Chapter 196 Chapter 196

Chapter 196 Chapter 196
Merrick
I step out into the high corridor, softly pulling the heavy oak door of the convalescent room shut behind me.
The immediate silence of the hallway is a stark contrast to the quiet, sacred warmth of the room I just left. Stepping into the light, my skin is still thrumming with the golden heat of the new tether anchored in my heart.
She is simply glorious. Hope is the most beautiful little thing I’ve ever seen in my life, and I’m still in awe of Jo. Vanya told me about the birth and her quiet strength. My mate just went on with business, even though she was shit scared and desperately lonely.
I couldn’t be prouder if I tried. I’m afraid that my heart will jump out of my chest at any moment.
“Merrick,” Julian calls out softly. 
I look up and in the direction of my name.
Waiting near the archway are Nathaniel, Valerius, and Julian. All three of them have stripped out of their ruined war gear. They’re washed clean of soot and gore, dressed in matching, crisp white shirts, and dark trousers - no doubt the Omegas supplied all three of them with clean clothes.
The lingering fatigue of the night's battle is still carved deep around the two Lycan king’s faces, but Julian looks as lively as ever.
I never see the vampire rest. Not even during the day, when most of his kind take to the darkness.
“How is she?” Nathaniel asks.
"She's sleeping," I say quietly, keeping my voice low so it doesn't carry back into the room. "They are both doing well."
Valerius offers a slow, approving nod, his broad shoulders relaxed against the stone wall. "Good. Then let us handle the dark work down below while your Queen recovers."
We move down the corridor in silence, taking the narrow spiral staircase that leads away from the residential quarters and plunges deep into the foundation of the palace.
The transition is brutal. As we descend past the third sub-level, the comfortable warmth of the upper floors vanishes, replaced by a bitter, biting draft that smells of damp stone, ancient iron, and wet earth. 
These are the deepest vaults we have - unused for centuries - and carved straight out of the mountain bedrock, reinforced with heavy ironwood doors and null-magic warding to hold the absolute worst abominations the North ever captured.
This is where I should have put Lysander the first time we caught him, but I thought the regular dungeon cells would hold him. 
Looking back, I was such a fucking fool.
At the end of the long, torchlit hall, Atlas stands waiting alongside the rogue sorcerer.
The spell caster’s gnarled hands are tucked into his deep, tattered sleeves, his one good eye fixed on the heavy iron door at the end of the passage. Floating directly over the lock is an intricate lattice of glowing, pale-blue runes, a living web of magic that hums with a high-pitched, metallic buzz every time the air shifts.
"He hasn't stopped clawing at the warding since we threw him in," Atlas says as we approach, his deep voice echoing off the wet stone walls. 
His golden skin casts a warm light against the dark corridor, contrasting sharply with the bleak gloom of the dungeons.
“I hope he scratches his own fucking through out," I snarl, stepping up to the heavy iron door.
Inside the narrow, windowless cell, Lysander sits on a stone bench cut from the same bedrock.
Here we have no plumbing, no beds, no blankets… just the rock.
The ancient Fae lord is stripped of his fine silks, wearing only a plain linen tunic, his wrists and ankles bound in thick, cold-forged iron shackles that drag on the floor. He looks drained, his once-vibrant silver hair stringy and dull, his skin grey, and deep lines of fatigue cut around his mouth.
Yet, as my shadow falls across the bars, he snaps his head up. The fight has clearly not been beaten out of him. His eyes flash with a venomous, dark violet heat, his jaw clenching so hard the muscle twitches violently under his skin.
"Come to gloat, Blackwood?" Lysander sneers, his voice raspy and hoarse from dark magic backfire, but laced with pure poison. 
He slowly rises to his feet, the iron chains clanking loudly against the stone floor as he takes two steps toward the door. 
"Enjoy your little victory while it lasts. You think locking me in a hole changes anything?"
I don't answer. I stand in front of the cell, my hands resting casually on my belt, watching him with cold, unyielding eyes.
"You built a kingdom on borrowed time," Lysander spits, pressing his face close to the iron bars, his breath fogging against the cold metal. "My shadow casters are still out there. The Cabal is still moving. And when Athena opens the gates from the south, your pathetic little palace will burn to ash. I will personally tear that sun-fire brat from your mate's arms."
“She’s coming from the south?” I ask. “Thank you, that’s good to know.”
Something flickers in Lysander’s eyes. A moment of terror when he realises he had said too much. 
He presses his lips together in a thin line and slowly shakes his head. “I will recover. I can escape these shackles any time I like.”
Beside me, Julian’s hand twitches toward his dagger, but I raise a single hand, holding the vampire back. Enoch doesn't even bother to make himself heard. The Fae’s threat falls completely flat against the immovable wall of my new bond.
“Do it then,” I challenge Lysander. “Escape. Let me see it. There are plenty of shadows here that you can use.”
“We locked them all,” Julian mutters. “He can try, but that loaner body will be shredded to ribbons.”
I almost start laughing. The vampire does know how to speak at the worst possible moment.
"You're in a cage, Lysander," I say flatly, my voice dropping into a dark register that echoes through the cell. "Your batteries are drained, your army scattered to the four corners, and we killed your humans. You're going to sit in the dark and rot until the Ultimas drag their sister back to unravel whatever’s left of you."
Lysander's lip curls in a vicious snarl, but before he can utter another word, the rogue sorcerer steps forward, raising two fingers.
The pale-blue runes floating over the door flare with a sudden, blinding light. Inside the cell, the glowing bands of magic wrapped around Lysander's neck and wrists constrict violently. 
The Fae lord lets out a strangled gasp, his knees buckling as the null-magic spell forcefully drains the last sparks of dark energy from his veins, dropping him hard onto the cold stone floor.
"The binding will hold, King," the sorcerer says, his dry, papery voice breaking the silence as Lysander lies panting in the dark. "I need a drink. Someone fetch me a whisky."
"No," I say, turning my back on the cell without giving the Fae another glance. "We can’t risk you getting drunk on the job.” I turn to the Ultima who stands there quietly, just watching us. “Atlas, when do you leave?"
"At sunrise," Atlas answers, turning to walk back up the corridor beside me. "Apollo and Astraea are resting, but we will find her, as promised."
"Keep at least four guards down here at all times," I instruct Nathaniel as we start to stroll back to the spiral stairs that will lead us out of the dungeons. "No one steps into this corridor without my express word."
"Consider it done," Nathaniel says. “I would request your leave to return to my post as the Queen’s guard.”
I smile inwardly. “You are a king, Nathaniel, not a babysitter.”
“All the same… I made an oath to her.”
“Fine,” I agree. “You may return to your post.”
“What’s next?” Julian asks.
“Rest,” I say and suppress a yawn. “I think we’ve all earned it.”