The Heirs of Death

26. 1. Hall of Death

Not a room, no. But a dungeon, one soaked with blood.

The man, whoever he was, didn't budge as he kept those unholy eyes on us. But his magic did. It erupted in the dungeon cell, swaying and dancing, invisible yet clear. I could sense it twirling around the cage, seeping in around us—around our minds. Long and cold talons brushing past our consciousness, looking for a fissure in the walls built around our minds. For a crack to seep in.

But there was none, I had made sure of that. Still did as I guarded their minds with the magic Sorcha's spell didn't put to slumber.

His magic lunged, swift and sharp and precise. The walls did not crack. Only repelled him and his magic so terribly, so powerfully it knocked back into him. And threw his body across the room, crashing against the opposite wall. The shackles dangling hissed at the impact.

Those wicked eyes seemed to darken, but that grin, it grew. Yes, old. And wicked. And a sadist—a man who would enjoy torturing us slowly and viciously. One who would delight in his prey's screams, in the terror. The Whisperer was fast on his feet, his magic coiling around him like a shroud—it was black, pure immaculate black, stark even in the darkness. It seemed as though it repelled light, as though it was created in a different world, in a different time. It hissed and whispered and swept the dungeon with a ghostly murmur. But it didn't attack this time. No, it—he was to wise.

So I watched him approach, a sconce lighting up with every step he took, the light gliding on his armor, on his feature, at the array of weapons strapped to him. It did not near his magic.

I pushed myself up, fighting the shakiness in my bones as I crouched, ready to lung, to fight, to tear him to shreds. One look at my team told them to lie down, to wait. A tribe obeying its Cohar. My claws grew, each as long a dagger. The ghost of shadowy talons clung to my feet, the darkness of my wings building. He'd noted them, studied them, even when they were nothing but a flicker, a hint to their true form, a shadow.

"Where are we?" Every word was clipped, my voice raw as I waited. Waited for the collision of his magic over mine. For his mind to approach my own.

He only kept staring. The Old Tongue, he didn't understand it. Didn't know the meaning of the words that echoed from wall to wall, that swept over the blood drenched on the iron floor. But he'd picked the accent, the silver-white hair cut short that reflected firelight like streams of gold and amber and scarlet. The Silver-white—color of the Cohars.

"Where?'' I asked once again, but let it slip in our tongue this time.

The man—Captain of some sort, based on how expensive his armor looked—barely arched an ebony eyebrow. "You speak the common tongue?"

Holy Gods. His voice was guttural and cold and rasp, perhaps because of hours of commanding and ordering. And shouting. A voice that might have directed fleets and soldiers through more wars and attacks than I could imagine.

"Where.'' Again. But it wasn't a question this time. He knew that, heard the order limning every letter. Captain to captain, leader to leader.

He took another step closer—something so foolish if he weren't all so powerful. He looked at us—at me, at the silver hair. "I didn't believe the letter when I first read it, but here you are, the last living Fallens."

I snarled—a beast uncovering its fangs. He still did not answer. So I lunged. And had a claw pressed to his neck, just over the throbbing blood vessels. My hands had broken through the magic, my body clinging to nothing, floating in the air, barely carried by a dark wind. One movement of my finger could injure him—not end him, not when he was this strong. And certainly not a fool to uncover such vital arteries.