MasukWhen the ground bucked, it hurled Alistair into Silas before either could react. Torches dropped. Stone groaned like an ancient beast waking.Silas caught Alistair’s arm, dragging him back as the tunnel behind them caved in with a deafening crash—stone swallowing the path they’d taken only moments earlier.A cloud of dust and powdered rock blasted into them, stealing breath and sight.Alistair’s heart slammed into his ribs. The map he’d memorized—useless now. The maze had changed shape. The explosion hadn’t just opened a path—it had destroyed half of them.“We need to reach the center!” Alistair barked, forcing his voice steady despite panic clawing at his throat. “There should be an access corridor—right side—if it’s still intact!”They sprinted forward, boots slipping on shattered stone. Another section of tunnel groaned overhead.“Move!” Silas shoved Alistair ahead just as a beam fell, slamming where Silas had stood half a heartbeat before.Their path narrowed. Smoke thickened. The
For a horrifying second, Damian couldn’t breathe.His vision flickered. The tunnels tilted—too narrow, too dark, too slow—and Rowan was burning alive in his mind, forced into rut, drowning in instinct and shame and pain he didn’t understand.Nathan felt it too—through him. And on his own.If Damian failed, Nathan would shatter.His lungs refused to pull in air properly. He dragged a hand over his face, pushing back the panic threatening to claw up his throat.Get up. Stand. Move.He forced his spine straight. Forced his voice steady. Forced himself to be the king Nathan needed—because if Nathan was somewhere shaking apart under the weight of Rowan’s agony, then Damian had no right to crumble.“For Nathan’s sake,” he muttered, barely audible. “This is the least I can do.”He marched forward, jaw locked so tight it ached. The guards followed him.They reached a dead end—or what looked like one. A forged-steel door reinforced with iron bands and glyph-etched plates blocked the way. Old m
Nathan surfaced from the drugged darkness like a drowning man breaking through ice.No slow return. No gentle drift into consciousness.His mind violently snapped awake—because something was wrong. Wrong in a way that his soul recognized before his thoughts could catch up.Rowan.His lungs seized. The bond—thin, frayed, barely clinging—flared. Not with comfort, not with recognition… but with panic.And shame.A choked sound tore out of him, half-breath, half-animal. His fingers clawed at the blanket as if he could hold himself to the world by force alone. The room tilted, then lurched.He felt Rowan slipping.Not fading like a dying ember.Slipping. Dragged somewhere he didn’t want to go.“Nathan?” Ivy’s voice was soft, cautious, but threaded with fear. She edged closer, her small hand hovering by his arm, afraid to touch, afraid not to.He couldn’t answer. Words weren’t built for this kind of pain.Rowan’s terror hit him first—sharp, breathless, chaotic.Then came the second wave. Th
The world around him had begun to unravel.Sounds warped first—voices stretching and bending like molten metal poured into the wrong mold. The torturers’ laughter no longer sounded human; it slithered in his ears, echoing with the shape of serpents.Rowan blinked hard, trying to anchor himself, but the edges of reality bled and blurred. His body hung limp, trembling violently with every heartbeat. The pain was no longer a single point—it was everywhere, buzzing beneath his skin, in his bones, in his teeth, in the hollow of his lungs.His thoughts scattered like startled birds.Nathan… Nathan, don’t look… don’t open it… don’t—The image of Nathan’s face twisted in his mind—sometimes smiling the way he used to in the dark between whispered confessions, sometimes staring at him in horror, holding a blood-soaked silk bundle with his seal carved into it.“I shouldn’t have…” Rowan whispered, voice cracked and tiny. “I shouldn’t have marked myself. I made it a weapon. I put a target—on us—”
They handled the severed piece with ceremonial care, as if preparing a royal heirloom rather than human flesh. The torturer laid the branded skin gently atop a square of white silk—white, because the contrast made the blood bloom like art.“Stain holds well,” one murmured, admiring how the deep red seeped into the fabric.The other produced a small carved box—redwood, polished, elegant enough to hold jewelry for a noble bride.“Presentation matters,” he said, wrapping the silk with almost tender precision. “Love letters should be beautiful.”He placed the bundle inside, then slid a parchment atop it—cream paper, sealed with crimson wax. The message was short, handwritten in a looping elegant script:“For the one who owns this heart.”They closed the lid.No dramatic threats. No explanation.Cruelty rarely needs many words.Nathan had been pacing, restless and nauseous with an anxiety he couldn’t explain. His skin prickled as if someone were carving into him. A phantom pain clung to hi
The dungeon smelled of old iron and older fear, a clean cruelty honed for a previous war. Rowan hung suspended from iron cuffs, arms stretched until his shoulders screamed; his toes brushed stone in a useless reminder of standing. Every breath tasted of metal and cold water.Rowan hung from iron cuffs, arms stretched overhead, toes barely kissing the stone floor—not enough to stand, just enough to remind him what standing used to feel like. Blood threaded down his forearm in thin, deliberate lines. Not slashes of rage—no, these were discussions carved into flesh.Two Cross torturers circled him like tailors fitting a suit, bickering with the casualness of men debating wine pairings.“I still say we start with the fingers,” one mused, tapping a blade against Rowan’s knuckles as if testing ripeness. “Delicate. Personal. Nathan will recognize them instantly.”The other scoffed. “Too predictable. We should begin with something he kissed. A shoulder, perhaps? Romantic, isn’t it? Let the bo







