Centuries ago, my ancestors carved a prison into the black cliff face of an active volcano, fondly referred to as “the pit.” My boots sink into the sand as we climb toward the pit’s entrance. I would’ve flown straight here, except the wards around this place keep anyone from flying too close.
Sweat trails down my brow as we trade the barren wasteland for a set of steep stairs. A shirtless guard in black leather trousers leans against a wall behind the prison’s barbed gate, picking at his nails with the tip of his dagger. He is built like a brick tower, muscles stacked on top of muscles. Wouldn’t want to meet him in a dark alley. When he sees us, he pushes off the wall and snaps to attention. “Your highness,” he says with a bow. “We weren’t expecting a visitor from the castle.”
That is because only one other person knew I would be coming—the one breathing down my fucking neck.
I withdraw a heavy purse from my pocket, telling the man this isn’t an official visit. Can’t have the king finding out that I’m poking around and start asking questions. “I’m here to speak with one of your prisoners.”
The purse disappears into the man’s pocket, and he unlocks the gate using the heavy ring of keys hanging from his belt. “Of course, sire. What is the prisoner’s name?” he asks, crossing to a desk with a thick ledger on top.
“I’m not sure of his surname, but his given name is Jeston.”
The guard drags his thick finger along the names scribbled on the page and then taps one of the last entries. “Right this way.” His keys jangle with each step as he leads us down into the bowels of the mountain. It’s hot as a fucking furnace down here. Feels like I’m melting.
Bilson and I end up waiting in a small room with a table and two chairs across from a wooden stool. The iron fittings attached to the stone wall on either side of the stool have gone red with rust. Or blood. Hard to tell from here.
I wipe my brow, half tempted to remove my shirt. But then the guard hauls in the man from the Black Hole and it feels like I’ve been doused in ice. Not fun, by the way, especially when you’re hungover.
The man’s black eye looks sore. But not as sore as the deep gash running along the length of his pale cheek.
If I were a better man, I would feel guilty for losing my head last night.
But I’m not a better man.
I turn to find Bilson scowling at the prisoner. “Can you give us a few minutes alone?”
Bilson’s dark gaze snaps to mine. “You want me to leave you by yourself with a prisoner? You can’t be serious, sire.”
Do I not look serious? “That is generally what ‘alone’ means.”
Bilson’s jaw creaks beneath his stubble, but he says no more as he stalks toward the door. The prison guard locks the iron manacles around Jeston’s wrists and ankles, chaining him to the floor. I remain on the other side of the table, my thoughts racing as I wait for the guard to leave.
The prison guard comes to a stop next to me, swiping a hand across his brow. “Just so you know, sire, the lad has had quite the dose of barmite.”
Isn’t that fortuitous? When ingested, barmite acts as a truth serum. Meaning any questions I ask will be answered truthfully whether Jeston is feeling forthcoming or not.
The door closes with a heavyclang.
I fold my hands atop the table. “I trust they’re treating you well?”
Jeston blinks at me, squinting his eyes. “The food is shite, and the mattress could use an upgrade.”
Something that feels a lot like humor floods my chest. Too bad I’ve decided to hate this man on principle alone. I drum myfingers against the tabletop, arranging my features into a mask of boredom. “I’ll be sure to file your complaint with the guards.”
For a moment, I forget about the stench in this place and suck in a deep breath. My stomach lurches, and I nearly lose my breakfast right on the stones. If I vomit in front of this prick, I will never forgive myself.
It takes some effort, but eventually I clear the bile from the back of my throat. “I have questions. If you answer them to my satisfaction, then I will see what I can do regarding your sentence.”
Jeston’s laughter hinges on maniacal as his head falls back against the stones. “You expect me to believe that? You’re the reason I’m here.”
I don’t give a shit what he believes. Allette’s happiness is my only priority. “How do you know the woman from the Black Hole?”
The cut on Jeston’s cheek splits wider when he grins. Fresh blood dribbles down his chin, splattering on his dirty trousers. “Which one?” he slurs.
My hands ball into fists beneath the table. “You know damn well which one.”
His grin grows. “Oh, you meanWynn?”
Does this mean he doesn’t know her real name? “Yes, Wynn.” I’m sure she has a good reason for using a false one.