carefully. “What are you?”

No answer from Kier, and the soldier didn’t try to respond either. The commander’s mouth twitched into a smirk. “Fine,” he said. “We’ll do things your way.”

The guard next to Kier moved before Grey could react, before she could think, striking him square in the shoulder.

Grey watched his quick, pained breath; she gasped herself as his collarbone cracked.

She made a noise that sounded like an animal caught in a trap—the commander’s eyes snapped to her immediately.

“You were the two found together,” he said, and Grey tried to focus as much hate as she could in her gaze. If only her gods had given her the ability to do something with her power, she would smite this man where he stood.

“Who is she?”

It wasn’t like Grey could answer with the gag in her mouth anyway. Kier, too, said nothing.

The commander sighed. “Bring in the prisoner,” he said over one shoulder. A few of the guards scurried away to follow his order. For a heartbeat, Grey panicked—had they found Sela, too? She thought it would be impossible to get past her guard, but…

He paced the stretch of stones in front of them.

“I’ll make this quick. The girl you returned to Grislar was not Maryse of Locke, but you know that.

What I know is that you managed to eviscerate an entire company of trained mages and wells without a single blade, which is, frankly, impossible.

Unless one of you is a Locke.” He scanned their faces, lingering on each one. “So who is it?”

Grey tried to breathe and tasted only poison. It was a mistake—it had all been a mistake. They never should’ve taken this assignment. She and Kier shouldn’t have stayed the night. They should have left the second they handed Sela over, taken their papers and run .

The guards returned with another person between them, their head and face covered with a dark hood. They wore the plain clothes and padded shirt that went under armor, caked in mud and dried blood.

“So nice of you to join us,” the commander said placidly, as if the prisoner had come willingly and not been dragged out of a cell.

There was no response. One of the guards discarded the hood, revealing her face. Hand Master Mare Concord stood looking dazed, gagged like the rest of them. Grey heard Ola draw a quick breath.

Mecketer was attacked shortly after your departure . That was what Reggin had told them—and none of them had thought to ask for a casualty list, had thought to check if Concord or Attis, who knew their mission and route and the details of their arrival, were safe.

Mare took in the group in front of her, and it was like the fight went out of her: her knees sagged, and she would’ve dropped to the ground if it wasn’t for the guards holding her arms.

“Has she been drugged?” the commander asked.

“Yes,” one of the guards replied.

“Remove her gag.”

He cut it away, and Mare drew a heaving breath, her eyes tracing back and forth over the others with growing dread.

They lingered for just a second on Grey before moving on.

Her top lip was swollen and split, as was her left eyebrow.

Grey surmised that she’d be a patchwork of bruises under her clothes: she’d clearly been beaten.

“Is this your retinue?” the commander asked.

“Yes,” Mare said, her voice raspy. Grey remembered her eyes, wild with fear, as she’d saved her from death years before.

“They have been… uncooperative. Would you do me the honor of naming those involved, and telling me their specialties?”

Mare licked her lips. She looked up and down the line. “I don’t know—”

“Don’t toy with me, Concord.”

“I’m not. I only know Seward and Flynn’s abilities. Captain Seward is an internal affinite.”

The commander looked at Kier for a long moment, eyebrows drawing together. “Internal. The report on our company stated that it was clean work that killed our men. Some kind of effect on the hearts, forcing all to cease beating. Does that sound familiar?”

“I cannot say,” Mare lied. The commander rolled his eyes and gestured to one of the guards, who hit her so hard that her head twisted.

She coughed, spitting a tooth out onto the floor.

When she looked up again, blood dripped down her chin.

Grey forced herself to watch despite her growing panic. It was the least she could offer her.

“Yes,” Mare said weakly. “His specialty lies with the heart.”

“And Flynn?”

“His well.”

“On the end, sir,” the man from the party said, and Grey’s blood ran cold. Eron had not betrayed her, betrayed them , but now he would take the fall for her, and she could not stomach it. One of the soldiers grabbed Eron’s arm, following the gestures of the other, and pulled him forward.

“You’re Hand Captain Flynn?” the commander asked.

Without hesitation, Eron nodded. Grey could have killed them all .

She fought against her restraints, against her gag, causing a scene.

One of the soldiers moved closer, gripping her hair, pulling it back.

She snarled and tried to knee him in the groin, but he punched her in the stomach.

She saw a blaze of white and curled around the pain for one second, two, waiting for it to pass.

“And who are you ?”

“Officer Eron Fastria,” Kier said, the absolute bastard . “She’s a typic.”

With a raised brow, the commander nodded. Grey looked at Kier, desperate. He shook his head, just a fraction.

Don’t . She read the directive clear on his face, and more than anything she wanted to fight it, but she knew better. She knew what was at stake.

“Though this has been… enlightening, it is not what I’m here for.” The commander resumed his pacing, and Grey wanted, so badly, to kill him. “Who is the Locke?”

Kier’s chin rose further, defiant. And the others… Though Grey glanced at them, not a single one looked at her. They all stared straight ahead, unreactive.

“ Who is it?” he thundered, and Grey’s heart pounded.

She saw the soldiers move on Kier but he shot her such a murderous look that she only stood there in shock and horror, damn her, as one moved on him, slashing forward.

The side of Kier’s face that was already bloody ran red, and something wet fell to the floor—Grey couldn’t contain her sob when she saw it was part of his ear.

And he… he only made a gruff noise, the shudder traveling through his body.

“If you do not hand Locke over to me,” the commander said carefully, “I will kill all of them and toss their bodies into the sea until one of them resurrects the Isle.”

“I don’t think it works like that,” Kier said, his voice unsteady, a pain in the ass to the very end.

“I don’t care. I will do it anyway, and we will have no power at all.”

Grey tasted bile mingling with the breakbloom, and she could not breathe. And then Kier looked at her, so beautiful even with the blood, even though he was about to hurt her; and last night he’d whispered in her ear, You are going to ruin me .

He was right.

“The girl, this time,” the commander said, and the guards stepped steadily toward her. Grey braced for pain, but Kier moved—not far, not with his restraints, but he angled himself so he was just in front of her.

“Wait,” he said, his voice not quite his own—there was blood in it, and fear, and she reached uselessly for his tether. “Wait.”

The guards paused. She felt Ola looking at Kier, agony on her face, and then he straightened, wincing at the pain. Grey tried to lunge forward, to reach for him, to touch him in any way possible, but it was useless.

“It’s not Maryse you’re looking for,” he said.

Grey’s brain screeched to a halt. Mare’s face was absolutely unreadable.

The commander was almost lazy in his response, crossing his arms over his chest, moving closer to Kier as if to demonstrate that he did not fear him. “Oh?”

The legacy of Locke is blood and betrayal .

Grey sucked in a breath, tasting blood and poison.

She didn’t know—she didn’t know how she knew, but she could hear the words Kier was forming before he said them; she could feel the swell of apology through the weak, slippery tether as she tried to force through the effects of the breakbloom to no avail.

Don’t do this , she wanted to scream at him, but all that came through the gag was a muddled moan. Do not do this to me .

“It’s me,” Kier said, calm and measured. “I’m Severin, Heir to the Well, Lord of Locke, First Mage of the Isle. I’m the only survivor of the Isle’s downfall.”