Page 25 of The Blood Crown

The Nostari King was Ven’s father . . .

He’d only ever spoken of the male with thinly veiled contempt, and what little he said made it clear he had tried most of his life to forget that half of his blood—his magick.

There was a likeness in the cold, handsome face of the ancient king that she didn’t care to admit. The strong features. The sharp jaw. The straight, blade-like nose. But that was where the similarities ended. Whatever Ven’s mother had been like, she had done her son a service by bestowing her best qualities on him. His warmth, his fierce loyalty, his love for his people and his family that knew no bounds.

Why his mother had chosen to give herself to this male—to subject herself to these people . . .

Ven's mother had been the last Blood Queen, the ruler of the Court of Shadow, a fierce female from what she knew, and a wise one . . . And yet she’d willingly come to this place because she and his father had been Bound.

Clearly Fate had poor judgement, too.

The scrape of rusted iron woke her. The stench of her surroundings sharply brought her back as rough hands took her from her cell and carried her up dozens of steps.

Her head spun as they ascended from the pitch black into the murky gray of the upper levels, hating herself for how weak she'd become, but there was nothing for it. And whether she’d been in that cell for hours or days, she couldn’t be certain.

A series of twists and turns later, she was shoved into a dimly lit chamber.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” a silver-haired guard barked at her, “we’ll be back to collect you soon.”

She threw herself against the thick iron door as it scraped shut and a heavy latch thunked into place.

Heat flared at the base of her neck, the last dregs of her magick answering her call as lightning crackled along her fingertips—smothered just as quickly.

She reached for it again, focusing on the simmering white light that lay just under her skin, imagining the power that she had conjured just days ago . . . but nothing surfaced. The shackles at her wrists bit into her skin, leaching what precious strength she had left.

Turning, she slumped against the heavy door. Torches lined the walls of the dark bedchamber. Not a single window. No other door than the one that had been firmly latched behind her. But still—not a cell. Not that dark, awful place.

A fire flared to life in the corner of the cold rooms, and she wondered why the Nostari and their king had suddenly cared to make her comfortable. The thought left an acrid taste inher mouth as she cautiously walked into the adjoining bathing chamber.

She winced, carefully peeling away her grimy shadowskin from her shoulder, glancing in the mirror to assess the damage.

The puncture had finally stopped bleeding, but she was healing slowly. Her skin still burned with a fever and there was a pounding in her temples that made her think she’d been stupid to turn away all Ven’s offers of blood when they’d been in the Shades. She swallowed, her throat thick and dry as she tried to ignore her thirst. Maybe the Nostari planned to starve them into submission, but why not just kill them and be done with it?

Because Ven was the son of their King.

The latch outside of her door lifted with a rusty creak.

Aurelia braced herself for a fight, her stance widened, fists clenched at her sides as two slender figures ducked into the room.

The first one lifted her eyes to where Aurelia stood.

Green . . . her eyes were a pale, moss green, and the female had mousy brown hair that shown faintly under the torchlight.

Not a female . . . a woman. The heady scent of her mortality like withering flowers.

The taller woman held a slip of fabric in her hands as the shorter one moved across the room, her steps unhurried and smooth.

Aurelia whipped her head around, just to make sure this wasn’t some hallucination. “What—” she began, her voice cut off with the loud crack of a faucet.

The woman—no, girl—she couldn’t have been older than sixteen, lifted a hand toward the bathing chamber. “Please,” she murmured.

Aurelia approached her, grasping her arm and realizing how thin she truly was under her rough-spun dress. “How did you come to be here?” she pressed, her voice hushed as she cast a furtive glance toward the door.

The girl didn’t move to step out of her hold, didn’t seem to feel the fear or dread that Aurelia did at being trapped in this place. She moved her hand, noticing the mottled yellow and green of old bruises ringing the girl's arms. Fresh marks of deep purple darkened the side of her neck and the inside of her wrist, twin punctures at their center. Bite marks.

“Please,” the girl said again, gesturing toward the bath once more.

And that’s when Aurelia noticed the vacant look in her eyes, the flat quality of her voice. She gently released the girl, disgust crawling up her throat as the shorter young woman came out from the bathing chamber, kneeling to remove her boots. A similar pattern of bruises dotted her arms and throat.

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