Page 149 of Lore of the Wicked Wood
Oldrich reared back and kicked Atlas in the face.
The sound of bone crunching echoed in the space between Atlas’s ears. Thick blood filled his mouth, seeped out from between his lips, sticky and warm. Nausea swept through him and his balance wavered. The last thing he saw was his father’s smirking face as he lifted his goblet of wine.
“Dravska.”
Forty-Six
Everinne was dead on her feet.
She was still breathing. At least, her chest rose and fell, and there was a constant thump—the beating of her heart. But bleeding skies, she was so weary. Fatigue drained her to the point of delirium, where she was lost between reality and the edge of her own mind. She wandered through the bleak fog, her thoughts nothing more than the soft flutter of butterfly wings, flitting in and out of the darkness, then vanishing forever.
Time did not exist in this place.
Only the impenetrable dark.
Hours may have passed, or perhaps it was only mere seconds. Everinne had no way of knowing. She gazed into the pitch, unable to discern if her eyes were open or closed, for the darkness was everywhere. Dense and heavy, it absorbed all sound, all feeling. Her body was numb, and when she lifted her hand in front of her own face, she saw nothing. Here, she was made of shadow. She melded with the darkness, she let it bleed into her bones until they were one and the same.
Sleep tugged at her, its lulling presence remaining just out of reach. So, she drifted in a fever state, maniacal yet lucid. Rational yet disoriented.
A masculine voice sounded, its rough baritone a scrape against her mind.
“Looks like someone paid for your freedom.”
She knew that voice, feared that voice.
Jarek.
“A pity,” he mumbled, and she shrank into the pitch as his breath skated past her ear. “I rather liked it when you weren’t able to escape me.”
His open palm pressed into the small of her back, shoving her forward, and searing light blinded her from every direction. She threw her hands over her face, shielding her eyes against the harsh glow. The suffocating darkness faded, leaving her exposed and bare. Peering through the slits of her fingers, blinking slowly, Everinne gradually recognized her new surroundings.
She was in the palace—the throne room. A decadent chandelier of twisted gold hung from the vast ceiling, the quivering lights of faerie fire engulfing the space in a soft glow yet giving no warmth. Long draperies of black and gold brocade framed the sculpted windows, where glistening snow piled upon the sills. The inky sky beyond gave no hint of the hour, whether dawn was on the horizon or if the moon had yet to rise.
Everinne lowered her hands and found herself on the dais beside the throne. The kralv to her right, Jarek to her left. She had no idea how she’d gotten there, or what kind of polluted magic Jarek had used to bring her to the palace, but she stood between them in nothing but that revealing black lace bodysuit that molded to every curve of her flesh.
She wrapped her arms around her chest, hugging herself in the hopes of maintaining some sense of decency.
Before her were numerous guards, most of them stationed in pairs. They barricaded the entrances to the throne room, and six of them formed a strict line behind three kneeling figures, all with black burlap sacks thrown over their heads to hide theiridentity. One of them, a female from the sound of her weeping, shook and trembled, her small frame rattling like the panes of a window during winter’s coldest night. The figure in the middle, likely a male given his haughty posture, was reclining on his knees, as though he was already resigned to his fate. It was the third one, however, where Everinne’s gaze lingered. For of the three, he was the only one chained in iron, obviously the only one capable of posing some kind of threat.
The bond wavered, such a feeble recognition, it was hardly noticeable. A quiet murmur of hearts, nothing more. If Atlas was in the palace, she could barely sense him.
Her heart plummeted into her stomach.
Atlas wasn’t here. The bond was stronger when she was trapped in the Mystic Obscura, when she could’ve sworn he was just on the other side of that dressing room door. He probably had no idea she’d been returned to the palace. And now, Kralv Oldrich had bought her freedom with the intention to keep using her to inflict more pain.
Unless…
“Everinne, my dear.” Kralv Oldrich rapped his knuckles on the glossy arm of his throne, where a ferocious wolf with molten silver eyes was engraved into the ebony wood. His dark gaze raked over her and he smiled, slow and methodical. “How lovely it is to see you again. I hear you’ve gotten yourself into quite the predicament.”
She faltered beneath his unnerving gaze and stole a quick glance over her shoulder, only to find Jarek staring at her, his expression one of cold calculation. He rolled his neck, the crack of bones splintering through the room, and when he flexed his hands, the skulls decorating his fingers gleamed with diabolic energy.
Everinne looked back to the kralv, lounging upon his throne with lackadaisical authority. “I…I’m not sure what you mean, Your Imperial Majesty.”
“Blood magic?” He gestured vaguely in Jarek’s direction. “I would’ve thought you were smarter than that to get caught in something so treacherous.”
“Yes, well.” She shifted on her feet, angling herself toward Kralv Oldrich and away from Jarek’s penetrating gaze. The palace would always be safer than the Mystic Obscura. “It would appear I made a grave error.”
“Quite so.” The kralv stood then, his beastly frame towering over Everinne, and she suppressed a shiver. He closed the distance between them in one stride, and it took everything in her power not to shrink away, not to show fear. “I’m going to make you a deal, Everinne. In exchange for your freedom from the blood oath, you will use your magic on one of these innocent souls.”
