Page 5 of Court of Wolves

Shit.Az had known about the massacre, but never why. Everything that had been done to beastkind was because of the saints. V’haivan attitudes that beastkind were dangerous eventually led to the indentures. But it was never a danger posed by the people themselves; it was always the danger posed by the saints using the magic in their blood.

Az’s nostrils flared, rage hitting him. His ancestors had tried to stop it, had tried to spare beastkind. If they’d done that, he could endure this bastard’s torture.

“Although if we’re having a history lesson,” the Brightwrath said, swapping his knife for one much smaller, allowing precise work, “we should talk about the Wolven Lord, shouldn’t we?”

Az tried not to exhale in relief. He hadn’t given Dulan any ammunition to use with his family so he was moving on. He waited for the saint of the dead to rise, to speak to him, offer guidance or apology orsomething,but as usual he was as silent as a grave.

“That poor saint, wiped from history, stricken from every book, carving, tapestry, temple, and verbal tale.” The Brightwrath’s smile was as cruel as the knife's edge. “The Forsaken Saint. Nameless and forgotten. Just like you will be.”

Az licked blood off his lip and said nothing. He didn’t give a shit what this bastard thought. He didn’t care about leaving an impact or a name behind when he left. If Dulan thought that would affect Az, he’d fucked up his research.

“Just like that pretty mate of yours will be forgotten,” the Brightwrath added with a fanged smile. “I think I’ll pay her a visit after this. She must be so lonely, all locked up—”

Azrail jerked forward with a brutal snarl, his panic eclipsed by sudden, endless rage. “You touch her, and I will break these puny chains you’ve used to bind me and I will break every last bone in your body. I will pull out your teeth one by one and hammer each one into your spine until you’re paralysed by your own smile.”

The scalding rush of rage turned to ice when the Brightwrath smiled, slow and thoroughly delighted.No.He’d made her a target. His breath escalated, panic sharper than any broken bone crushing his lungs until he couldn’t get a gasp of air. The enforcer watched it all, smiling wider.

Maia had been through enough. She was scarred all over, had already been beaten and broken and traumatised, and Azrail would not have his mate hurt that way again.

She could be enduring torture right this minute.

He ignored the voice—his own, not the Wolven Lord’s. He waited a pause for the saint to speak and was againdisappointed. Maia was already hurt, bleeding from a cursed wound, poisoned with iron, and fuck knows how badly wounded she was after the saints commanded Jaro to stab her. Az forced himself not to look at the beastkind in the corner of the room. Unmoving. Unblinking.

“I’ve been saving this for a special occasion,” the Brightwrath said, discarding the small, bloody knife without making a single cut, and picking up a coil of dark metal that began to glow as orange as molten glass in Dulan’s hand. “Now, Icouldgo pay your pretty mate a visit, brand her skin with this. I’ve heard fae skin bubbles and blackens and the sound is quite intoxicating, the smell of it divine, too.

“Or,”Dulan added when Az threw himself at him, dragged back by the chains. His head slammed into the solid wall, cutting off the fearsome snarl that shook his bruised rib cage. “I could use it onyou.But I’d need a little incentive, of course. You do me a favour, I’ll do you the favour of sparing your mate. For now, at least.”

Dread turned Azrail’s stomach into a brick that sank to his feet. Blood dripped slowly from his nose to the floor, the only sound in the cell as the Brightwrath waited for Azrail’s reply with visible anticipation. He couldn’t let that burning metal touch his Maia, couldn’t let it be used onanyone.He could handle it. He would find a way to handle it, because the thought of this monster getting anywhere near Maia made him crazy.

“Fine,” he growled, his voice thick with blood from his broken nose. He had to pause when pain shot from his fingers, overwhelming every nerve in his body with so much pain that he couldn’t think straight. “What…do you want?”

Fear made Azrail breathless. His blood turned cold at the thought of that glowing coil coming anywhere near him, at the agony that would make his current pain look like a papercut. He could bear it. He had to.

“Just a little thing,” the Brightwrath replied, waving the coil so casually that Az flinched into the solid wall, sparks erupting through the back of his head. “Barely anything. All you have to do is tell me where to find the Star-Heart Queen, and I’ll leave your mate alone.”

Panic struck Az like a physical blow and he swore he could already feel the burn of the metal. He began to struggle, wrenching on the chains, frantic to get out. “I don’t know.Youknow more about the saints than I do. I only know my mate and her mates. I don’t know where the other saints are.”

He couldn’t breathe. If Dulan didn’t believe him, he’d torture Maia. His Maia, who’d known so much suffering already that it made Azrail want to roar at the sky. He didn’t know when he’d next see the sky. If he ever would again.

“Not sure I believe you,” the Brightwrath remarked, coming closer. “You’re a liar, Knight.”

“I’m not lying about this,” he rushed out. “I swear to you.”

He was.

“Hm.” Dulan tilted his head, black hair spilling like poisoned blood over his shoulders. “I’m not convinced. One more chance to tell the truth before I go pay that mate of yours a visit.”

The scream building in him refused to be contained, frustration and pain and helpless rage exploding into every corner of the cell before he could stop it.“I’m telling the truth.If I knew, I would tell you. I’d doanythingto keep Maia safe.”

His brave, brave mate, who’d known pain and survived. Azrail’s heart broke in his chest but he wouldn’t give the Brightwrath what he wanted. Hecouldn’t.Maia was a grown woman who’d endured and survived, not a stranger to pain or suffering. Even broken, she refused to be beaten. The Star-Heart Queen was a twelve year old girl. As much as he hated himself, Az knew his mate would forgive him.

Dulan Brythath began to reply, but a droning grate of stone on stone announced the door opening, like divine intervention. He had tothink,to come up with something to give the Brightwrath, some way to throw them off the scent of the saint they were searching for: the saint he suspected had been reborn in Siofra.

His fear for the little girl he’d saved from execution and left in the compound in Vassalaer stuttered when a dark saint glided into the cell.

Samlyn, the saint of food and survival, moved like smoke, strange and unsettling. He looked the same as he did that night on the island, like all the colour drained from him, leaving sallow, wrinkled skin, pale eyes, and long grey hair. His robes were a matching grey, tailored at the top, flowing by the time they reached his ankles. The power that preceded him into the room made that flowing fabric whip up like a tornado.

Az’s breath cloyed in his lungs, his bonesachingat the nearness of so much magic, his body bowing as a great pressure gripped him, making him shake. The trembling sent white pain through his broken fingers. Bright, gleaming white consumed his vision for long seconds.

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