He cut back up the sloping hill, skirting groups of soldiers hunched over and retching, and slipping past the cave of supplies, where more soldiers were cutting open sacks and upending barrels. The noise muffled his footsteps, allowing him to pass unnoticed.
Up ahead, the captain’s tent loomed.
If Belden was “indisposed,” as the other soldier had put it, that meant that Trix’s plan had succeeded—that he had eaten some of the poison. With any luck, she would be somewhere nearby, planning her next move.
There was plenty of action around the captain’s tent, soldiers coming and going, bearing platters of food and casks of wine to check for poison. Sev hastily crouched out of sight in the trees, peering inside through the half-open flap.
The attendant who served Belden his meals was on the ground, blood pooling on the woven mats. Food was splattered along the tent walls and across the tabletop, while Belden held a massive ax in both hands. The weapon dwarfed his wiry frame, and the weight of it caused his muscles to strain as he leveled it toward a bondservant, forced onto her knees before him while a soldier held her arms behind her back.
Sev’s stomach lurched. The bondservant was Trix, and the razor edge of the ax rested just below her throat.
A trickle of blood oozed from the corner of her mouth, and an already purpling bruise spread across her cheek. Her eyes reflected the light of the brazier, and even on her knees, her face was proud and her chin held high. She would die a warrior’s death by ax point, just as her beloved Bellatrix had done.
Belden was screaming at her, the words difficult to hear over the commotion all around them. Spit was flying from his mouth, and he kept pausing to clutch his stomach and gag.
Sev shifted slightly, trying to get a better view, and Trix’s eyes latched on to him. They flitted over him, around him—looking for Kade, Sev guessed—until she saw the bulky satchel over his shoulder, the round, smooth objects straining against the leather. Relief flooded her features. Then she narrowed her eyes before flicking her gaze to the side, an almost imperceptible expression, but Sev understood well enough: Go.
Sev wavered. There must be a way to help her. He couldn’t leave Trix to die. He couldn’t walk away from her the way he’d been forced to walk away too many times before: from his parents, from Kade.
He cast about the tent for ideas or options, but Trix would have none of it. Her nostrils flared, and she looked to the side once more, her eyes bulging with urgency.
Sev clenched his teeth and shook his head. No. This was all wrong. He was supposed to be the one to die, the one who was risking his life. Why did everyone else have to go and leave him all alone?
Belden drew nearer, and Trix looked up at him, her lips twisting into a sneer—no, a smile. A terrible, deadly smile, her teeth red with blood.
“She lives,” Trix announced, and though she faced Belden, her gaze fell upon Sev. She pinned him with her stare, as sharp as a knife. “Avalkyra Ashfire lives. And she will burn your beloved empire to the ground.”
A shiver slipped down Sev’s back at Trix’s bloody proclamation. The captain lurched forward with a snarl, and in a great, sweeping arc, he lifted his ax and brought it down over the back of Trix’s neck. It clanked against her chain before lodging deep in her spine, going down with her as she crumpled to the ground. Blood splattered everywhere, and after jerking the weapon violently from her body, he brought it down again. And again. Her corpse twitched with every strike, until Belden tossed the ax aside and bent over to vomit onto the ground.
Sev tried to do the same. His stomach clenched and his insides heaved, but nothing came up. His throat was so tight that he could barely breathe, and his limbs were numb with shock.
Turning away from the harrowing sight of Trix’s mangled, lifeless body, Sev staggered backward, tripping over branches and stumbling through the darkness. She lives. Did Trix really mean that, or was she trying to get a rise out of Captain Belden? She’d told Sev how both sisters died in the Blood War. It didn’t make any sense.
The bag on his shoulder weighed Sev down, physically and mentally, as he forced himself away from it all—away from the blood and the death and the knowledge that Trix would never see another phoenix again.
You know what you have to do.
Sev had to warn the Riders; he had to get the eggs to safety.
Shouts rang out, loud and nearer than the rest—had they seen him? Sev didn’t look back, didn’t hesitate, just ran as fast as he could through the forest. Footsteps—were those his, or a pursuer’s?—echoed in his ears, along with crackling leaves and snapping twigs.
He came upon a small clearing with thick grass and gnarled roots underfoot. At the far end was a cliff that hung over an expanse of black. It was so dark, Sev couldn’t be certain of the drop or what was at the bottom—more soft grass? The river? Or was it a trench of jagged, life-ending rocks?
You know what you have to do.
More shouting, more footsteps. Sev wasn’t moving, and the sounds were getting closer. The clang of drawn weapons and the thrum of a released bowstring. Something thudded into Sev’s shoulder, and the momentum made the decision for him. Searing pain ripped through his body, pushing the breath from his lungs, and his heart flew into his throat as he tumbled blindly over the edge.
In ancient Pyra there was a position of great prestige in service to the queen. Unlike her flaming warriors, who stood blazing and bright by her side, this person worked in the darkness, in the shadows cast by such shining lights.
A poison brewer, a whisper catcher—a spymaster. This person moved unseen, unnoticed among the Pyraean ranks of fighting queens and flying heroes. As such, their deeds are often lost to history, and even their names exist in no surviving record books—except one. Shadowheart.
Pyraean surnames are either inherited through ancient lineage and powerful magical bloodlines, or they are earned. A Shadowheart could rise up from the lowliest of births and stand proud among the queen’s most loyal servants.
It is said that when the empire was founded, the position of Shadowheart was no longer utilized. The council demanded transparency, so such clandestine affairs were no longer tolerated.
Then again, it is the nature of the Shadowheart to be unknown and unremembered. Perhaps they have been here all along.
—“Queen and Council,” from Government, Then and Now by Olbek, High Priest of Mori, published 137 AE
I would have given her everything. Everything.
- CHAPTER 33 -
VERONYKA
ERSKEN WAS BY VERONYKA’S side for the remainder of the day, giving her no opportunity to sit with Xephyra and explain their circumstances. Maybe Xephyra was happy here, or maybe she was desperate to leave. Veronyka wanted to know. There was so much she’d missed out on, weeks of their lives together lost.
Though she was eager to have some alone time with Xephyra, Veronyka wasn’t thrilled at the idea of burdening her bondmate with the harsh realities of what being in the breeding cages would mean. She’d just have to take it slow and get a sense of how Xephyra was feeling before she caused more pain and fear. Her phoenix needed some time to recover. They both did.
Veronyka figured her best chance to spend time alone with Xephyra would be after nightfall, when the majority of the stronghold’s occupants retired. She wiled away her evening in the kitchens, begging food from Morra and helping where she could. When Tristan entered the dining hall, she watched him as he craned his neck and scanned the tables, only to drop dejectedly into a seat next to the other apprentices. Was he looking for her? The thought made her ache.