Page 58 of Heirs of the Cursed

“Save your lies, we know what you sell and hide in your store. I’m going to ask you one more time, and you’re going to tell me the truth or my second-in-command here will see to it that you can’t use your hands again,” Ward warned him, and the soldier obeyed immediately. Fawke closed his hand over Dyron’s until the sound of bones snapping mixed with his grunts reached the commander’s ears. “Who bought the protection devices and how can I neutralize their magic?”

“I know nothing about such an audacious buyer!” Dyron grunted painfully. “Nor do I have the spell that could nullify the wards. It may not even exist . . . Magic as ancient as that can only be found in the Desertic Lands.”

Fawke Biceus’ black eyes focused on his commander, who provided a short nod in response. That single gesture was enough for him to strike the man again and his sobs rose like a muffled melody.

Ward didn’t know how much longer would Dyrion Selmi resist before falling to his knees and succumbing to a darkness far more fearsome than that of dreams. Torturing people had been the first thing he’d learnt at a young age, and getting information out of his victims was a close second. He was a weapon with little time to save the princess’s life, and he couldn’t—wouldn’t—fail.

“Is there something you aren’t telling me?”

The commander had begun to grow impatient. Despite one of his soldier’s insistence that he mustn’t have any information that would favor them in their quest, Ward could feel the bitter lie in the wizard’s lips as if he had rehearsed it for years.

So the torture continued, the sound of moaning and beating being drowned out by the lively music and the clattering of citizens dancing in the square.

Until an enraged voice commanded, “Enough! Let him go!”

Dyrion let out a hiss of gratitude through his broken lips before spitting blood.

A female figure ran toward them, and Ward’s jaw tightened upon recognizing her.

Naithea.

A grimace contorted her face from the pain that tugged at her skin with her movement, but she didn’t stop. She wore a beautiful blue dress that revealed her cleavage, the corset accentuating her waist and falling into a long skirt that blew backward in the autumn breeze, slashed on either side to reveal her legs.

Ward swallowed the lump in his throat, gazing at her slender legs, the skin intact and smooth except for that one place the belt had struck her.

The goddesses hated him for bringing such an exquisite distraction.

She’d messed with his head ever since he’d left the brothel, haunting him even when she was nowhere near. Day and night, Ward’s thoughts were consumed by her. By the rawness of her screams as the leather belt cracked down on her already scarred skin. By the torment in her face as he had uttered words that cut just as deep. And when the stars crept into the sky, when the weight of command slipped from his shoulders, he allowed himself to think of her.

Naithea’s eyes were panic-stricken as she took in Dyrion’s condition, the blood on his body and the crimson pool beneath his feet. She closed the distance and stood in front of the man with her head held high despite the five soldiers that could make her disappear without anyone noticing.

It was Fawke Biceus, though, who growled under his breath, “Do you know him?”

“Everyone knows him. He’s a merchant, like most people here in Bellmare,” Naithea replied without a hint of fear in her voice. “And an innocent man!”

“He’s hiding something,” Ward spoke, unsure why he was explaining himself to her. “Something that may be relevant to the Crown.”

“Everyone has secrets, and as far as I know, that’s not a crime.”

The commander took a step toward her. “It is if they jeopardize our mission.”

“Well, you’re wrong. Not only in what you think you know, but in your ways,” she spatted, locking her boreal eyes in the commander’s defiant gaze. “Both you and your army have done nothing but spread threats, instead of giving the people a chance to help you willingly. Were you aware of the plague that ravaged the city for years, leaving an ocean of bodies and decay? Or do our lives not matter because we have no wealth and no titles?”

“Don’t you dare speak that way to the Commander of Death, filthy whore,” Fawke growled in warning, poised to punish the hetaira for her audacity.

Ward raised a hand to stop him. “Let her, Biceus.”

He listened to Naithea’s erratic heartbeat; an unspoken defiance that showed no fear for her life. She was a hetaira who not only sold her body, but who had caged the rest of her immortal life to her owner. Ward had seen what Madame Dimond was capable of if lied to, and he was sure that hadn’t been the first time she’d punished Naithea.

She’d survived being silenced and stripped bare.

Used and discarded.

Tortured and enslaved.

And because of that, she had nothing left to lose.

“The plague took the lives of his wife and daughters,” Naithea said. “He has no information that could be useful to your mission. I swear it.”

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