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81
When consciousness finally returned, it did so like a slap of winter savage, unforgiving. My entire body trembled from the raw bite of cold air. Aronne hadn’t been lying. Whatever venomous magic he unleashed when he sank his teeth into me had ignited something monstrous inside an unholy fire that devoured me from the inside out. I burned until I went mad with it, until death seemed like the only mercy left in the world.
But death never came.
Instead, relief flooded me like a tide breaking against scorched earth. The agony withdrew, leaving behind a frost so sharp that even a breath was enough to send needles of pain stabbing through my skin.
I was still shackled. Iron cuffs gnawed into my wrists, thick chains pinning me to the floor like an animal. The flesh beneath the manacles was flayed raw, wet with blood that no longer had the strength to clot. I couldn’t stand. I couldn’t lift my head. Calling what I had endured “surviving” would have been a lie. Aronne hadn’t spared me out of mercy. He had merely kept me alive long enough to complete whatever vile ritual this three-day torment was leading toward.
And when the realization struck me, it brought with it a new pain sharper, deeper.
I needed to die.
Not because survival felt impossible but because if I didn’t, the world wouldn’t stand a chance. My death was the only thing that could prevent Beliale from manifesting. It was my blood he needed to rise. If I died, he wouldn’t be able to claim a vessel. If I died, others might live.
My jaw clenched as I forced my head upward. The stone hall was deserted. I didn’t sense Aronne anywhere nearby, and the air no longer reeked of the poisonous crystals he used to dull my powers. The moon hadn't yet risen. He likely wouldn't return until it did.
Though my strength was a mere flicker of what it had once been, I could feel it faint but pulsing. My power wasn’t gone. It was crawling back, slow and stubborn. Still, even fully restored, I didn’t know if I could defeat Aronne.
Groaning, I wrenched my body upright and managed to sit, the chains groaning along with me.
What now? Should I end this before he returned? Was it even possible? I didn’t know how to kill myself. Did I stab myself? And where? The heart?
Just thinking about it made bile rise in my throat.
I didn’t want to die. The truth of it cracked something inside me. I was terrified of dying but what choice did I have?
Desperation clawed at me as I scanned the barren room. Dust. Rocks. Nothing I could use to harm myself. I turned to the cold statue looming over the ritual space and clenched my fists.
“I don’t want to die!” I cried, the words erupting in a flood of tears.
Then I saw it something different.
One segment of the stone circle shimmered darker than the rest, black as night stone. I shifted my weight, dragging myself toward it, chains scraping over the ground. The surface was polished like glass. My reflection blinked back at me, pale and ghostlike.
My gaze lowered to my neck.
“Gosto’s mark…” I whispered, fingertips grazing the soft glow of the feather etched into my skin.
A fresh wave of tears blurred my vision. The mark hadn’t vanished.
Gosto’s words echoed in my memory. Could he feel me? Was he trying to find me now?
I stroked the mark again. A shiver rippled down my spine not cold, but warm and soothing. The pain in my body dulled. I looked again at my reflection, and for the first time, my face wasn’t twisted by suffering.
My wrists had stopped bleeding. The wounds were closing. Something was changing.
The strength flooding me wasn’t entirely my own.
“Gosto…” I breathed, heart pounding.
He was giving me his strength. I didn’t know how I knew that but I did. And suddenly, I wanted to live more than anything. I had to escape.
I looked down at my chains. Took a deep breath.
The power inside me began to stir, flowing like warmth through frozen veins. I exhaled, watching light dance beneath my skin. Another breath, and I channeled that light into the restraints. It slipped out of me like liquid gold, coiling around the iron.
The metal cracked, then shattered.
A sharp laugh escaped me.
I was free.
I climbed to my feet, a rush of power rising with me. The cold didn’t reach me anymore, even though I was barefoot and draped in nothing but a tattered nightgown. The large doors loomed ahead. My way out.
I inhaled. Two werewolves stood just beyond the threshold. I couldn’t hesitate.
I lunged forward and slammed the doors open.
“What the fuck?!” one of the guards shouted.
They reacted instantly, claws out, muscles tensed.
I kicked the nearest one hard in the gut, sending him flying backward.
“You should’ve stayed unconscious, bitch!” snarled the other, slashing toward my neck.
“Don’t!” barked the first guard, struggling upright. “Master needs her alive!”
Those words gave me an opening.
Energy surged beneath my skin, begging to be released. Aronne was right if I unleashed too much, I’d burn myself out. But what if I didn’t need to release it all?
What if just a taste would do?
I inhaled, narrowing my focus. In a blink, two beams of light burst from my hands, striking the guards with a dull crack. They collapsed instantly.
I edged closer, kneeling beside them.
“Heartbeats,” I murmured in relief. They were only unconscious.
I scanned the world beyond the threshold. A narrow road stretched into a half-dead grove. The sun was setting, its bloody light dim behind thick clouds. The road led nowhere or so it seemed. But those guards had to come from somewhere.
Was there a hidden path behind the trees?
I didn’t wait to find out. I needed a weapon anything. One of the guards carried a night stone short sword. I took it and sprinted toward the grove.
Ash greeted me. It blanketed the ground, swallowing my legs up to the knees. Still, I pressed on, weaving through skeletal trees until I burst into a clearing.
My chest tightened.
I knew this place.
I’d seen it in the vision. This was where Aronne struck his bargain with Beliale.
“The Wasteland,” I whispered.
The wind clawed at my skin, and pain slammed into my skull, sending me to my knees.
“There’s nowhere to run,” came a voice I didn’t need to turn to recognize.
Aronne.
He was behind me, his presence slicing through the air like a blade. My headache worsened as he crouched beside me.
“Oh, poor Domitilla,” he crooned, brushing icy fingers across my cheek. “Were you actually trying to escape?”
He chuckled, then grabbed my chin, forcing my face toward his.
“Or maybe… you were hoping my brother would come for you?” His grin widened. “That’s not going to happen. Do you want to know why?”
“No,” I hissed.
“Too bad,” he whispered, lips grazing my ear. “This place the Wasteland is the only part of the Underworld where location magic fails.”
He pointed at Gosto’s mark on my skin.
“That little feather won’t help you here.”
I gritted my teeth. “Gosto will figure out where you took me.”
He laughed. “Here? Do you even know how vast the Wasteland is?”
Dread flickered across my face, and he saw it. He laughed harder.
“I wandered this place for years,” he said. “Then spent decades drawing maps of it. Only someone with one of my maps can find this place.”
He leaned in, smile darkening.
“Which is why Gosto will never reach you in time.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I wouldn’t be so sure.”
He clicked his tongue. “Oh, but I am.”
I tried to brace for what was coming next but nothing could soften it.
“Because the few people who ever knew this place existed and didn’t work for me?” He leaned close, eyes glittering.
“They’re all dead.”