Page 119 of Kingdom of the Two Moons

“And be locked away.”

“Be guarded and safe,” he snaps back. I can feel the last tether of his patience fraying.

“Hurting me when you feel like it is your idea of safety?”

“Careful, Melody.” He glances down at the collar, still in his hand.

Horror lurches through me when I—for a brief second—feel it around my neck, the cold metal of the chain so tight it bites into my skin. Terrifyingly real. But then, it vanishes into thin air. As if it had never been there. I refuse the need to touch my neck, to make sure it is gone. I swear I still feel its echo like a soft burn.

The way his eyes glow and his lips tear into that lazy smile, he knows too well what I’m feeling. Thinking. What it did to me.

I should be terrified. I should back off.

But that collar—that demonstration of power. It makes me snap.

“You know what—bite me.”

I think he will come for me. His eyes burning the color of his unholy magic. All black, drinking light, devastating in its force.

But all he does is snarl, “Then, by all means, leave. Saunter into your doom.”

Shadows explode and he is gone.

37

Riven

“Cut off their hands and throw them back to the border where you found them,” Caryan says, with one look at the elven warriors chained to the wall. None but one dares to meet his eye. Dares so much as flinch.

A statement. That’s what the former king of Palisandre used to do to the witches. Sawed off their clawed hands before he threw them into the wind. That’s what the new king, Lorvil, does to his prisoners before he throws them into the wild.

A game—whether their hands regrow quick enough for them to survive before an enemy or scavenger sniffs them out.

Usually, death finds them first.

Ronin steps away as Kyrith approaches, sword already in hand. None of the men lets out a sound while Kyrith severs their hands, one by one. Riven takes in the cruel sight. Well-trained warriors indeed. And strong ones. He can taste their blood in the air, their magic humming on his tongue when he licks his lips. Potent magic. High elves, probably from Western Palisandre. Riven knows none of them and neither does Kyrith.

“Send your king my regards if you make it,” Caryan drawls, turning away.

“Wait, my lord. Please.” A man with whiskey-colored eyes and long, dark-brown hair that falls over his back looks up.

Caryan pauses, then turns.

“We would like to pledge ourselves to you. We had enough time to think about it. I’m speaking in the name of my whole unit. We know you offered the curse to our kind before.”

Riven’s brows raise. That is definitely new. If Caryan is surprised, his face doesn’t show. His eyes, just a touch lighter than his ebony wings. Kyrith glowers at them, Ronin’s wearing his usual mask of contempt. But the witcher’s eyes flash to Riven’s briefly, equally surprised.

“We volunteered to come here. We wanted to offer ourselves to you, Dark Lord, our king.”

Caryan frowns. “Why accept my punishment before you propose such a thing?”

The man lowers his head again in deference. “See it as a proof of our loyalty, my lord. A sacrifice. A testament of what we’re capable of and glad to shoulder. Send us back once we’re healed. We will be your spies, your eyes and ears. Or keep us here and let us serve under your command.”

Caryan crouches down so he’s at eye level with the man. “Why?”

“We believe in a future and this future lies not in the hands of the king of Palisandre, my lord. Besides, word has spread that you, your kingdom—they call it the kingdom where nobody dies. You have more adherers than you might know, my king. They operate in the dark, but they are there.”

Caryan stands. “You will have to accept the curse. Swear a blood oath. It will force you to obey to my word.”

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