I try to do as he says. To ignore the mounting panic. To put the dread out of my head. But it’s no use.
It’s not just me. We all feel it—that sinking feeling in our stomachs, that slow build of tension cinching tighter and tighter. Like hapless mice who’ve snuck into the den of a deadly predator, only to see the gleam of eyes in the darkness and realize, too late, that they never stood a chance at stealth.
My heartbeat picks up speed, matching my strides as we move into a corridor lined with cells on either side. The screams come in a chorus, moans and yells and nonsensical whimpers. I grip my dagger hilt with one hand, the other at the ready on my whip. My eyes trace the thick bars of iron, the dark shadows beyond. Most are vacant. The few that are not make my heart plummet to my feet, for their occupants are either dead-eyed and nonresponsive or raving and frothing. Regardless of their mental state, all of them share one commonality: they are horribly, horribly maimed. No doubt the result of many visits to the chamber of torture.
A man—I think it is a man—peers out as we pass without blinking, as though he does not even see us. As though he is already elsewhere, his broken body a shell for a soul long fled.
“Shouldn’t we help them?” I whisper regardless, blinking back tears.
“There is no helping them,” Melité snarls softly. “Lookat them. That one is missing both its arms.”
“Shut up, Melité,” Vaughn growls, sounding shaken. He looks back at me, green eyes saddened. “We’ve no way to transport them all out of here, Rhya. And no room on the dinghies, even if we could.”
I swallow thickly. “But—”
“Arwen!” Alaric’s cry cuts the air like a knife, bringing us allrunning. He’s at the end of the passage, rattling the rungs of a cell, paying no mind at all to the iron as it burns his hands. “She’s in here, she’s—Oh, gods, is she—”
“Move! I’ve got it.” Vaughn shoulders Alaric out of the way. “You’ll be no use to your bride if you singe your skin off.”
Alaric does not even seem to feel the pain. His damaged hands fall to his sides, twitching slightly, but his eyes never shift from the half-Titan as he tears the iron door from its frame as easily as he did the wood ones. Alaric barely gives Vaughn time to step clear before he pushes into the cell, dropping to his knees beside a female form. She is curled in the fetal position, legs drawn up to her chest, arms wrapped tight around her head as if protecting it from being kicked.
Soren’s breath catches in his throat. A pulse of pure despair bleeds through the bond, strong enough to overcome even the ore’s dampening effects. I reach out and grab his hand, squeezing tight in a show of wordless support.
“Arwen? Arwen, can you hear me? It’s me, love. It’s Alaric.” His bleeding hand trembles as he lifts it to cradle the side of her face.
She flinches violently beneath his light touch.
Soren’s hand tenses in mine. He’s seen it, too. His fearsome, fearless sister…flinching.
Arwen does not flinch.
My chest aches as more despair floods into me, mingling with my own.
“We’ve come to take you home.” The halting tenderness of Alaric’s whisper breaks something inside me. “I’m going to lift you. Okay? Maybe”—he sucks in a breath as he hesitates—“maybe you can wrap your arms around my neck. It’s all right if you can’t manage it. Just…try for me.”
There is the smallest sound—a tiny whimper, barely audible. Then, her arms are winding tight around his neck and he’s cradling her against his chest, his hold unbearably gentle. It is a sharp contrast to his fierce expression, to the wrath blazing from his typically mellow brown eyes.
I blink back tears as he carries Arwen from the cell. She looks fragile. Reduced to a shadow of herself. Her skin is pale, her body so weak she cannot even lift her head to look around at us. I have rarely seen her in anything but flight leathers or battle-ready garb. Yet here she is in a plain white nightgown, the kind you might wear as a little girl.
Soren skims his fingers along the side of her face, light as a butterfly’s wing. His other hand is gripping mine so hard, I’m surprised the bones remain intact.
“Arwen.”
Her eyes sliver open enough to find her brother’s. He does not say anything else. I do not think he is capable of it. But then, there is no need for words, not between the two of them. Their stares hold in silent communication. Whatever they exchange in those three seconds is enough to make a shred of strength flicker across Arwen’s pallid face.
I survey her with the eyes of a healer, looking for injuries. Finding none. Physically, she does not appear wounded. Mentally, spiritually…that remains to be seen.
“Can we get the fuck out of here now?” Vaughn looks around in distaste. “We don’t exactly have time to spare and, even if we did, this place gives me the godsdamned creeps.”
“Seconded,” I murmur. My gaze drifts to the dark cell directly across from Arwen’s. It’s smaller than the rest. More of a cage, really, with a low ceiling and bars so thick, I’m surprised any air gets in. I cannot see anything inside and, at first glance, assume it’s empty. But the longer my eyes linger on it, the harderit is to look away. Something is making the mark on my chest tingle with a foreign sensation I’ve never felt before. Not recognition, exactly, but…
Familiarity.
Alaric is already walking back in the direction we came from, murmuring to Arwen under his breath. Vaughn trails after them, Harpina at his side, Melité shadowing. When Soren moves to follow, my hand pulls him up short.
“Skylark? We need to move, there’s no—”
“Don’t you feel that?”