Page 193 of The Iron Flower

“A day, perhaps,” Alder says evenly. “Possibly less.” She points her branch at the rune-stone in my hand. “This glamour is very strong, but it will strain to pull back into the rune-stone more and more as the hours pass. You’ll have to be quick.”

We all make our way outside into the predawn darkness, Yvan and I mounting the horses Valasca has secured for our journey. Ariel’s raven flies out of the barn into the sky.

“Go,” Tierney prods me, her looks mind-bendingly altered, but her voice unchanged and hardened with purpose. “Go save Ariel from those monsters.”

Chapter Three

Ariel

“Open the gates! Make way for Mage Vyvian Damon!” a granite-faced soldier yells at two sentries who are stationed just inside the prison’s high, iron-barred gates.

My horse shies in response to the screech of iron as the gate’s locks are undone.

The prison looms before us, built in the style of most Gardnerian architecture—gigantic, carved trees forming the walls, their branches coalescing to support the expansive roof. But instead of being fashioned from our sacred Ironwood, the building is crafted from obsidian stone.

A hexagonal wall surrounds the immense prison, edged with rows of iron spikes pointed to the heavens. Each corner of the wall is capped off by a guard tower that houses a single archer. It’s a veritable fortress—I don’t know how we would have ever gotten in without the glamour.

The gruff soldier helps me dismount while Yvan deftly swings off his horse, handing both sets of reins over to one of the sentries and giving brusque orders regarding the care of the animals.

The other sentry gives a small bow, pushes open the gate and motions me forward. I glance back to find Yvan just behind me, and we share a swift, grimly resolved look. I turn forward once more, take a deep breath and step through the prison gates.

The iron gates clank shut behind us, and I wince inwardly as the screeching lock is thrown back into place.

I gaze up at the towering prison and swallow nervously. The sheer size of the building is daunting, as is the overwhelming number of guards.

And there’s iron everywhere.

Iron-tipped arrows. Iron swords propped against the walls. And thick iron planks stripe the surrounding wall from top to bottom.

As if the prison was built to withstand a Fae assault.

I fight the urge to grab Yvan and run away from this malevolent place.

The young, square-jawed sentry wordlessly escorts us toward the prison’s main entrance, an imposing pair of wooden doors etched with a giant, leafy tree. We wait as the sentry slips inside the doors to announce our arrival.

A few moments later, the door is opened again by the sentry and a willowy older man stands in its frame. The elderly Mage’s green eyes calmly regard us through silver-rimmed spectacles, his demeanor coolly intellectual. His black robes bear the crest of the Gardnerian Surgeons’ Guild—a tree made of surgeons’ tools. A wand is sheathed at his side, and his garb is marked with Level Three Mage stripes.

“Mage Damon,” the surgeon fawns, bowing slightly. “Another surprise visit. But certainly not an unwelcome one.”

“Bring me to the Icarals,” I say, trying to mimic my aunt’s smoothly domineering tone. “I’ve come for the one called Ariel Haven.”

He nods deferentially, steps back and motions for us to enter with a refined wave of his slender hand.

Heart thudding, I step inside the prison door.

The circular foyer resembles a midnight forest, the carved, obsidian trees dense and leaning in. Stone branches tangle overhead, the tree trunks bracketing several shadowy hallways. Green lumenstone lanterns are set about the space and line the multiple hallways, washing everything in a swampy glow. I glance down at my fastmarked hand, the emerald glimmer of my skin enhanced by the eerie light.

“You have secured an order of execution this time?” the surgeon inquires lightly, as if treading carefully.

I beat back a tremor of panic. “No. No order. I’ll obtain it from the Council and send it to you. We’re convening in less than an hour, so I don’t have time for technicalities.”

The surgeon dips his head, going soft and pliant. “Of course, Mage Damon.”

We follow him down a series of obsidian hallways, the heels of my shoes clicking against the black geometric tiles of the perfectly polished floors, Yvan’s steps echoing behind me.

At the end of one darkened hall, the surgeon unhitches a ring of keys from his belt and unlocks a heavy wooden door. We trail him through the door and down a spiraling stone staircase, the air around us cooling as we descend.

We reach the bottom of the stairs and enter a tunneling hallway washed in dim green light. Faint groaning and nasal chattering sound up ahead.

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