Page 131 of The Shadowed Oracle
Ingrid nearly laughed. The thought of him being offended by Viator not wanting to socialize with him was ludicrous. As if he were completely unaware of why everyone he met was terrified of him.
A tickle crept up her throat, though she kept her tone neutral. “I don’t think your social skills are the problem, General.”
“Oh.” A hollow thud rang out as the legs of the chair dropped back down to the ground. “Do you mean that you enjoy talking to me?”
“No,” Ingrid blurted. “I meant that, if you wanted to make friends, maybe you should stop killing so many people. Or threatening to kill so many people. Puts up a sort of wall, you know?”
“Right,” Sylan was unbothered as ever. “Understood. I’ll fetch your lady’s maids, then.”
“You’re leaving?”
“Don’t you want me to?”
“Yes,” she said tersely. A jolt of relief struck her, but it was quickly followed by confusion as she watched Sylan move toward the door. Among the rich brown and lush greens of the décor, he once again looked like a black stain in comparison. He was a horror story parents told their children. A war legend before he even reached the age of eighteen. But here he was, walking, talking, and existing like the rest of them.
The fact that he was alone, too, made the scene all the stranger. None of his pets from their first meeting were present. He travelled with no retinue of guards or soldiers. It could’ve been a simple matter of timing, maybe he’d left in a hurry, had to go at it alone, or maybe he was trying to prove something to his king after losing her the first time. But, still, it struck her as odd.
“Why are you—” Ingrid started to ask him about it, but quickly stopped herself. She hadn’t even fully formed the question before opening her mouth, let alone think about what annoyingly terse answer her question would elicit from him.
“Yes?” Sylan asked.
“Nothing. I’d like to be alone now, please.”
Sylan bowed. “Then this is farewell.” He stood. “I will be back at sunrise to take you to the arena. Goodnight, Ingrid.”
He was at the door in just two long strides.
With that, he was gone.
And the moment the door closed—the very second Ingrid found herself alone—the weight of it all caved in on her at once. Sitting in this silence, without her friends, without a home, without anything to distract her, she felt more isolated than she’d ever been before. All the years of torment combined could not measure up to the mountain of grief, despair, and anger piling onto her now.
She saw the events that led her here like a ghastly slideshow before her eyes. She saw the very first message she received. She saw the portal room. Saw Franky. Saw Dean hunched over her bar. And again, she saw Callinora’s burns, heard her screams, her inhuman screeching.
The ground felt shaky beneath her. She wanted to crumble to the floor. Wanted to scream. Wanted to howl and feel the burn in her throat. Feel something, anything but this. But she couldn’t. After all they’d survived, all she’d done in just a few weeks, and then to give up—it wasn’t in her.
The prospect of revenge kept her upright and focused. She had one last shot in the suffocating dark to rid herself of Sylan, to somehow make it to her friends before they were tossed to the beasts of the arena. And she would have to do it all by herself. In her utter ignorance, so fresh and untrained, she’d have to save them. Somehow, she’d have to be the hero Dean believed her to be.
As if in answer to her realization, a knock rapped at her door.
And another.
Then another. Not stopping until Ingrid whipped the door open so violently that it sent a gust of wind at the two females on the other side.
“Evening, my lady.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
The morning airwas wet and cold, sunlight failing to shine through the thick clouds. No roof enclosed the massive arena, and the drizzle turned the sand into a slick mud, making the already horrific spectacle even more disgusting. Like an unkempt, abandoned graveyard.
The roar of the crowd sent tremors through the massive arena every few minutes. Hundreds upon hundreds had poured in early to claim the best seats. As the rest of the coliseum filled out, soldiers took up their posts at the lowest balustrades and the gates on both sides of the ground level.
And at the very heart, in the centermost part of the stadium, protected by the ceremonial baldachin, sat Ingrid, Sylan, the queen surrounded by her guards, her maid Lucilla, and of course, her king, Arryn of Maradenn.
Ingrid was just inches from the former prince. Near enough to rear back and kick him with the too-small shoes Enitha’s maids had dressed her in just an hour before. She took the opportunity to search him with her eyes. Assess for any sign of struggle, any evidence that his true wife’s imprisonment had shaken the spell. But she found none.
It erased any notion Ingrid had about Arryn’s absence on the docks the night before. She’d thought it odd last night, sitting up in bed unable to sleep. Enitha didn’t seem to go anywhere without him, so if he was entrusted in another’s company, it must’ve been for a good reason—sparing him the sight of Callinora on her knees in agony.
Yet, Arryn never wiped the half-smile from his indifferent face. Up on that baldachin, he was every bit the kingly counterpart to his cruel wife. A cold-hearted monarch. Unfeeling, unblinking, even as a chained and half-asleep Callinora was dragged out, skin flayed around the edges of her branded curse and shackled atop a raised platform like bait for the gladiators.
