Page 91 of The Shadowed Oracle (The Bonded Worlds #1)

They’d called it many names over the millennia. The Floating Kingdom. Western Capital. Onyx Empire. City carved into the mountain. Court of Twin Rivers. Realm’s End. Gannotar’s Holdfast. Stonetor.

Hydor .

It sat atop a cloud-scratching mountain overlooking the city built within the dark, steel-gray cliffs and between the narrow pass. The Rego River ran around it, through it, and in some places over it, the waterfalls feeding the fjord that housed the king’s fleet below.

Castle spires and pillars jutted into the sky like triumphant swords. A seemingly endless stone bridge with an arched span below for the passage of ships connected the base of the structure to the south sector of the city.

It was the largest Kingdom in Ealis, built on the backs of slaves over fifty long years.

Impenetrable. Stupefying to the untrained eye.

And laden with a seditious history that its people dare not speak about.

Not now. Not while King Makkar sat on the throne.

His hired ears were placed strategically all over Hydor.

Loyalist eyes peered from dark alleys and monitored every tavern and inn, shop and street corner, leaving the city a hushed, specter of itself.

The brave few who disagreed with the High King had isolated themselves rather than risk a slip of the tongue. Even an unintentional slight could land you in the dungeon. A dank, blindingly dark prison buried miles underground.

To be locked down there was a fate far worse than death.

An ancient hell carrying the stench of despair and disease, haunted by spirits and bones older than most surrounding cities.

The pits of Hydor. It had been the living quarters of humans and Viator alike during the Great War, and was now the resting place of many Magi, Oracles, wielders and spell-casters who’d died during the second Ealis-wide fight.

Even the most fearsome of Sylan’s soldiers hated to be within twenty yards of it. So damp, so rank, so deafeningly loud. Packed to the brim with groaning, sallow inmates, the echoes of their cries and the shouts of the guards always present.

“Move!”

One such prisoner, a tall female with purple-blue eyes, walked down a barely lit tunnel.

She’d only just arrived in Hydor, and looking at the tattered rags hanging off the thin shoulders of her new neighbors, she felt lucky her captors had allowed her to keep the dress she’d come in.

Each prisoner she passed looked not only malnourished but deathly cold, huddled in the corner of their small cell.

As she walked the corridors, she couldn’t help but stare at them, knowing she was looking at the sorry prospects of her future.

“Quit gawking.” The guard behind her jangled the chains strapped to her feet. He was clad in black, enameled scale armor, but he wore no helm. “Move along, prisoner.”

“That’s not my name,” she retorted.

“I said, move!”

The prisoner obeyed. She had a long walk ahead of her and didn’t want to spend any more time than she had to down there. Within only a few hours, the smell of decay had seeped into her clothes, her hair, everything. Save for an escape, she desired fresh air above all. Just a whiff of it.

She was nearly there.

They came upon a split in the corridor. The prisoner paused, looking down both avenues.

She couldn’t remember the way. Not that she’d expected to.

Her journey there had been a blur. In a blindingly fast series of events, she’d been apprehended outside the gladiator arena, brought before her queen for judgment, then dragged off on a dream-like flight.

An Occanthus? One of Maradenn’s Roke flyers?

She didn’t know. All she remembered was seeing the infamous Rego River, then being hauled down to the depths of the city.

“I don’t know the way,” she said lowly.

“Right!” The guard yanked the shackles on her feet and hands again.

She winced at the rawness that had already started on her ankles, then groaned, “The directive would’ve sufficed. No need for more violence. We’ve had quite?—”

“Silence!” Another clanking of the chains.

She huffed, rolling her eyes and continuing cautiously in the torchlight. Her feet were bare, shuffling uncomfortably on the jagged stone floor, and she didn’t think she could sustain another nuisance like a stubbed toe.

Finally, they reached the capstan hoist that would take her up to the castle.

“Get up on the platform,” the guard said. He watched her find the center of the lift, then fastened her manacles to the locking ring.

“See you soon,” the prisoner said in mock flirtation.

“Not if you keep up that attitude.” The guard took hold of the capstan wheel, spinning it with some effort.

“You’re right,” the prisoner said with a deep exhale. “I’ve been frightfully rude. Shall we start over? My name is Monia. And you are?”

“Master,” the guard said mockingly. “But my friends call me Boss.”

“Boss it is, then.” With a girlish squeal, she remarked, “Look at that, first day at a new school and I’m already making friends.”

The guard only shook his head, throwing his full body weight into the wheel to be rid of her faster. The creaking of the mechanism sounded off in the emptiness as Monia ascended, looking up at the small circle of light leaking down from the castle’s lowest floor.

It was such a massive distance that she almost felt bad for her guard.

Having to push that hefty lever all alone, spending most his days in the pits.

Maybe she’d say something, she thought, play with his head a little.

She knew from firsthand experience how easy it was to convince a servant that they were being misused, or that they were underappreciated.

It’s how her head lady’s maid, Lucilla, had recruited her.

Some honeyed words, a sly mention of the injustice being done to them, planting the seed, then letting the disgruntlement grow inside as if it were their idea in the first place.

Monia imagined this process wouldn’t be hard to recreate in a place like the dungeons of Hydor.

Makkar was well-known for his demands of his subjects.

She may have been new to this rebel business, but she knew what it was like to be mistreated, constantly lorded over by those who thought themselves superior.

And Makkar, he must’ve thought himself above all others in the whole of Ealis. In some ways, she thought, he was.

Her stomach turned, and for the first time since arriving there in that soulless dungeon, she’d considered what the High King might do to her—what his policy on traitors was, even if she hadn’t fully known she was committing treason against Makkar.

After all, when helping that small band of Maradenn agents escape, she hadn’t known that Enitha was allied with Hydor this closely.

She only thought Enitha was… friendly. She’d never imagined they were tied so tightly.

Maybe they’d bonded over their love of being world-class psychopaths?

Or maybe they were in an Occanthus race fan club?

She didn’t know. But she hoped. She hoped her ignorance would spare her.

Maybe she’d be left to rot in the dungeons.

That wouldn’t be the worst thing. She could wait, hope that Hydor fell, and the victors of this war would whisk her back into the light, praising her bravery and thanking her for her considerable contribution to the cause.

She could see it now. Maybe she’d even be awarded a war medal.

Yes, that sounded nice. While they were at it, they could gift her some dark and dashing Prince from the East. She could see that, too.

A lavish parade in her honor. The new king or queen of a peaceful Ealis announcing, “Monia Yulenn, for your efforts in the liberation of the Occi Isles, and your brave suffering at the hands of the enemy, we award you with a slab of pure royal muscle, and a kingdom that will throw flowers at your feet for all eternity.”

Mother strike me dead .

She giggled. As that platform neared the light above, and her reality clashed with her fantasy, she had to laugh. She would likely be sent to the gallows within a few days. If not tonight.

A laugh was needed.

“This way,” a deep, gritty voice called out.

She snapped her head around.

No one was in sight.

“Where… where are you?” Monia asked. The lift hadn’t even come to a complete stop yet. It ascended slowly until the platform locked into place, level with the ground floor. She scanned the vast, mostly empty room but still saw no one. “I can’t see you.”

“I’m just here. Your eyes, they haven’t adjusted yet.”

She squinted, suddenly aware of how bright the room was.

Torches were on either side of the lift, twice the size of the ones in the dungeon.

To her right was a window looking out at one of the waterfalls running through the castle and feeding the Rego River.

The beautiful but daunting scene became clearer, and soon her full eyesight had returned.

She scanned the room ahead of her again and found a tall, dark-haired male with his back turned, already walking away.

“Are you going to—” she started, lifting her cuffed hands.

But when she looked down, the chains strapping her to the platform were off. Like magic.

It probably was magic, she realized. This was Hydor.

There were rumors that the few gifted Viator left in Ealis had either been slain by Makkar or had submitted to his cause.

One could travel all the southern kingdoms, all the ancient cities of the east, and not find a single wielder.

Yet, in Hydor, in Makkar’s court, it was said there was a small army of them.

It was one of many reasons the pits were inescapable.

Even if a prisoner somehow made it out of their cell and past the guards, they’d have a dozen or so magic wielders to contend with—including the two most fearsome in all of Ealis.

“Better hurry now,” that same gruff voice beckoned. “Or you’ll get lost.”