Undoubtedly, my father will be made aware soon that I visited here, only inducing his wrath further. Fortunately, I plan on fleeing as soon as I figure out how to set Drake free.
The woman leads me down a dark corridor, marks left behind where blood has been scrubbed from the walls. Her alarming tone echoes as she announces, “Do not touch the bars. They are infused with magic.”
I sense Death’s magic, harnessed from his coven, as I near the bars of the empty cells. “What will happen if I touch it?” I question, tracking each step to ensure I can find my way to Drake next time.
She doesn’t answer, but beckons me to follow her down an adjacent corridor, where the floor-to-ceiling cells are filled with incarns. Walls between them are only ten inches thick. Unintelligible whispers hang in the air as I gaze inside the dark holes. The men and women inside hide in the most shadowy corners of their cells, clutching their heads. Bald spots pattern what little hair they have left. One whispers to a wall. None of their eyes focused on anything at all, as if they are lost in memories and thoughts I cannot see.
The thought of Drake being confined in a place so devoid of hope tears into my spirit, sending waves of pain through my heart.
Finally, we reach the most depressing corridor of all. A lonely torch offers little light to the seemingly endless passageway where the cells are replaced by rooms. We stop in front of one door, created from heavy iron with two bars and a slot small enough to pass a slice of bread through. The numbers hang grimy on the front: 817.
“You may speak with him through here,” she explains, pointing at the slot. “Visiting hours are almost at an end.”
“Thanks,” I reply, failing to keep the condescension from my tone. “You have been so helpful.”
She slides herself back a few steps but keeps her eyes trained on me. I shouldn’t expect them to leave us alone, but none of that matters once I hear movement from inside. “Drake?”
“Wildflower?” His voice is hoarse and meeker than usual, and my heart sinks on hearing his endearment. I swallow hard as his bloodshot eyes come into view on the other side of the slot. “Don’t touch the door,” he warns. “How are you?”
I refrain from touching the slot, desperate to feel Drake. Within these walls, forgoing sunlight and sleep, I imagine its loneliness that breaks the incarns’ spirits first. His eyelids close, then slowly open, and I notice the same far-off look as the other incarns I passed. It’s as if he can’t focus. I’m losing him. “Drake? What in the Darklands are they doing to you?” I ask, my tone pleading as I glance over my shoulder and shoot a death glare at the woman behind me.
“Nothing. I’m fine,” he lies. I can’t see the rest of him, but just from the rectangle view of his face, I know something is horribly wrong.
“I’m going to come back to visit you,” I promise, enunciating each word so he knows what I mean.
“No.” He moves away from the door, but his trembling voice reaches me. “Don’t come back here.” Regret resounds in every word. I want to scream and use my decay magic on the woman to break Drake out now.
“It’s too late, but at least you’re safe. That’s all that matters to me,” he says, but his voice is fading.
I shove the bread through the hole. “Here. I got it from the market.”
The loaf disappears as he grabs it and I step back as the woman pulls me away. In response, I grab her fingers and twist. “I’m not done.”
She hisses and wrenches herself from my grasp. “Visiting hours are over,” she snaps, and three prisoners audibly whimper at the sound of her voice.
“Fuck you,” I spit, and she growls under her breath. Her eyes are alight with an unstableness that makes me wonder if she should even manage a place like this.
Her fingers graze my arm, and the room shifts, knocking me off balance. I grapple with the stone ground, trying to steady myself as the room spins. It’s as if I’ve walked into an illusion, but it feels so real. The stone walls turn into a forest and just like in my dream, everything is dying, and it’s my fault.
After a minute, the illusion fades and I stare at the woman, unblinking. A sadistic smile curves across her thin lips and my magic pulses, sensing the evil under her skin. Unlike Drake, she doesn’t possess the magic to bring art to life. Her skin is clear, there’s no proof of her nefarious desires. But as I look into her eyes, I’ve never felt depravity like this before. It’s then that I decide she must die.
Tomorrow, I will return. But this time with poison and decay. I call out to Drake, ignoring the woman who eagerly waits for my reaction. I won’t give her the satisfaction. “I will come back tomorrow,” I promise.
It’s only after she leads me back to the front desk, then the doors, that she speaks. “He won’t be here tomorrow. The God of Death himself has ordered his execution, after The Choosing.”
“Wait, what?” I ask, but she closes the doors in my face with a smug grin, the slam sending a wave of panic through my body.
Everything moves in slow motion as the memory of the hanging earlier slithers into my mind, tightening around every idea of how to get Drake out.
I can’t watch him die. I won’t. I stand outside the doors in the darkening evening, and a heavy helplessness hovers over me. Even if I can do anything, time is running out.
The Choosing is tonight, then so is Drake’s execution.
ELEVENAzkiel
The haunting gaze of a threader lures me toward the tent hidden in the entrance of the forest crowding the town square. The tent, emblazoned with the sigil of Nyxara, draped in deep purples, is cloaked by the gnarly, long branches of ancient graywar trees.
Night consumes the small town of Ennismore, and in the distance, the Night Market blooms to life in velvety shades of blue and silver. I turn away from the crowd, my face and hair concealed in the shadows cast by the large hood of my black cloak.
The witch’s icy-gray eyes meet mine as I approach her, standing at the door of her tent. “My most gracious god, I had wondered when you would come,” she intones, sinking into a courtesy.
While she cannot be any older than thirty, her voice is entrenched with the wisdom of a person far older.
“You are the one who answered the calls of my crows and reapers,” I state, sensing my sister’s magic sparking within the woman.
“I was honored to serve you,” she says, as if she had a choice in the matter. Her eyes dart to the side as a shadow viper slithers up beside us but does not attack.
“How about a reading, Threader,” I say lowly, and she sucks in a shaky breath. She was foolish enough to stay here upon hearing of my return. But I cannot deny that I enjoy the naïve ones. After all, they are the most useful. “You can tell me what else you know of this prophecy.” I push past her, then walk into the tent through the fabric doors.
In the center of the tent, a round table holds three crystals and six cards, depicting each of the gods. I notice they’re lined up by the order of a mortal life span—Fate, Creation, Dreams, Will, Judgment, and Death.
I take the seat across from her, placing myself on a chair carved from the wood of the graywar tree. She leans over the table, her long, dark brown waves falling around her dainty arms, covered in tight, purple material. Her dress is simpler than most, with little embellishment on the front.
My eyes remain fixed on her face as her stare plunges into the depths of my soul. Bewilderment etches on her features.
“Speak,” I command, and her hands tremble over the cards, her breath hitching.
“I-I see you must not try to stop the prophecy,” she warns, her long, ringed fingers sliding over my card.
