Page 33 of A Legacy of Wrath and Reckoning

It took Zylah more effort than she wanted to admit to get herself to a bedroll, Kej settling onto the one beside Daizin, Nye nearest the door.

“Zylah?” Nye said. “We’ll be there in four days.”

“Mhmmm.” A reminder or a request, Zylah wasn’t certain which. She suspected Nye already knew her intentions, was prepared for the empty bedroll she’d find come morning.

Zylah’s heart was racing, but she reminded herself over and over that she needed her strength for what came next. And though she’d tried to ignore it, the lingering silence from Holt chilled her blood. But she couldn’t dwell on it. Not now, not when she was so close.

I’ll find you, she promised him as she settled down to sleep.

Chapter Eighteen

Dawnwasstillafew hours away when Zylah woke. Kej and Daizin were still sleeping; Rin hadn’t returned. No doubt she’d sought out Arlan’s tent for the night. Nye was nowhere to be seen, likely already on duty somewhere within the camp.

Four days, the general had told her. Four days to get in and out before they attacked the palace. Kopi would be fine with her friends; Zylah wouldn’t risk his safety again. She made her way quietly to the edge of the lake, spear in hand, sword at her belt, hood pulled over her hair. Across the water, the remains of the mine dipped into the shore, the waterfall still at full force, and she tried to fight away the memories of the last time she’d been there. Her headache had gone, her new sight had sharpened. She felt stronger than she had in a while, as strong as she knew she could be for this.

Her magic alerted her to someone making their way towards her from the camp, shadows reaching out tentatively to greet her. Zylah turned to the general, an apologetic expression on her face, and hoped her friend would understand.

Nye called her name. Broke into a run, shadows grasping like long fingers. But Zylah slipped through them all, away from the lake, from her friends, and towards Holt.

The palace looked different with her new vision, though she observed it now from some distance away, hidden in shadows. The looming white structure stood amongst large gardens, set back from the much smaller buildings in the palace district beyond. The last time she’d seen it, she’d walked in side by side with her friends, ready to take down a king.

She’d move to the tunnels soon enough, but Zylah wanted to witness it for herself: the city deserted, only thralls lurking in the streets, the occasional vampire snapping at them like dogs, rats and crows picking at lifeless bodies.

Virian had been her home once, but now it was a shadow of what it had been. A fire had torn through the streets, parts of it still smouldering, corpses lying awkwardly where thralls had cut them down and left them to burn.

But the palace remained, the palace district largely unmarred. The hum of the vanquicite cells danced along her skin, but far stronger than that—Holt. Zylah could barely breathe as the overpowering sense ofhimhit her. Yet no matter how much she called to him, he didn’t answer. Every inch of her coiled tightly at whatever she might find within the palace walls, but she needed to be patient.

The moment she caught sight of two vampires together, Zylah knew it was time to move to the tunnels. Though her first choice would be to evanesce directly into the palace, she needed to be certain Holt had alternative means to escape if they were separated. After weeks in a vanquicite cell, there was no telling how long it would be before he could evanesce again. Before the two vampires came close enough to hear her quiet breathing, Zylah moved underground.

She brought herself inside the entrance she’d used the night she’d found Holt after Marcus had tortured him, not missing the irony that now she was torturing herself by reliving it. The same damp smell greeted her, the air as stale as it had always been. She’d spent many nights alone in these tunnels, mapping them out, practising her evanescing, her use of a sword. Somewhere down there, her brother and the Black Veil were hiding, working, scheming. But she couldn’t risk running into Zack just yet.

Zylah reached across the tunnel network, cast her magic wide to seek out all the places the humans might be. Not just humans. Fae too. Together. Hundreds of them. Trust Zack to bring them together. She moved closer to the palace, to a tunnel she knew to be beneath the gardens. Marcus would have used this route every time he met with Holt, every time he tortured him. The bastard. His end had been far too swift for the retribution he’d deserved.

This close, she was only one tunnel away from a large cohort of humans and Fae, their quiet movements and murmurs telling her they’d just begun to wake. This was good. In four days, when Nye and the others arrived in Virian, they’d be heading directly for the tunnels with fresh supplies and healers, the scouts who would evacuate children and any who were injured. Another reason Zylah had to come alone.

With every step closer she came to the palace, the hum of vanquicite became stronger and Zylah understood why the Fae were stationed as far back as they were. Her stomach turned over itself, palms clammy, heart pounding in her chest. They were far away, safe, and Holt was locked inside a cell made of the cold, unrelenting material.

She loosed a breath as she pressed on, finding her way closer until she reached the palace crypt. This was where Marcus was getting in and out. Graves lined the walls, coffins stacked three or four on either side of her. In the centre, two stone tombs lay side by side, the figures carved into them smashed and vandalised, their inscriptions scratched out.

So much vanquicite sat overhead, just a few floors up, so heavy in the air it was as if the palace were made of it. Zylah called to Holt over and over, but no answer came. She shoved down the panic that threatened to take over, the fear of whatever she might find waiting for her.

A winding staircase led to another passage, the dungeons in one direction—empty, save for a few dusty corpses and skittering rats, in the other, the cellars. Her footsteps were steady, but her hands trembled, and she clutched her spear so tightly her knuckles turned white.

Movement from the cellar had Zylah pausing, but it was just another rat. She took deep breaths, tried to steady her racing heart, and reached out again, every strand of magic unspooling like thread. The vanquicite made her magic sluggish, but only where it passed over the cells. And there were many of them. Most of the occupants dead, until—Holt.

Zylah broke into a run, pausing every now and then to check for any sign of Ranon and Aurelia. There were no thralls, only vampires, a few stationed at the doors either end of the room containing cells. The throne room, Zylah realised as she sprinted up another staircase to the kitchens, stumbling on the top step.

Empty. Rotten food littered the worksurfaces, a few broken bowls lay smashed at her feet. As if the humans had taken one look at whatever had come for them and realised the futility in trying to fight back.

The throne room was still another two floors above her, through countless receiving rooms and atop two winding staircases. Nobility had always loved to make their visitors work for their appointments. But there had to be another way in—a servants’ passage perhaps or—no. Tendrils of Zylah’s magic found it at the back corner of the throne room, just behind the throne. Not an entrance. An escape route, leading to the dungeon and down to the tunnels.

Zylah turned back, almost tumbling down the narrow staircase back towards the dungeons, running past cells as she searched for the other end of the passage. A choked sob escaped her when she found what she needed at the back of an empty cell with no door, concealed by cobwebs and rusted chains.

At a glance, it was nothing but rotten boards, no wider than a man, stretching floor to ceiling. Zylah pressed her hand to the wood, an ancient lock clicking open at her touch. Another door lay behind it, this one made of stone. Zylah lay her palm over it, fingers tracing over ridges she hadn’t been able to make out with her sight. Another lock lay within it, and she released her magic, let it seek out the moving parts, deadbolts whining against the stone as they pulled back. She shoved at the door, her heart in her throat.

The passage was stale, unused and untouched for years; no hint of Marcus lingered. Even he had not known of this route, and that thought filled her with hope. She sucked in a ragged breath as she took the first step inside, pausing to let her magic feel for any traps. Nothing. And nothing else could stop her now.

She moved as quickly and as quietly as she could, using bursts of evanescing to help her cover more ground, pausing every now and then to listen for movement either side of the walls, her heartbeat hammering in her chest, her head. More than two dozen vampires walked the palace, but no sign of Ranon or Aurelia. Four staircases, another narrow passage, and Zylah reached a door. She pressed her fingers to the splintered wood, hand shaking too much to still it now. Holt’s heartbeat was strong on the other side, his breaths quiet, familiar. So familiar it made her chest ache, and she swallowed down another sob.

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