Page 126 of The First Scar
Of course he'd traced it back to the Codex. Of course he'd found us. We'd handed him a map and then curled up for a nap at the destination.
Stupid. Reckless. Arrogant.
The howls grew closer.
We kept running.
We outmaneuvered the first wave of Enforcers—barely. A sliver of desperate hope flickered. Maybe we'd make it. Maybe—
Sound drained from the passage ahead.
My boots hit dry stone and the silence swallowed my stride. No splashing. No echo. The air changed too—thin and scrubbed clean, sharp enough to sting after the rot we'd been breathing.
The tunnel had widened here—an old junction, maybe, where merchant routes once crossed. The ceiling vaulted high enough to swallow the torchlight. Iron sconces lined the walls at measured intervals, their flames burning bright and clean. Notcatacomb fires. Not rebel fires. These had been lit on purpose. Recently.
Someone had prepared this corridor.
They emerged from the shadows like wraiths.
A smaller force—not the usual Enforcers. The black talons. Their armor was dark as obsidian, polished to a killing shine. They moved in perfect formation, every step synchronized, like violence was something they rehearsed for fun.
And at their head—
My boots locked to the stone. Serenya's grip ripped at my sleeve.
Eryndor.
He stood motionless, one hand resting on the hilt of his blade, his face a mask I no longer recognized. No warmth. No recognition.
Just the Crown's perfect weapon, standing where the male used to be.
Eryndor's gaze swept over the fray, over the cowering rebels, over me—and blazed with frigid assessment. Not even a flicker. I was scenery. When he spoke, his voice was flat. Empty.
"Secure the Rupture."
Two of his soldiers moved toward me. I snarled, raising my daggers, but there were too many—hands grabbing my arms, wrenching my weapons away, forcing me to my knees.
Eryndor turned away. Already done with me.
But the captain at his flank wasn't.
His eyes slid from me to Serenya—calculating, unhurried. The look of a man measuring what a prisoner was worth by what she had left to lose.
"The priestess too." He jerked his chin at his men. "She'll keep the dual-marked compliant."
Serenya's ceremonial dagger clattered to the stone as a soldier wrenched her arms back. She made a choked sound—half sob, half snarl.
"Separate cells."
My heart hit the floor. I couldn't protect her if I couldn't reach her. Couldn't know if she was hurt, if she was scared, if she was even still breathing.
I thrashed against the soldiers holding me—kicking, twisting, snapping my teeth at any hand that came too close. I caught one in the shin with my heel and he swore. Another grabbed my hair—and jerked back with a hiss, blood blooming across his palm where the razors bit. I slammed my skull into his face before he could figure out what cut him. The crack of cartilage was satisfying, even if it made my vision swim.
They wrenched me around and bashed me face-first into the wall, pinning my arms behind my back. And Eryndor was juststandingthere, watching, like I was a problem to be managed.
Fine. If my body couldn't reach him, my marks would.
I hurled everything I had at him—both Marks surging, clawing, desperate to find purchase in his flesh. To burn him. To make himfeelwhat he was doing to us.
