Page 122 of Cursed Shadows 3

Daxeel kicks out at the fae.

The toe of his boot strikes the male’s shin, hard. Hard enough that a sudden wince spears through the prisoner.

He startles, awake.

Green eyes flare through the dark, wild and alert.

Silent, Daxeel draws out a blade from his belt. A plain ateralum knife, no longer than his middle finger, but precious all the same. He brings it to his lap and, for a moment, just considers it, turns it over in his fingers.

The prisoner is still. Frozen on the wet, dungeon floor. Tensions bind his muscles to his bones, threaded with spindled metals, like the metals of the chains that bind his wrists to the floor.

Taroh watches Daxeel.

If Daxeel was to glance up for a moment, he would see the same as he does in his peripherals. A breath pinned to the fae’s chest. Braced for what the knife can do.

Daxeel sighs a gentle sound. He lifts his gaze from the knife. “We have a slight problem.”

Lashes flutter. A clash battles in Taroh’s eyes; flickers of hope snuffed out by the tightened look of panic.

And still, he hardly breathes.

“I had every intention of killing you.” Daxeel’s hair falls into his eyes as he tilts his head and studies the detailing of the dagger. “But the wrong fae has been accused of your disappearance—and it creates problems for me.”

Taroh grunts, but the sound is muffled by the gag; the dirty, soaked cloth stuffed into his mouth.

Daxeel has heard it so many times before from so many other victims. He is well-acquainted with what Taroh communicates in that one grunt. A sound to plead, to barter, to bargain.

They are all the same that way.

“Your father has declared an honour duel,” Daxeel continues. “In some phases, my blood will stand against yours in the Midlands. I am certain your father will employ a skilled second. But with so many of your finest warriors in the Sacrament, I do wonder who your father has chosen.”

Taroh’s lashes flutter. No hope in the gesture, his shoulders slump. The whisper of defeat loosens from him, a ribbon unravelling.

Honour duels. The implications of such a challenge.

Daxeel smiles as he watches the realization sink into the prisoner.

Taroh’s family think him dead already.

“One way to stop this is to… release you.” But the dark smile playing on Daxeel’s lips fuels no such hope. “Another…”

He sighs something soft and turns his chin to the side.

Head still bowed, his gaze gleams through the shadows that crawl over his shoulders, that flick at his ears. And he aims that daggered gaze on the stillness of the doorway, where only blackness gathers as a tense pocket of air.

Taroh flinches.

Just moments ago, that doorway was undisturbed. No fae stood there, no darkness shuddered.

Now, in the stillness, a tall fae stands as a contradiction.

Though the marble likeness of this newcomer’s complexion gleams against the darkness, he is somehow welcomed by it, too. A moon that belongs to the night sky; a star that gleams in blackness.

Taroh recognizes him—even though he shouldn’t.

Shielding the lower half of the intruder’s face is a black mask, the kind weaved from the smoothest blend of silk and armour. It moulds to the fae’s face, from the high cheekbones down to the underside of his chin. It hides the truth of who he is. But it’s not the faint gleam of his complexion that betrays his identity.

Taroh sees him in the flakes of gold he wears for eyes, the forever razored whip coiled around his forearm, and the recognizable black metal dagger flecked with gold at his waist.

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