The flight back to the heart of the palace was a descent into a frozen, airless purgatory. Suspended beneath the massive, leathery underbelly of the Clemadead, Hannah had no protection against the jagged winds of Voidmore. The high-altitude air was thin and reeked of sulfur; it whipped against her skin like a thousand icy razors. Her lungs, already compromised by the sickly serum she had ingested, began to seize. By the time the shadow of the palace spires loomed over them, her head had lolled back, her eyes rolling into her skull as consciousness fled.
When the beast finally touched down on the high, wind-swept balcony of the Sovereign's private quarters, the guards unceremoniously unhooked the suspension ropes. Hannah's limp body hit the cold stone with a dull, lifeless thud. She lay there like a broken doll, her skin a terrifying shade of translucent blue, her breathing so shallow it was invisible to the naked eye.
Hebner Grand dismounted his mount with the fluid, arrogant grace of a god. He began to strip off his ceremonial gauntlets, his amber eyes fixed on the palace doors.
He paused, his gaze finally dropping to the heap of human rags on his floor. A sneer of pure contempt twisted his features. He drew back his heavy, silver-toed boot and delivered a sharp, brutal kick directly into Hannah's ribs.
"Get up," he commanded, his voice as cold as the stone beneath her. "Your performance is over. I told you I wanted your death to be a slow one. Do not test me by dying on my balcony."
The impact of the kick was enough to break a normal human's ribs, but Hannah didn't even flinch. She remained in a deep, oxygen-deprived faint, her body utterly unresponsive to the pain.
Hebner's eyes darkened. He raised his foot again, his aura beginning to flare with a dark, suffocating pressure, when the heavy sound of the Maqded's claws announced Thorn's arrival.
Thorn Theodore leaped from his saddle before his beast had even come to a full stop. Behind him, two guards dragged a terrified, shivering Robert. Thorn's eyes immediately went to the floor—to the pale, motionless girl lying at the Demon Lord's feet. A flash of something that wasn't quite pity, but a deep, carnal possessiveness, flickered across his handsome face.
"My Lord," Thorn said, stepping forward, his voice tight.
Hebner didn't look at him. "Take them, Thorn. Drag this filth to the lower dungeons. Chain them in the Drip Cells. I want them to rot in the dark until I have decided which of their limbs I wish to remove first."
Thorn looked at the Drip Cells—the most notorious part of the palace, where the stone breathed frost and the walls were slick with toxic mold. He looked back at Hannah. Her lips were blue. If she went into the Drip Cells now, she wouldn't last an hour. The mission would be over, and the beauty he had been eyeing would be nothing but a bloated corpse.
"My Lord," Thorn said, his voice dropping into a tone of cautious defiance. "The dungeons... they are too cold. Even for our kind, they are a test of endurance. This human is already at the edge of the abyss. If you send her there now, in this state, the cold will claim her before you have even had the chance to draw a drop of blood. Her heart will simply stop."
Thorn took a breath, his amber eyes meeting Hebner's icy stare. "If you truly wish for her death to be a hard one—a long one—you must ensure she lives long enough to experience it. A dead human feels no pain. A dead human cannot regret the words she spoke to you in the Square."
Hebner's head tilted slowly, like a predator observing a strange new behavior in its mate. The air around him grew heavy, the pressure so intense that the guards holding Robert fell to their knees.
"You are very concerned with the longevity of this human, Thorn," Hebner whispered, his voice a low, vibrating threat. "Twice today you have intervened. Twice today you have questioned my judgment over a creature that isn't worth the air she breathes. Tell me... have you started going against me for a human toy?"
The silence that followed was deafening. Even the Clemadead let out a low, uneasy hiss.
Thorn slowly sank to one knee, bowing his head in a gesture of absolute, calculated submission. "I would never go against you, Sovereign. But I will be honest: she is a rare specimen. Her beauty is an insult to our kind, and I had planned to make her my own. I wished to break her in ways that would fulfill my own nature before she was discarded. To see her die of a simple chill in a dungeon... it is a waste of a perfectly good plaything."
Hebner stared down at the top of Thorn's head. He looked back at Hannah. The girl was still unconscious, her small, fragile frame looking impossibly vulnerable against the massive, dark architecture of his world.
He hated her. But Thorn's logic was sound—he didn't want her to have the easy out of a quiet death. He wanted her to be awake when he broke her into pieces day by day.
"Fine," Hebner said, his voice a sharp, clinical snap. "She shall not have the peace of the dungeons yet. I will not have it said that the Demon Lord's vengeance was cheated by a draft of cold air."
He turned his back on them, heading toward the inner sanctum. "Take them to the abandoned rooms in the West Wing. The ones near the old infirmary. They are sealed, they are dusty, and they are far from my sight. Lock them in. If they escape, Thorn, I will use your skin to decorate the walls of that very room."
"It shall be as you command, My Lord," Thorn replied, a faint, victorious smirk ghosting his lips.
He stood up and signaled to the guards. "Pick her up. Gently. We wouldn't want her to die before the fun begins."
Robert, who had been watching the exchange with wide, tear-filled eyes, let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. They weren't going to the dungeons. They were still in the palace. As the guards hoisted Hannah's limp body, Robert realized that the game had moved into its most dangerous phase: they were now the personal guests—and the personal prisoners—of the Demon Lord.