Page 108 of At the Mercy of Midnight
The door, the metal, shattered.
She stepped inside, hands shaking with residual energy begging for release, like perhaps Amelia had consumed more magic than her body was capable of holding. She could feel her veins vibrating with it.
There.
Silas was ahead, she sensed him with a swell of relief, the ache in her chest finally easing as she got closer to him.
A doorway, covered by nothing but a floating piece of fabric.
Amelia shoved it aside, coming face to face with a man. One that a part of her rational brain recognised, but in the heat of the moment, she saw someone who was not Silas, and so, they were her enemy.
She held up a hand, prepared to bring him to his knees, cause him the agony they were trying to cause them.
“Amelia,” the man said, voice low and perfectly calm, eyes boring into hers.
She paused, the ripple of recognition rising, until she focused on the man. It hit her.
It was the man who had approached them at the conference in the Spire, with an unusual interest in their expedition. Demetrius.
A soft groan, her head following the sound.
Her heart seized, a chill frosting her blood as she caught sight of him.
Silas was chained to a chair, slumped forwards, hair flopping to his forehead. His skin looked grey, but his eyes snapped open the moment she had looked at him. He met her gaze, and she could swear that the smallest amount of colour returned to his face, the blue of his irises sharpening as they locked eyes. His expression was heavy with exhaustion, hands falling over the armrests, unmoving. His chest rose and fell with a laboured breath.
“Amelia,” he croaked.
Demetrius took a casual step away from her, hands behind his back. “You’re too late,” he said calmly, like he’d won a game she hadn’t known they were playing.
The cave around them shook, dust raining from the ceiling above, a threatening rumble lingering even after the ground stopped moving.
Amelia didn’t lower her arm but shifted it towards Demetrius more resolutely. “Show me the daggers,” she demanded, voice unwavering.
Demetrius tilted his head. “You may not understand, but they belong to me. My people, The Gemino Tribe, forged them. They are mine.”
Amelia stared, taken aback. But at that moment, it was redundant. She gritted her teeth and flexed her fingers, the magic begging for release, to cause damage. “I don’t care.”
Demetrius raised one, unimpressed brow. “You care so little for the lost tribe and their artefacts? Something you had so painstakingly researched…you have no respect for them whatsoever?”
Amelia wanted to roll her eyes. “You have someone I care for bound to a chair,” she seethed angrily, gaze flicking to Silas, to his drawn features and lifeless-looking eyes. “And he looks half-dead.” She swung her eyes back to Demetrius. “Do you think I care to find a single fuck to give for a long dead civilisation in light of that?”
Silas let out a tiny, tired chuckle. Her heart squeezed, her desire rising to get him out of there.
“Not quite long dead,” Demetrius said, demeanour too calm. “I stand before you.”
Amelia clenched her jaw together and let some magic tear from her, felt as it soared across the space.
The magic forced Demetrius to his knees. He groaned under the strain of it, his body folding forwards and knees cracking on the hard stone floor.
“Do you?” she asked him, raising her chin, and looking down her nose at him.
Demetrius lifted his eyes, glancing up impassively. “Metaphorically, now.”
“Show them to me,” Amelia commanded, taking a menacing step closer, hand aimed at his head.
Demetrius rolled his jaw, glaring up at her, before reaching for his thick cloak. He pulled it aside, revealing several large, bulging pockets. He pulled out one dagger, encased in a handsome sheath, before reaching for the second.
Amelia felt the immediate sense of relief at laying her eyes on them. She met his eyes and smiled. “Thank you.”
